For as long as Aiko could remember, Hayato had been beside her. Quiet, steady, sometimes clumsy with words, but always there.
And lately, always walking with her toward the west stairwell.
She told herself it was just coincidence. That he simply left class when she did, that his path happened to align with hers. But even coincidences had a weight when repeated day after day, until they no longer felt like chance.
What she didn't tell Hayato—what she hadn't told anyone—was that she had heard the whispers before. Long before the rumors spread.
It had been a year ago. She had stayed late after cleaning duty, the sun long gone, her footsteps echoing in empty halls. She had been passing the west stairwell when a sound—faint, fragile—brushed against her ear.
It wasn't the wind. It wasn't footsteps.
It had been a voice. Soft, almost pleading.
She hadn't told anyone. Not because she was afraid of not being believed, but because she wasn't sure herself what she had heard. When she turned, there had been nothing there. Just shadows stretching into silence.
So when Hayato suggested the first time they wait by the stairwell, her heart had skipped a beat. She had wanted to refuse. She had wanted to protect him from the unease that lingered there.
But when she saw the quiet hope in his eyes—the way he seemed to come alive at the thought of sharing something secret—she couldn't say no.
Now, sitting in her desk as the class buzzed with talk of dares, Aiko rested her chin on her hand, stealing a glance at Hayato.
He looked serious, his brows drawn together, as if he carried the weight of something no one else noticed. She knew that look. He wore it when he was writing in his notebook, when words flowed that he never shared aloud.
And she wondered—no, she knew—that she was in those words.
She had seen it once, months ago, before the poem he tried to hide. A single line, scribbled in the margin of his math notes: "Her smile is the only light I need."
She hadn't told him then, just as she didn't tell him now. Some secrets were safer when carried quietly, close to the heart.
When the bell rang and everyone scattered, Aiko lingered by the window. Outside, the sky blushed pink, and students drifted toward their clubs.
Hayato approached, notebook half-hidden in his hand. She smiled. "Another poem?"
His ears went red, and he shook his head too quickly. "N-no, just… notes."
She laughed softly. He was a terrible liar.
Maybe, she thought, it was better this way. To let him believe his secret was safe, while she kept hers just as close.
Because the truth was, she had heard the whispers. And maybe—just maybe—she was waiting to hear them again.
This time, with him.