Autumn arrived slowly, as if the world itself hesitated to move forward.
The golden light of late September fell softer now, as though it, too, mourned something that had ended too soon.
For Miyako Takahashi and Aoi Nakamura, the weeks after their separation felt endless.
The world kept spinning, but their lives stood still—quietly, painfully still.
---
Aoi returned to her routines: classes, part-time shifts at the café near the station, and lonely walks home under the rustling of dying leaves.
She stopped sitting under the camphor tree.
Stopped sketching.
Stopped looking up when someone entered the classroom, afraid of seeing her.
But every so often, she'd glance at the empty seat beside her—Miyako's seat—and her chest would tighten in that familiar way.
The seat remained empty for almost two weeks before Miyako finally came back to class.
When she did, everything around Aoi seemed to still.
She looked different. Her long black hair, once loose and flowing, was tied up in a neat ribbon. Her uniform, always perfect, seemed sharper now—precise, emotionless.
And her smile… was gone.
"Good morning, Takahashi-san," one of the girls said cheerfully.
Miyako smiled politely, the same way she used to smile at strangers. "Good morning."
Aoi sat frozen in her seat, her fingers digging into her notebook.
When Miyako passed by her row, their eyes met for just a fraction of a second.
It was enough to feel the ache of everything left unsaid.
---
That evening, Miyako was nowhere near her usual haunts.
Instead, she sat in the drawing room of her family's mansion, beneath a chandelier that felt too heavy for the silence around it.
Across from her sat her mother, perfectly composed as always.
"I spoke with the Hayashis today," her mother said calmly, stirring her tea. "Their son is back from London. He'll be attending the same university next term."
Miyako didn't answer.
"You'll meet him at the charity gala next week," her mother continued. "He's very polite, well-educated, and from a respectable family. I'm sure you'll get along."
Miyako's hands tightened around her teacup. "Is this an order or a suggestion?"
Her mother looked up, unfazed. "It's an opportunity. One you should be grateful for, after the embarrassment you've caused us."
Miyako's jaw clenched. "I haven't done anything wrong."
Her mother sighed—soft, weary, rehearsed. "You've been led astray by a poor girl who doesn't understand her place. But that phase is over. It's time to remember who you are, Miyako."
Miyako's voice broke when she spoke again. "And what if I can't forget her?"
Her mother's expression didn't change. "Then pretend you can."
---
Aoi, meanwhile, tried to build a world without Miyako.
She worked extra shifts, kept her grades up, and spoke to people again. Or tried to.
But every laugh felt forced.
Every smile, hollow.
Some nights, when she couldn't sleep, she'd look at the fountain from her apartment window—the same one where they'd shared their first kiss—and imagine Miyako still there, waiting, her dark hair catching the light.
Sometimes she'd whisper her name into the quiet, just to feel it on her tongue again.
Sometimes she thought she could hear an answer in the wind.
---
The gala came and went.
Miyako wore an elegant navy gown, her mother's diamonds glinting at her neck.
She smiled for the cameras, laughed at the polite jokes, and danced when asked.
To everyone watching, she was the perfect image of a perfect daughter.
But inside, she felt hollow.
When her partner—Hayashi Takeru, tall and courteous—asked if she was enjoying herself, she smiled and lied, "Yes."
And when he asked her to dinner sometime, she said yes again.
But later, standing alone on the balcony overlooking the city lights, she whispered the truth into the night.
"I'm sorry, Aoi."
---
It happened a few days later, by coincidence—or maybe by fate.
Aoi was leaving the campus café after her shift, her hair tied up and apron still wrinkled, when she saw Miyako standing by the entrance.
She froze.
Her heart stopped.
Miyako turned, her eyes widening as their gazes met.
Neither of them moved for a moment.
Finally, Aoi found her voice. "You shouldn't be here."
"I needed to see you," Miyako said softly.
Aoi shook her head. "Your mother—"
"Doesn't matter."
"Miyako—"
"Please," Miyako whispered. "Just… talk to me. One last time."
Aoi hesitated, then sighed. "All right."
They walked to the park nearby, where the streetlamps flickered softly against the autumn leaves. The bench beneath the old tree creaked as they sat down.
For a while, neither spoke.
Finally, Miyako broke the silence. "I met someone."
Aoi's chest tightened. "I know. The Hayashi heir."
Miyako looked down. "It's not real. It's just… what they want."
"And what do you want?"
Miyako turned to her, eyes shimmering in the low light. "You. I always did."
Aoi's breath caught. "Then why—"
"Because wanting you hurts," Miyako said, her voice trembling. "Because every time I try to move forward, I see you everywhere. Because I'm too afraid to ask you to stay when I have nothing to offer you but pain."
Aoi felt her eyes burn. "You don't have to offer me anything. I never wanted perfection, Miyako. I just wanted you."
The words hung there—naked, raw, unstoppable.
Miyako reached out, her hand trembling as it brushed against Aoi's cheek. "If I kiss you now," she whispered, "I won't be able to stop."
"Then don't."
Their lips met—slow, desperate, soaked in every moment they had lost.
It wasn't the first time they'd kissed, but it was the one that felt like coming home and breaking apart all at once.
When they pulled away, both were crying.
Aoi pressed her forehead against Miyako's. "I don't care about the world anymore."
Miyako smiled faintly through her tears. "Then let's promise something."
"What?"
"No matter what happens," Miyako whispered, "no matter where they send me or what they say about us… don't forget that I loved you. That I still do."
Aoi nodded, her voice breaking. "And don't forget me when they make you pretend again."
Miyako laughed softly, the sound trembling like glass. "Impossible."
They stayed there until the night grew cold, their hands entwined.
Neither of them said goodbye—because goodbye felt too final, too cruel.
Instead, they let silence speak for them, knowing that in another world—one kinder than this—they would have walked home hand in hand, without fear.
---
Later that night, Miyako's mother called her into the study.
"We're transferring you," she said simply. "You'll study abroad next semester."
Miyako didn't argue.
She only whispered, "How far away?"
"Far enough to make you forget."
Miyako nodded, tears spilling silently down her cheeks.
But in her pocket, her fingers closed around something small and fragile—Aoi's sketch of the hydrangeas from that spring day.
She smiled through her tears. "You can send me across the ocean, Mother," she whispered when she was alone. "But you can't make me forget."
---