The morning sun was already heavy on the schoolyard, the heat of late summer pressing against the glass windows of Class 2-B. Cicadas hummed from the trees beyond the gates, their endless chorus filling the silence between chalk scribbles and half-hearted yawns.
Amid the chatter and laughter, a boy sat near the window. His name was Ren Sato, seventeen years old, second year. A quiet figure with dark hair that always seemed a little unkempt, as if even the wind couldn't be bothered to disturb him.
He wasn't unpopular, but he wasn't exactly noticeable either. The kind of boy whose name slipped out of your memory right after you heard it.
Unless, of course, you happened to be her.
Ayaka Mori. The girl with a laugh like spring water and hair that glowed almost copper when the sunlight struck it. She was the kind of girl everyone noticed—captain of the volleyball team, smart enough to hold her own in class, and friendly in a way that seemed effortless. She wasn't perfect—sometimes clumsy, sometimes stubborn—but to Ren, she might as well have been the sun.
And suns, by nature, do not notice the shadows admiring them.
Ren had written his eighth letter that week. His handwriting was small, neat, pressed with the kind of care that made each stroke feel deliberate.
> Ayaka-san,
I know it must be strange to receive so many letters from me. Maybe you're tired of it already. But I can't stop myself. Every time I see you smile, it feels like I've found the reason the world spins. Even if you never return these feelings, I want you to know they exist—that you're cherished. Always.
He folded it carefully, slipping it into an envelope. No perfume, no decoration. Just honesty sealed in paper.
At lunch, when the hallway grew loud with footsteps and laughter, Ren slipped the letter into her shoe locker. His heart pounded like it was about to break free from his chest.
And then he walked away, head down, ears burning.
That afternoon, Ayaka found him by the vending machines, where he always hid after class.
"Ren-kun," she said gently, holding the envelope in her hand.
He froze, half a bottle of water lifted to his lips.
Her expression wasn't cruel. It never was. If anything, that made it worse. She looked at him with soft pity, the way you might look at a stray kitten that keeps following you home.
"I read it," she said. "And… I'm sorry. I can't accept your feelings."
The words were the same as last time. And the time before.
Ren forced a smile, small and broken. "I… understand."
And he did. At least, he told himself he did.
She bowed lightly, apologetically, then walked away, leaving him with the cicadas' song echoing in his chest.
That night, Ren sat at his desk, staring at a blank sheet of paper. His hands wanted to write another letter, but something inside him resisted. The pages of his notebook were already filled with words that never reached her heart.
"Why… do I keep doing this?" he whispered to no one.
His room was quiet except for the hum of his old fan. The posters on his wall looked faded, the books on his shelf untouched. His whole world seemed to revolve around her, yet she barely turned in his direction.
And for the first time, Ren wondered—was this really love? Or was he simply chasing a reflection of something that could never be?
The cicadas outside droned on, indifferent to his quiet heartbreak.
That was the last letter he ever wrote.
Not because his feelings vanished, but because something in him began to shift. A stillness, like ice forming in the middle of summer.
The kind of stillness that comes when a boy realizes the world won't stop spinning just because someone doesn't love him back.
That was the summer Ren Sato stopped chasing the sun.
And it was also the summer when Ayaka Mori, for the first time, noticed the shadow she had always overlooked