Spring stayed longer than usual that year.
Or maybe it only felt that way
because for the first time,
I wasn't counting the days.
She continued sitting beside me in class.
Every morning.
Every afternoon.
The last bench was no longer empty in the way it used to be.
We didn't talk much.
Not because we had nothing to say,
but because neither of us seemed in a hurry to fill the silence.
She listened carefully.
Even when I spoke only a little.
I noticed that about her.
Sometimes, during lectures,
she would slide her notebook slightly toward me
so I could see her notes.
Her handwriting was neat.
Small.
Careful.
I never asked why she did it.
She never explained.
Outside the classroom window,
the cherry blossom tree slowly changed.
Petals disappeared.
Leaves took their place.
Green replaced pink.
I still looked at it.
But not alone anymore.
One evening, after school,
we walked together for the first time.
Not intentionally.
We just happened to leave at the same time.
The footpath outside the school was narrow.
Students passed us quickly.
Some laughed.
Some talked loudly.
We walked slower.
I kept my eyes on the ground.
Cracks in the pavement.
Small stones.
Fallen leaves.
I didn't know where to look
when someone walked beside me.
The air was warm.
But not heavy.
She walked with her hands loosely by her side.
Relaxed.
"Do you always walk this way?" she asked.
"Yes," I replied.
"So do I," she said.
Then we kept walking.
That became another routine.
Walking together.
Side by side.
Not touching.
Days passed like this.
Classes.
Quiet conversations.
Walking home.
Nothing dramatic.
But something steady was forming.
Summer arrived.
The days grew longer.
The classroom felt hotter.
She brought a small handheld fan
and offered it to me once.
I refused at first.
She insisted.
I accepted.
"Thank you," I said.
"You're welcome," she replied.
She smiled.
I looked away.
Sometimes, I caught myself waiting.
Waiting to hear her footsteps behind me.
Waiting to see her already seated.
Waiting became normal.
Autumn came quietly.
Leaves replaced flowers.
The air cooled.
She wore a light scarf.
I noticed it immediately.
"You don't like cold weather?" I asked once.
"I do," she said.
"It reminds me that time is moving."
I didn't understand completely.
But I remembered it.
It was during this season
that she started asking small personal questions.
Not too many.
Just enough.
"What do you like doing after school?"
"What kind of music do you listen to?"
"Do you ever get tired of being quiet?"
I answered honestly.
"I read."
"I don't listen to much music."
"I don't mind quiet."
She nodded.
As if those answers made sense.
One evening, the sky turned orange early.
We walked together again.
The footpath was busy.
Cars passed close to us.
Shops were closing.
She stopped suddenly.
I stopped too.
"Can I tell you something?" she asked.
I nodded.
"My name," she said.
"I never told you properly."
She looked straight ahead as she spoke.
Not at me.
"My name is Aiko."
The name stayed in the air.
Soft.
Clear.
"Aiko," I repeated quietly.
It felt strange to say it out loud.
Like holding something fragile.
She turned to me.
"What about you?" she asked.
"What's your name?"
My heart beat faster.
This was simple.
Everyone had a name.
Yet my mouth felt heavy.
"I—"
"Excuse me."
A voice interrupted us.
Old.
Unsteady.
An elderly woman stood beside us.
She held a small bag.
Her hands were trembling slightly.
"Could you help me cross the road?" she asked.
I looked at her.
Then at Aiko.
"Of course," I said.
The woman smiled in relief.
I took her arm carefully.
The traffic light turned red.
We crossed slowly.
Cars waited impatiently.
I focused on each step.
On not letting her stumble.
When we reached the other side,
she thanked me again.
I nodded.
"Be careful," I said.
She walked away.
I turned back.
Aiko was still standing there.
Waiting.
We resumed walking.
But something had changed.
The moment was gone.
She didn't ask again.
I didn't offer.
The footpath stretched ahead of us.
The city noise returned.
I wanted to say it.
My name.
Even now.
But the words stayed inside.
We walked the rest of the way quietly.
At the corner near her apartment,
she stopped.
"I'll see you tomorrow," she said.
"Yes," I replied.
She smiled.
The same calm smile.
Then she turned and left.
I stood there for a while.
The streetlights flickered on.
I replayed the moment in my head.
The question.
The interruption.
The silence.
It shouldn't have mattered.
It was just a name.
But I felt like I had missed something important.
Winter arrived faster than I expected.
Cold mornings.
Gray skies.
She wore gloves now.
We still sat together.
Still walked together.
But something unspoken followed us.
She knew my habits.
My silences.
My pace.
Yet she didn't know my name.
Sometimes, I thought about telling her.
During class.
During walks.
But timing always felt wrong.
Two years passed like this.
Quietly.
And then, one winter evening,
we stood farther apart than ever before.
But that is a story
for another chapter.
For now,
she was beside me.
And I was learning
how easily moments slip away.