Hina
The sky always looked different when she stopped long enough to notice it.
Not dramatic. Not changing fast. Just quietly present—like it was holding something back.
Hina stood beneath it, hands folded together, listening to the city breathe. She had spent so long believing that love was supposed to feel safe and obvious, something you stepped into once you were certain it wouldn't disappear. Yet lately, the things that mattered most to her arrived without warning—soft moments, shared silences, comfort she hadn't asked for and didn't know how to return.
What unsettled her wasn't the uncertainty.
It was how easily she had stopped being afraid of it.
She wondered if that meant she was finally stronger—or if she was simply standing closer to something that could hurt her more than anything before.
Itsuki
He had learned early that feelings were easier to endure when left unnamed.
They stayed quieter that way. Contained.
Itsuki watched the sky from a distance, hands in his pockets, aware of how often his thoughts drifted toward things he hadn't planned to keep. He told himself it was habit. Proximity. Convenience. Words he'd used before to explain why he stayed where he was.
But comfort had a way of undoing explanations.
It slipped past caution, settled where silence usually lived, and asked nothing—until the day it mattered enough to be noticed.
He didn't know when he'd crossed that line.
Only that stepping back now felt less honest than staying.
The sky above them remained suspended between colours, neither clearing nor breaking. Two people stood beneath it, unaware of how closely their quiet thoughts already mirrored one another. Nothing had begun yet. Nothing had ended.
But somewhere in that stillness—between hesitation and presence, between safety and truth—their story had already started.