The weekend arrived cloaked in soft sunlight and a breeze that carried the scent of distant blossoms. Takashi stood at the gates of his family estate, a modest but elegant home tucked just beyond the busier parts of the city. It wasn't often that he had the house to himself. His parents were rarely home on weekends, and the housekeepers, respectful of his space, gave him privacy when requested.
Today, he needed that quiet more than ever.
The events of the past week still weighed heavily on him. Mizuki's coldness had turned his days gray, and though she'd said it wasn't anger—only a return to professional distance—it still felt like a punishment. Like something inside her had withdrawn not just from danger but from him entirely.
And he hated that it hurt as much as it did.
He stared at the mess of sketches strewn across his desk. The bench from the field trip. A silhouette with long hair sitting under trees. A faceless teacher standing beside a window, arms folded. All unfinished. All avoided.
The silence was loud.
---
Meanwhile, Mizuki had spent the morning cleaning her apartment. Not because it needed it, but because she needed to keep moving. To distract herself. Every object she touched reminded her of something. Her tea set reminded her of the night Takashi had come in from the rain. Her book of classical poetry reminded her of his writing assignment—the one where he'd chosen a poem about distance and longing.
And now, everything felt heavy.
She sighed and sat on the edge of her couch, fingers curled around a pillow like it could anchor her to something real.
Her phone buzzed.
Takashi's name lit the screen.
Her heart skipped.
She stared at the notification. A simple message:
> I left something for you.
> If you're willing to see it.
She didn't reply right away.
But something stirred inside her.
---
Later that afternoon, Mizuki arrived at the estate gate. She had been here once before—for a school-related delivery when Takashi had been sick last year. She remembered the house's tranquil architecture, the ivy climbing the stone walls, the gentle pond tucked near the front porch.
The front door opened before she reached it. A uniformed housekeeper bowed respectfully.
"He's in the garden, Ayane-sensei. He asked not to be disturbed. But he said you were welcome."
Mizuki blinked. "Thank you."
She walked past the threshold slowly, her heels muted against the wooden floors. Every corner of the home spoke of restraint and tradition. It made her feel strangely out of place, like she had stepped into one of her dreams.
She found Takashi in the garden, seated beneath a cherry tree that hadn't yet bloomed. He sat cross-legged on a cushion, sketchpad on his knees.
He looked up. Didn't smile. Didn't rise.
But he didn't look away either.
"Thank you for coming," he said.
Mizuki approached, hesitating at the edge of the mat. "You said you left something."
He held out the sketchpad.
She took it, slowly flipping through the pages. They weren't just drawings. They were confessions.
Moments from class. Her smile during a lecture. Her profile silhouetted by the sun during their late nights sorting papers. Her hand offering him tea. Her eyes—drawn with such reverence it hurt to look at them.
She reached the last page.
A single sentence in neat handwriting:
> I don't need to say your name.
> You already know it's you.
The garden was quiet.
She handed the sketchpad back with shaking hands. Her mouth opened, then closed.
He saved her the burden.
"You don't have to say anything. I know this isn't supposed to happen. But I can't lie to myself anymore. And you said once, silence is often misunderstood. So this is me not being silent."
Mizuki's throat tightened. The weight of his words settled around them like mist.
"Takashi..." she whispered.
"I'm not expecting anything. I know who you are. What you are. And I don't want to ruin that. But if I never said it, I'd regret it."
Her voice trembled. "Why now?"
"Because pretending not to feel anything started hurting more than the risk of telling you the truth."
A long silence followed.
She sat beside him.
Close.
Not touching.
The garden breeze rustled the bare branches above.
"You're young," she said softly.
"Old enough to know what I feel."
She smiled faintly, though it didn't reach her eyes. "You know this can't go anywhere."
"I know."
"And yet you told me."
He looked up at the sky. "It wasn't a choice anymore."
They sat in silence, the kind that felt both impossible and inevitable.
She turned toward him, her expression unreadable. "You didn't ruin anything. But this changes everything."
He looked at her, eyes calm. "Only if you let it."
Her heart ached.
She wanted to tell him how beautiful his words were. How dangerous. How, in another life, she might have held them like a gift instead of a burden.
But this was not that life.
She rose slowly.
"You should come back inside. It's getting cold."
He stood as well.
"I'll walk you out."
They didn't speak on the walk back through the house. The light was dimmer now, evening creeping in.
At the front door, he stopped.
"I meant every word."
She nodded.
"I know."
She stepped outside, the garden path behind her. Then she paused.
Turned.
"Takashi."
He met her gaze.
Her voice was soft.
"You're not wrong."
And with that, she walked into the dusk.
Leaving him—and the volume—on the edge of something neither of them could name yet.