> "Some people don't leave when you push them away. They just learn to stand quietly at the distance you've made."
---
Riku's POV
Riku didn't know when waiting had turned into habit.
He just knew that somewhere between her first manuscript and her latest silence, he had learned the shape of her absence.
---
Komorebi, Two Nights Ago
10:04 P.M.
The message wasn't long.
> Still haven't stopped loving you. Not asking you to say it back. Just… needed to say it.
He stared at the screen long after the words had sent.
And then again, when they were marked read.
No reply.
He didn't expect one. Not really.
But part of him had hoped.
---
That Morning
The sun was soft over the bookstore awning. He liked this hour—before most people were awake enough to mean what they said.
He held an old poetry book in one hand, thumbing through creased stanzas that smelled like forgotten seasons.
He looked up. Saw her across the street.
Yuki.
Same grey sweater. Same slow way she carried herself like a question she didn't want answered.
She saw him too.
Neither of them moved.
When the light turned green, she walked.
Not toward him.
But forward.
And somehow, that hurt more than if she'd turned away.
Because it meant she still couldn't.
---
Back Home
Notebook, Fourth Drawer, Unread Pages
He had his own notebook. Not like hers—his was full of things he would say, if she ever asked. If she ever turned.
He flipped to a page written weeks ago.
> "Yuki,
You don't owe me love.
But I hope you know I never stayed because I wanted something from you. I stayed because in all the silence, you still made me feel more than anyone ever did."
He didn't send it.
Didn't even tear it out.
He just reread it sometimes. The way one might reread a weather forecast for a storm that never came.
---
Later That Afternoon
He sat at the café near the station, a table for one. Stirring his coffee long after the sugar had dissolved.
Mrs. Hayama spotted him from across the room. Brought over a plate of yokan, unasked.
"She was here this morning," she said, sliding the sweets over gently. "Didn't say much."
"She never does," Riku replied.
Mrs. Hayama gave him a knowing look. Not pitying—just soft. The kind that made him feel like someone had folded a blanket over the ache in his chest.
"You still waiting?" she asked.
He stirred his coffee again.
"No," he said finally. "Just staying."
---
Evening, Rooftop
Komorebi's night sky always looked a little blurry around the edges, like even the stars weren't sure if they belonged.
He used to stargaze with her here.
She once said:
> "I like the stars better when they don't twinkle. It feels more honest."
He didn't understand it then.
Now he did.
---
Riku's Private Draft (Typed, Unsaved)
> "If she ever came to me—not as a confession, not as a kiss, not even as a maybe— just as herself— I think I'd forget how long I waited."
> "I don't need to be written into her story. I just hope she stops erasing herself from it."
---
Thought before sleep
He didn't dream about her anymore.
Not because he didn't love her.
But because he loved her enough to let her forget him, if that's what she needed to feel whole again.
And still—
When he closed his eyes, her name filled the quiet like breath.
Not loud.
Just present.
---
> "Sometimes, the only place I'm honest is in stories—
where the consequences aren't real,
and I can make someone else feel the ache for me."
—Velour.
---
The wind had changed.
Yuki noticed it that morning, standing beside the sliding window of her apartment. The city sounded different—muted, anxious, like everyone was holding their breath for something.
Exams were ten days away.
And the silence in her life had grown roots.
---
She hadn't replied to Riku's last message.
Not because she didn't care.
But because she did.
Because it was easier to say nothing than to say something that might matter too much.
He hadn't messaged again.
Maybe he finally understood.
Maybe she'd pushed too far.
Maybe that was what she wanted.
She didn't know anymore.
---
Her Desk
Three books open. Highlighters bleeding across the page. Handwritten notes curling at the corners like they were exhausted, too.
Yuki's eyes burned. She hadn't slept properly in four days.
She kept failing to finish her notes. Her mind wandered—to places she didn't want to visit. To the way Riku used to nudge her when she forgot to eat. The way his messages used to arrive at just the right hour.
She pushed her chair back and closed her laptop mid-sentence.
---
The Coffee Shop
The bell chimed softly as she entered.
It still smelled like roasted almonds and time—like the kind of warmth you forgot existed.
"Yuki-chan," the old woman greeted, smiling behind the counter.
She wore her usual grey shawl and kept her hands busy, polishing mugs she'd probably cleaned three times already. Her eyes—soft and wrinkled—were the kind of kind that made Yuki's chest tighten.
"You've been gone too long."
Yuki managed a smile. "Studying. I'm sorry."
The old woman hummed. "Studying is important. But don't let it be the only thing."
She handed Yuki a cinnamon bun without asking. "You look like someone who forgot how to rest."
Yuki blinked fast. "Thank you," she whispered, not trusting her voice with anything more.
---
The Corner Table
She sat by the window, bun untouched, notebook open.
She didn't write notes.
She wrote dialogue.
From a scene that wasn't part of her novel's plan.
> Ame stands by the sea, arms folded, pretending she's not cold.
Kael doesn't ask her to come back.
But he waits.
Because even if she leaves again, part of him believes she'll remember where he stayed.
She drew a line beneath the paragraph and stared at it like it belonged to someone else.
Her hands trembled.
She wanted to go back.
But she didn't know how to go without breaking something on the way.
---
Ren Texted
> Need help with that theory module? I've got the files you missed.
Meet at the library around 4? I can explain it all fast.
She hesitated.
Ren had been showing up more lately. Offering help. Bringing extra coffee. Smiling too perfectly.
But he didn't ask how she felt.
Didn't seem to notice when her answers were half-hearted.
He only noticed when her attendance dropped.
Or when no one else was around.
> "Sure," she typed back.
Not because she trusted him.
But because she was tired of doing everything alone.
And sometimes, a hand—even one that might pull you down—felt better than the weight of drowning in silence.
---
Later That Night
Her room glowed with the weak blue of her laptop screen.
She opened the draft folder of her novel.
The one no one had seen.
Where she didn't hide behind metaphors.
Where Ame didn't pretend she didn't miss Kael.
Where her characters fell apart quietly, in bedrooms and train stations, on bridges they'd built together and burned in silence.
She began typing:
> "I don't hate you.
I just don't know how to be near you
without wanting too much."
She paused.
Then added:
> "And I'm scared that if I let myself want again—
I'll ruin the one place that still feels like mine."
She saved it under a new file name:
Before Everything Fell Quiet.
---
The bun was still in her bag.
She unwrapped it gently, like a memory, and took a bite.
Sweet. A little stale. But still warm in the center.
Just like her.
---
The silent boundaries.
> "You don't notice the weight until someone tries to carry it for you. But not everyone who offers their hands has clean intentions."
---
It started with a library table.
Just like the ones they'd used all semester—long, dust-smeared, under the humming breath of dying fluorescent lights. It was late afternoon, and most of the other students had left, retreating to their dorms or cheap coffee shops to cram for the upcoming exam week.
Ren was already waiting, sleeves rolled up, pen spinning between his fingers like impatience made tangible.
Yuki approached in silence, a notebook tucked under one arm, her hoodie sleeves pulled over her palms. Her eyes were rimmed with sleeplessness, and a tension coiled behind her collarbones that even she didn't notice anymore.
"You're late," Ren said with a half-smile.
She didn't bother justifying it. "Sorry. Couldn't focus."
He gestured at the chair beside him, and she sat, leaving her bag slumped between them like a quiet boundary.
They studied for a while. Mostly Ren explained things—quick, clipped summaries that made sense only if you already half-knew the material. Yuki nodded, underlined her notes, asked one or two questions. But she didn't really speak. She rarely did these days.
Every so often, she felt his eyes linger. Not on her notes. On her face. Her hands. Her tired posture. Like he was reading something that wasn't written down.
At one point, he offered her his water bottle. She declined.
"You've gotta stop doing this to yourself," he said after a pause. "Running on caffeine and guilt. Not sleeping. Not eating."
Yuki blinked. She hadn't expected him to sound so... soft.
"I'm fine."
"You're not. But it's okay. You don't have to be."
She glanced up then. His expression was too open, too familiar. Like he knew something she hadn't said aloud. Like he'd earned the right to know it.
He reached across the table, touching her hand. Just a light press of fingers.
She froze.
"I get it," he said quietly. "You don't want to be alone anymore. And you don't have to be. I'm here. I've always been."
Her throat tightened. "Ren—"
"Don't," he said, cutting her off, voice low and insistent. "Don't push me away like you push everyone else. You let me in. Don't act like you didn't."
Yuki pulled her hand back.
"I didn't let you in," she said. Calm. Careful. "You were just... there. That's not the same."
He stood suddenly. The chair legs screeched against the floor.
"You know what? I don't get you, Yuki. You act like you don't want anyone. But you still want to be understood. You let me do all the work—chasing you, helping you, covering for you. And you just—what? Sit there writing your little stories and ghosting everyone who cares?"
His voice echoed, and a librarian across the room looked up.
Yuki didn't flinch.
She stood too, slowly.
"I didn't ask you to do any of that. You chose to."
"Yeah, because I wanted to. Because I care. Is that so hard for you to accept? Or is that Riku's job? Still waiting on him to crawl back?"
That landed like a slap.
She said nothing.
So he stepped closer.
Too close.
"You think he sees you? Really sees you? He doesn't. He just likes the version of you that doesn't need him. I've seen the real one. The one who breaks down in stairwells and cries through her keyboard."
Yuki backed away.
"Stop."
"What, you don't want someone to actually say it? That maybe you're just scared of people seeing who you really are? That you're scared of someone actually staying?"
Her heart pounded. Not in panic. In disgust.
"You don't know me. You only think you do because I was tired enough to let you sit next to me. That's not permission. That's not intimacy. That's exhaustion."
Ren's jaw twitched. His eyes flicked to her lips, then her neck, then down again.
And then—
He reached out.
She stepped back before he could touch her.
"Don't," she said, voice low, sharp. "Don't ever do that again."
He paused. The air shifted.
His expression collapsed into something colder. "Right. Got it."
He grabbed his things. Didn't look back.
She watched him go. Her hands were shaking.
---
Later That Night
Her apartment was too quiet.
Yuki sat in the dark, lit only by the weak blue of her laptop screen.
She didn't open her notes.
She opened her novel.
Typed without breathing:
> Kael tried to kiss her once. Not because he loved her. But because he wanted to claim the ache she carried so well.
> Ame didn't flinch. She stepped back and watched him crumble.
> "You don't get to touch me just because I let you stay," she said.
> And for the first time, he understood the silence she wore wasn't an invitation.
She saved the draft.
Then closed her laptop.
And cried.
But only for a moment.
She still had exams tomorrow.
And boundaries to rebuild.
---