Spring faded into the easy warmth of early summer — the kind of warmth that made the cicadas hum lazily in the background and sunlight spill through the classroom windows like gold dust.
The second term began quietly. No big events, no announcements. Just the same classroom, the same laughter, the same sunlight filtering over familiar desks.
Haruto sat by the window again — not by choice, just by the way things turned out. Maybe habits had a way of sticking.
He glanced outside at the deep blue sky, feeling the slow buzz of a new season beginning.
Across the room, Aoi was helping a few first-years from the art club carry boxes of paint and brushes.
She wasn't the president anymore. She had stepped down after the cultural festival. When someone asked her why, she'd just smiled and said,
> "It's time to let the younger ones take over."
But she still visited the art room almost every day — guiding her juniors, fixing crooked posters, and smiling at the mess they made.
Haruto watched her for a moment — how she tied her hair into a messy ponytail, how sunlight caught the small paint stains on her hands. Then, when their eyes almost met, he quickly looked back down at his notes.
> I used to hate mornings like this, he thought.
Too bright. Too many voices.
But now… maybe it's not so bad.
---
By the time the final bell rang, the classroom had already begun to empty.
Aoi stopped by his desk, sketchbook in hand.
"Heading home?" she asked, smiling softly.
"Yeah. You?" Haruto asked, slinging his bag over one shoulder.
"I'm going to the art room. The first-years messed up their brushes again."
He chuckled. "You really can't let go, huh?"
"Maybe I just like seeing the mess," she said, laughing quietly. "It reminds me we're all learning."
Her words lingered with him — learning.
When she said it, it didn't sound like an obligation. It sounded gentle. Hopeful.
"Mind if I come with you?" he asked before he could stop himself.
Aoi blinked, then beamed. "Of course not! But don't blame me if you end up holding paint jars again."
---
The Art Room
The faint scent of turpentine and watercolor filled the space.
Sunlight stretched across the tables, highlighting brushes, canvases, and the soft chaos of creativity.
Aoi rolled up her sleeves and began washing brushes in the sink. Haruto leaned against the table, watching her hum a quiet tune — the same tune she always hummed when she was thinking.
"You really like it here," he said.
"Mm," she nodded. "It's peaceful. And I like how nothing here ever feels wasted. Even mistakes turn into colors."
He smiled faintly.
> She hasn't changed. But maybe that's exactly why being around her feels easier.
When the sun dipped lower, Aoi wiped her hands on a rag and turned to him.
"Thanks for helping," she said. "You didn't even complain this time."
Haruto shrugged lightly. "You make it easy to stay."
Aoi tilted her head. "Stay?"
He looked toward a half-finished painting — soft pastels of a sunset sky. "You always stay because you want to. That's… different from most people."
She blinked, surprised by how gently he said it. Her expression softened.
> He's changed, she thought. He speaks like someone who's starting to find peace with himself.
"Maybe that's what makes staying worth it," she said, smiling.
Outside, cicadas buzzed lazily as the light turned to gold.
They left the art room together, their footsteps quiet against the wooden floor.
---
Aoi's Thoughts
That evening, as Aoi walked home, the memory of Haruto's words lingered.
He used to avoid long talks. Used to hide behind quiet nods and short answers.
But now, his silences felt thoughtful — full of something gentle and new.
> He's still quiet, she thought.
But now his quiet feels like a promise — the kind that makes you want to listen.
She smiled faintly to herself as the sunset painted the sky in watercolor hues.