Sayuri didn't flinch.
That's the first thing I noticed.
Kaori's voice had that edge again—the kind she coats in sweetness so no one else hears the bite. I watched it happen from across the courtyard, the way her words landed like poison-tipped feathers.
But Sayuri didn't flinch.
She blinked once. Held her ground. Said something back.
I didn't hear it. I didn't need to.
Because Kaori's smile faltered.
And that… that was new.
I don't think I've ever seen Sayuri look like that.
Not angry. Not loud. Just… firm. Like the quiet had hardened around her into something solid. Something unmovable.
It shook me more than I want to admit.
Because part of me had started to believe she'd always stay small. That her silence was permanent. That whatever we were—whatever we were becoming—would live in stolen glances and unopened notes forever.
But now?
Now I don't know.
In class, she doesn't sit any closer than usual. Doesn't say a word.
But her silence feels different.
It's not retreating anymore.
It's choosing.
Like she's picking what to give and what to keep, and I can't help but want to be one of the things she chooses to share.
Kaori keeps looking at me.
Testing.
Waiting for me to say something. To look at her. To go back to being the boy she could lean on whenever it suited her.
But I don't.
Because Sayuri's eyes don't ask me to be perfect.
They just ask me to be real.
After school, I find her by the shoe lockers.
She's not rushing. Not hiding.
I step closer. Not too close.
I don't want to scare the strength out of her.
She glances up.
For the first time in days, her eyes don't slide away.
And I say the only thing I know won't make her run.
"Hey."
It's soft. Stupid. But she nods.
Not a shy, uncertain nod.
A real one.
Like she's letting me stay.
And it hits me—Kaori was wrong.
Sayuri's not breaking.
She's beginning.
And maybe I am too.