The more time Hana spent with Ren Nakamura, the more she realized how strange closeness could be. Some days, he seemed only a step away, his presence like a quiet anchor beside her. Other days, he felt distant, as though an invisible wall stood between them—high, unyielding, and impossible to cross.
Their bond had grown in silence, in subtle gestures, in eyes that lingered a moment too long. Yet even as Hana began to understand the heart beating behind his mask, she also felt the weight of what remained unspoken. Ren never pushed her away, but neither did he truly let her in.
It was not rejection. It was hesitation.
Hana sensed it most in moments when laughter should have come easily, when a word of comfort could have been spoken aloud. Ren would pause, his lips parting slightly as if to speak, only to close them again. Instead of words, he would turn his gaze aside, as though afraid of the vulnerability they might reveal.
She wanted to tell him that walls were unnecessary between them, that she would not wound him, that she only wished to understand. But Hana also knew that forcing him would only drive him deeper into silence. So she endured it, even as the ache grew heavier.
One evening, they found themselves walking through a narrow garden path behind the temple. Lanterns swayed faintly in the summer breeze, their glow soft against the darkness. Hana trailed her fingers lightly against the wooden railing, while Ren walked a step behind her, hands tucked into his sleeves.
The garden was quiet, save for the soft hum of cicadas. Hana glanced back at him. His face was calm, unreadable as ever. Yet his eyes carried that same distance—a subtle but unshakable reminder that no matter how close they walked, a part of him remained far away.
"Ren-san," she said quietly, "do you ever wish… that someone could see you completely?"
He looked at her, his steps slowing. For a moment, Hana thought she had touched something raw, something hidden. But then, his expression hardened.
"People only see what they wish to see," he replied, his voice steady, almost cold. "To be seen completely is to invite disappointment."
Hana stopped walking. She turned fully toward him, her gaze unwavering. "And if someone sees you and does not turn away?"
Ren's eyes flickered, a shadow crossing them. He opened his mouth, but no words came. Instead, he looked past her, toward the lantern light.
Hana felt her heart tighten. She had come so close—close enough to feel the wall between them like a physical barrier, pressing against her, keeping her out. She longed to break through it, but his silence told her he was not ready.
The rest of the walk passed quietly. Hana forced a smile, speaking of trivial things—the sound of the cicadas, the colors of the flowers in bloom—but her heart was heavy. She could feel the distance, sharper now that she had tried to reach across it.
That night, Ren stood alone outside the temple gates, the sound of Hana's voice lingering in his mind. Do you ever wish that someone could see you completely?
The question echoed in him, relentless.
He wanted to say yes. He wanted to tell her that her presence had already begun to undo the silence he once thought unbreakable. But every time he drew near that truth, memories surfaced—of betrayal, of loss, of moments when trust had turned to ruin. His pride whispered that weakness would only invite harm. His wounds warned him that opening his heart would leave it vulnerable once again.
And so he remained still, a prisoner of his own walls.
Hana, from her window, listened to the faint sound of the wind chime Ren had given her. It sang softly in the night air, fragile yet persistent. She held it in her hand and whispered to herself, "How long will you keep me outside?"
The truth was, she could wait. She would wait. But each day that passed, the contradiction deepened—closer than strangers, yet farther than lovers. Bound together, yet divided by silence and fear.
The wall remained, unbroken.
And though both longed to cross it, neither could yet take the final step.