Aoi Sato remembered the sound of Yui's laugh better than she remembered her own mother's voice.
It wasn't the quiet, polite titter Yui offered strangers now. It was a loud, uncontainable burst—a bright, crystalline sound that usually followed something incredibly idiotic Jun had said. Before, that laugh had been the soundtrack of Aoi's life. Now, two years into high school, everything was silence.
The Silent Princess. A cruel, accurate title the boys had given her. They worshipped her distant beauty. Aoi just missed her friend.
"Hanamura-san," Aoi tried, her voice unnaturally loud in the quiet classroom after the final bell.
Yui was meticulously packing her bag, her movement economical and precise, a beautiful machine designed for solitude. "Yes, Sato-san?"
The formal surname felt like a knife twist. They had been "Yui" and "Aoi" since they were nine. Now, Yui only used the surname, a subtle, iron wall that kept Aoi from stepping too close.
"I was wondering if you wanted to go check out that new café near the station. They have really cute desserts," Aoi ventured, trying to sound casual, trying to pull Yui into the living world.
Yui paused, zipping the outer pocket of her bag. "Thank you for the offer, but I need to go straight home today."
You go straight home every day, Aoi thought, the resentment twisting into guilt. To the house of a ghost.
Aoi followed Yui out of the school and into the park, finally cornering her by the old swing set where she, Yui, and Jun had once argued about which ice cream flavor was superior.
"Yui," Aoi said, dropping the surname entirely, making the desperate familiarity cut through the air.
Yui stopped walking. Her body remained perfectly still, but Aoi felt the tension radiate off her like a silent scream.
"We need to talk. Not as Sato-san and Hanamura-san. Just as us." Aoi took a breath. She had rehearsed this in her mind for months. "It's been two years. Today is so close to... to his birthday."
Yui's eyes were the only part of her that moved. They were deep and empty, daring Aoi to continue.
"We all loved him, Yui. Your parents, the town, me. We all accepted the truth when they found the shoe. It was brutal, but we accepted it so we could mourn and move forward. But you..." Aoi's voice broke, filled with the tears Yui refused to shed. "You aren't moving. You're just standing there, beautiful and silent, in the same spot where he left. You're waiting for a miracle, and it's killing you."
The words tumbled out—the raw, honest fear Aoi felt for her friend's sanity.
Yui finally turned fully, and the expression on her face was worse than anger: it was cold, pure pity.
"I know you mean well, Sato-san," Yui said, her voice dropping back to the formal, emotionless tone. The change in address was a deliberate execution. "You accepted the truth. That is understandable. That is what normal people do."
She stepped closer, forcing Aoi to look directly into her eyes.
"But I made a vow to Jun, one that has no expiration date. And if the only thing keeping his spirit searching for a way home is my belief, then I will stand in this spot forever. I will keep his side of the promise alive."
Yui gave a minute, devastating smile, devoid of joy. "I am not waiting for a miracle, Sato-san. I am the miracle. And I won't betray him by calling it a 'past' and moving on to something 'reliable.' You can live that life, but don't ask me to."
The rejection was absolute. It wasn't just a refusal; it was a philosophical severance. Yui had ascended to a higher, tragic plane of love where Aoi could no longer follow.
Aoi could only stand there, tears finally spilling over. She knew in that moment she had failed. She had tried to save her friend's heart, but in doing so, she had only secured her permanent distance.
As Yui walked away, her immaculate uniform catching the last sunlight, Aoi sank onto the damp swings, clutching the empty chain. Yui was the Silent Princess, and Aoi was merely the forgotten subject left behind in the deserted kingdom.