The weeks that followed Mizuki Ayane's departure blurred into a haze for Takashi. Days bled into nights, classes into silence, and laughter around him turned into distant echoes. In the spaces where Mizuki's presence had quietly anchored him, there was now only emptiness—a hollow that settled in his chest like winter frost.
At first, he tried to keep up appearances. He still showed up on time, still opened his textbooks, still answered when called upon. But his eyes, once sharp and quietly determined, grew distant. Teachers noticed, classmates noticed, and above all, his closest friend Kenta noticed.
The first test scores came back. Takashi, who had never been top of the class but had always hovered comfortably above average, now saw numbers that seemed to belong to someone else. Red ink circled his mistakes like wounds. He stared at the pages blankly, unable to summon even the guilt he knew he should feel.
"Takashi," Kenta said quietly one afternoon as they sat beneath the half-bare cherry tree in the courtyard. "You've got to snap out of it, man."
Takashi didn't answer. His gaze drifted beyond Kenta's shoulder, where students passed by in loose groups, laughing over jokes he couldn't hear. Their voices seemed muffled, like sound underwater.
"Takashi." This time, Kenta's tone sharpened, trying to pierce the fog. "Talk to me."
"There's nothing to say," Takashi murmured. The words tasted like dust.
"That's bullshit and you know it," Kenta snapped, frustration slipping through. "She's gone, but you're still here. What about your own life?"
Takashi turned his head, finally meeting Kenta's gaze. For a moment, there was a flicker of the old Takashi—the one who had always listened, who had cared. But it vanished as quickly as it came.
"What life?" he asked softly.
Kenta drew back, the words hitting him harder than he expected. For a moment, neither spoke. Leaves rustled above them, and the sun filtered through in pale, hesitant rays.
---
At home, Takashi's quiet turned heavier. Meals passed uneaten or barely touched. His mother's gentle questions were met with mumbled reassurances. His father, usually reserved, began to watch him with silent concern, the air at dinner thick with words no one dared say aloud.
Late at night, Takashi sat by his desk, books open but unread. The pages blurred, his mind wandering back to Mizuki's last words, the way her eyes had glistened with unshed tears. The memory played on repeat, an ache he couldn't silence.
In those moments, he'd whisper her name to the empty room, half-hoping that somehow she might hear it, that the universe would bend and bring her back. But silence always answered, heavy and unchanging.
---
School became an exercise in endurance. Teachers began to call on him less, eyes darting away with quiet sympathy. His grades continued to slip, midterms marked by red more than black. Notes and reminders from teachers gathered in his bag, unopened, as if ignoring them might keep reality at bay.
One day, during lunch, Takashi found himself alone in the art room, his sketchbook open before him. His pencil hovered over the page, but nothing came. The images that once flowed freely now felt distant, buried beneath the fog that had settled over his mind.
He pressed the pencil to the paper anyway, forcing his hand to move. The lines came out uneven, hesitant. A curve that might have been her hair, an outline that might have been her face—but it all dissolved into empty scribbles. Frustration welled up, sharp and bitter.
With a quiet, hopeless sound, Takashi tore the page out, crumpled it in his fist, and let it fall to the floor.
---
"Hey," Kenta's voice broke through one day after school. Takashi had stayed late again, staring at the blackboard long after everyone else had left. "We're going to the arcade. Come with us."
Takashi shook his head, eyes on the floor. "I'm not in the mood."
"You're never in the mood anymore," Kenta shot back, frustration and worry tangled in his words. "You think she'd want to see you like this?"
Takashi flinched. The question pierced deeper than Kenta could know.
"She's not here to see it," Takashi whispered.
"Yeah, but we are," Kenta countered, his voice softer now. "We're still here, Takashi."
Takashi couldn't answer. The words lodged in his throat, too heavy to speak.
---
As days slipped into weeks, Takashi's absence from himself became more visible. In class photos, his gaze was distant. During group work, he spoke only when necessary, his voice flat and quiet.
The boy who had once found quiet strength in silence now seemed consumed by it.
At night, sleep came fitfully, chased away by memories that played like phantom reels in his mind. The way she had smiled when she encouraged him. The quiet grace in her movements. The softness in her voice when she spoke just to him.
Each memory was a blessing and a curse, keeping her close yet reminding him of her absence.
---
One rainy afternoon, Takashi stood by the window, watching droplets race down the glass. The sky outside mirrored the ache inside him—gray, unending.
For a fleeting moment, he imagined her walking back through the gates, calling his name. He imagined running to meet her, imagined words unspoken finally set free. But when he blinked, there was only the empty courtyard, the rain falling in silent sheets.
And in that emptiness, Takashi finally understood: Mizuki had left, but the part of him that loved her remained—and it refused to let go.
His grades continued to slide, worry etched deeper into his parents' faces. Teachers began leaving notes asking him to stay after class, but he quietly ignored them. The world outside kept turning, but Takashi moved through it as a ghost might—present in form, absent in spirit.
---
One evening, Kenta found him on the roof, sitting by the fence, his gaze lost in the darkening sky.
"You can't keep doing this," Kenta said quietly.
Takashi didn't look at him. "Doing what?"
"Letting yourself disappear."
Takashi's shoulders slumped. "I don't know how to stop."
"Then let us help you," Kenta pleaded. "We're your friends. Don't shut us out."
Takashi finally turned, his eyes rimmed red. "I'm trying," he whispered. "But everything feels… empty without her."
Kenta sat beside him, the silence between them a quiet comfort. "Then let it feel empty," he said softly. "But don't let it swallow you. Promise me that."
Takashi couldn't promise. But he nodded anyway, the gesture small and uncertain.
As night fell and the city lights flickered on, Takashi sat beside his friend, t
he ache still there, the emptiness still deep—but for the first time in weeks, not entirely alone.