Everyone thinks I have it all together.
That's the trick, isn't it? If you smile enough, no one questions you.
But lately, I feel like I'm going to split in half.
And all because of one girl.
One girl who doesn't laugh at my jokes.
One girl who doesn't ask for anything.
One girl who looks like she's always halfway through a goodbye.
Sayuri Misaki.
The only person in this entire school who doesn't want anything from me.
And the only person I wish would.
I saw her again today.
She walked past the café window—same uniform, same slow step, same distant look. But she paused for a second.
Just one.
Not long enough to be called anything.
But it was enough for me to feel it in my chest.
Like something asking, "Will you notice me again?"
Of course I noticed.
She came in around four thirty.
Ordered the same drink, quietly, eyes on the floor.
I didn't ask how she was. I didn't want to push.
But I smiled, and she looked up. Just for a second. And I swear… she smiled back.
It was small. Barely there.
But it wasn't nothing.
After my shift, I walked the long way home. Took the back streets. Avoided Itsuki and Yuto's group chat, which was probably filled with recycled memes and fake compliments.
They still think I'm one of them.
I guess I let them.
Because saying I'd rather sit in silence with a girl like Sayuri than laugh with ten people who don't know me? That would break the image.
And I'm not ready for that. Not yet.
I want to tell her.
I've wanted to tell her since last semester. Since she answered that question about the poem with trembling hands and a voice I almost missed, but didn't.
I wanted to tell her when Kaori knocked her books off her desk and everyone laughed. I wanted to tell her when she left the school festival alone. I wanted to tell her when she sat in the library with a tear-stained page of notes and didn't even bother wiping it off.
I wanted to say:
"I see you. I've always seen you."
But what if she doesn't believe me?
What if I say too much, and she looks at me with those wide, surprised eyes, and then looks away?
So I keep it in.
My feelings.
My fear.
My hope.
I fold it all into my pocket, like the letter I wrote her last week. Still unsent. Still sitting between my notebooks and my courage.
It says:
"You were the first person I didn't have to be someone else around.
And I hope that means something."
But maybe it's better if she never sees it.
Because right now, we have something fragile. Unnamed. Safe.
I don't want to lose that.
Even if I'm the only one falling.
Later that night, I saw her again.
Not in person.
In her handwriting.
I was helping clean out the classroom after club meetings and found a loose paper tucked behind the whiteboard shelf. Just a math practice sheet.
But I recognized her writing. That neat, small print. Careful numbers. A single crossed out formula, and a tiny scribbled note beside it:
"Don't mess up. Don't let them laugh."
And suddenly I was so angry I couldn't breathe.
At myself. At everyone.
At this whole school that turns kind girls into ghosts.
I wanted to walk to her house right then and there and tell her:
"You're not a mistake. You're not invisible. And I'm sorry I didn't say this sooner."
But I didn't.
Instead, I folded the paper and kept it in my jacket pocket.
Maybe someday I'll give it back to her.
Maybe she'll smile and tell me she doesn't need it anymore.
I hope so.
The next time she came to the café, I had her drink ready before she even ordered.
"Did you read my mind?" she asked, almost teasing.
I laughed. Not my fake laugh. The quiet one I only use when I feel like myself.
"Maybe," I said. "Or maybe I just remember the people who matter."
Her cheeks went pink, and she looked away, brushing her hair behind her ear.
That was the moment.
I could've said it.
I almost said it.
I wanted to say:
"I like you."
But I was afraid she'd think it was a joke.
So instead, I turned and walked away.
Like a coward.
Back at home, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking of all the things I didn't say.
I wrote another letter I won't send:
"There's a version of me only you bring out. The version that isn't perfect.
Just honest. Just human.
And I think that's the version of me who loves you."
Then I crumpled it up and tossed it toward the bin.
Missed by two inches.
I left it there.
Some confessions are better off unsaid.
For now.