A week had passed since the art museum visit, but the memories lingered like a soft aftertaste of something sweet. At school, Izumi Ichikawa noticed the subtle changes in his routine—changes that all pointed to one person: Ayato Yamada.
She waited for him at the gates in the morning. They shared lunch on the rooftop—her bento often suspiciously larger than it used to be. And after school, sometimes they'd walk part of the way home together, Ayato humming some obscure anime tune while Izumi listened in silence, but with the tiniest smile tugging at his lips.
But something was different today.
Ayato wasn't at the gate.
Izumi blinked. Checked his phone. No messages.
Was she late?
He walked slowly, half-expecting her to jump out from behind a pillar like she sometimes did—but the school gates remained oddly quiet. The bell rang. He entered the classroom to find her seat empty.
All throughout homeroom and the first two classes, Izumi found himself glancing toward the door.
It wasn't until lunch break that he finally got a text.
> [AYATO]: Sorry I didn't show up today… I had to take care of something. I'll tell you later, okay?
Don't worry. :)
The smiley face should have comforted him, but something about the message felt off.
Still, he responded with a simple:
> [IZUMI]: Okay. Take care.
He tried to focus on lunch. On his manga. On anything. But his mind kept wandering back to her.
The following day, she returned. Her usual smile was there, but her eyes… they seemed tired. Red-rimmed. Like she hadn't slept.
"I'm back," she chirped, sliding into her seat.
Izumi hesitated before whispering, "Are you okay?"
She looked at him, eyes wide for a second—then she softened. "Yeah. Just… family stuff."
He didn't press. Instead, he offered her part of his lunch.
"Whoa, is this an offering?" she teased, holding up a rice ball.
"Maybe," he mumbled, looking away.
The next few days returned to a quiet rhythm. But now, Izumi watched Ayato more closely. Not out of suspicion—but concern.
It was on Friday afternoon that the unexpected happened.
A note was stuffed into his locker.
His name written on the front in block letters.
He unfolded it slowly.
> "Meet me behind the gym after school. I have something to tell you.
— Ayato"
Izumi's heart thudded. Something to tell him?
He spent the rest of the day zoning in and out of lectures, his thoughts spinning like loose cassette reels. His stomach flipped each time he saw Ayato across the hallway, still smiling, still teasing friends.
But that smile… it was guarded.
When the final bell rang, Izumi packed his things slowly. He walked to the gym, heart pounding against his ribs.
Ayato was already there.
She stood with her back to him, the golden sunlight casting her in a warm hue. Her white hair fluttered slightly in the breeze.
She turned when she heard his footsteps.
"You came," she said with a soft smile.
"You asked me to."
Ayato bit her lower lip, then took a step forward.
"There's something I haven't told you yet."
Izumi's breath caught. He nodded, urging her silently to go on.
She looked up at him with unusually serious eyes.
"My mom's getting remarried," she said finally.
His eyebrows lifted. "That's… good news?"
"I guess," she said, voice tight. "But the man she's marrying… he's being transferred. To Osaka."
The word hit like a thunderclap.
"I might have to move there."
Silence.
Izumi didn't know what to say. He didn't even know how to process it. He just stood there, mouth slightly open.
Ayato took a shaky breath. "It's not final. She wants to discuss it with me over the weekend. I told her I need time to think."
"Do you want to go?"
She looked at him, green eyes trembling. "No. I don't. But I might not have a choice."
The weight of her words settled between them like fog.
Izumi stepped closer, fists clenched at his sides.
"I don't want you to go."
The words spilled out before he could stop them.
Ayato blinked.
Izumi swallowed hard. "I'm not good at this… saying things. But I like having you around. You make my days better. I don't want that to change."
Ayato stared at him for a long, silent moment. Then, slowly, her lips curled into a smile.
A real one.
The kind that reached her eyes.
"Thank you, Izumi. That means more than you know."
They stood there as the wind rustled through the trees, carrying with it the weight of unspoken possibilities.
Ayato took a step forward. "If I do have to move… promise me something?"
"What?"
"Don't stop being the boy I met. The one who quietly changed my world."
Izumi looked at her, heart pounding.
"Only if you promise to come back."
She smiled again, this time with a touch of sadness. "It's a promise."
Saturday afternoon. The sun filtered softly through the clouds like light being poured gently over the town. The trees swayed with the occasional breeze, and the sky looked like it was painted in watercolor—blue fading into delicate whites and soft hints of gold.
Ayato and Izumi walked side by side down a quiet street in their neighborhood. Neither of them spoke for a while. They didn't need to. The silence was comfortable, like an old blanket you didn't know you missed.
"Thanks for coming with me," Ayato said after a while, glancing sideways at him. She was wearing a navy-blue hoodie over a white skirt, her hair tied into a lazy ponytail.
Izumi had his hands in his jacket pockets. "You asked. So I came."
She gave a soft chuckle. "You're so reliable, Izumi. Quiet, but solid. Like a rock."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"It was."
They turned a corner into a park. It was modest—some swings, a few benches, and an open grass area. Children laughed in the distance while a dog barked playfully at a butterfly.
Ayato gestured toward a bench shaded by cherry trees. They sat down, and for a moment, they just watched the blossoms dance in the air.
"Do you remember the first time I spoke to you?" she asked suddenly.
"In the library," Izumi said without hesitation. "You said I looked like I was hiding from the world."
"I was joking," she smiled. "But also not. You really did."
He shrugged. "It's quiet there. I like quiet."
Ayato hugged her knees to her chest, her voice softer now. "I liked that you didn't talk unless you had something to say. You didn't pretend to be someone else. That was new for me."
She turned to face him, her expression unreadable. "Back then, I was running too. Just in a louder way."
Izumi blinked. "Running from what?"
"From feeling lonely," she whispered. "After my parents divorced, I started bouncing between houses. Always trying to be the 'fun' girl. The 'positive' one. Even when I was tired of pretending."
Izumi's breath hitched. She'd never opened up like this before.
"That's why I like being around you," she said. "You don't make me pretend. With you, I can just… be."
The words wrapped around Izumi like a fragile warmth. He didn't know what to say, so he reached into his bag and pulled out a small box.
"I was going to give this to you at school," he muttered, holding it out.
Ayato blinked. "What is it?"
"Open it."
She carefully lifted the lid.
Inside was a small keychain—a tiny acrylic fox with blue flowers painted on its tail.
Her eyes lit up. "This is adorable."
"I saw it in the bookstore and thought of you."
She smiled, a real one again. "You thought of me while shopping?"
Izumi's ears turned red. "Don't make it weird."
She held it tightly, as if it were made of glass. "Thank you, Izumi. I'll treasure it."
They sat in silence again, but this time the air between them felt different. Closer.
Ayato's phone buzzed.
She looked down, her smile fading slightly.
"My mom," she said quietly. "She wants to talk again tonight."
Izumi looked at her, trying to keep his voice steady. "About moving?"
She nodded. "I think she's made up her mind. She wants me to finish the school year in Osaka."
The weight of the words dropped like a stone.
"When?" he asked, his throat tight.
"She's thinking next month."
Izumi felt like the ground was slipping beneath him.
Ayato looked up at the sky. "It's funny, isn't it? Just when I started feeling like I belonged somewhere… the ground gets pulled from under me."
She turned to him. "I don't want to forget this. Us."
"You won't," Izumi said quickly. "I won't let you."
She leaned her head on his shoulder, very gently.
"I wish I could stop time," she whispered. "Just for today."
Izumi didn't move. His heart was pounding so hard it felt like it echoed in his ears. But he stayed still, letting her rest there, her warmth pressing into his side like sunlight.
For the rest of the afternoon, they stayed like that.
Talking about little things. Sharing dumb jokes. Watching the clouds drift by like slow-moving ships.
And in those moments, it didn't matter what tomorrow might bring.
They were just two teenagers trying to hold onto a memory they knew would fade too soon.
As the sun began to set, painting the sky in shades of crimson and peach, Ayato finally stood up.
"I should go," she said, brushing imaginary dust off her skirt.
Izumi stood beside her. "Will you be okay?"
She smiled at him—a smile full of sadness and hope all at once. "I will. If you promise to meet me here again next week."
"I promise."
She took one step forward, hesitated, then turned and did something unexpected.
She hugged him.
Not quickly. Not nervously.
But slowly. Fully. Like someone who wanted to remember the feeling of being held.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For making me believe that someone like me could still be seen."
Izumi didn't speak. He couldn't. But his arms wrapped around her anyway, and for that moment, the world stilled.
She let go. Turned. And walked away with the setting sun behind her.
He watched until she disappeared around the corner.
The wind picked up, scattering cherry blossoms around his feet.
And in that fading golden light, Izumi made a quiet promise to himself.
No matter where she went.
No matter what changed.
He would be there.
Always.
The following week passed like a blur.
Classes went on as usual. Cherry blossoms drifted lazily past windows. Teachers scribbled equations on blackboards, and students whispered, laughed, and lived. But for Izumi, everything felt suspended—like the world had hit a pause, waiting for something inevitable.
He and Ayato still met between classes, still shared snacks during breaks. They still walked home together when they could. But the difference was in the silences.
Not the usual silences that were warm and comfortable between them. These silences were heavier. Like they both knew the clock was ticking. Every word now felt like it carried weight. Every moment together was dipped in nostalgia before it had even passed.
Friday came faster than expected.
It was cloudy, with occasional bursts of sunlight through the breaks in the sky. During lunch, Ayato asked him, "Will you come to the rooftop after school?"
Izumi nodded without hesitation. "Of course."
She didn't say why. He didn't ask. He just knew it mattered.
When the final bell rang, Izumi packed slowly, almost deliberately. Students rushed past him, headed toward clubs or cram school or home. He, on the other hand, climbed the stairs to the rooftop with his heart pounding like he was walking toward something permanent.
The rooftop was almost empty.
Ayato stood near the edge, the wind playing with her hair, her hands gripping the iron rail.
She didn't turn around when he walked up.
"They approved it," she said. Her voice was barely louder than the wind. "The school transfer. I leave next Friday."
It hit like a gut punch, even though he'd known it was coming.
"That soon?" he said, his voice low.
She nodded. "Mom says it's better to start adjusting early. I'll be living with my aunt near Osaka Bay."
Izumi looked at her profile—the way her eyes seemed to be holding back emotion, the slight tremble in her fingers.
"Are you scared?" he asked.
Ayato finally turned to him, her smile tight. "More than I'm willing to admit."
He stepped closer. "You don't have to go if you don't want to."
She looked down. "It's not that easy. I've been trying to convince myself that I can handle it. That I'm not leaving anything behind. But... I am."
Her eyes met his.
"I'm leaving you behind."
The words hung between them, raw and honest.
Izumi felt like something cracked open in his chest. He took a breath, forcing himself to meet her gaze.
"You're not," he said firmly. "Not really."
She blinked, confused.
"You'll still be here," he tapped his temple, "and here." He placed a hand over his heart.
Ayato's eyes shimmered with tears.
He looked away for a moment, then back. "I'm not good with words. I don't know how to say things that matter. But… you matter."
She stepped toward him slowly, as if each step took courage.
"Izumi…"
He swallowed, then said something that shocked even him.
"If you go… and if we lose contact, even if time pulls us apart… I'll still wait. Until the day we meet again. I'll wait."
A tear slipped down Ayato's cheek.
"You can't promise something like that."
"I can. I just did."
And before either of them could second guess it, Ayato leaned in and kissed him.
It wasn't a dramatic, movie-style kiss. It was soft. Gentle. Like a secret being passed between them. Her lips brushed his like petals, trembling but sure.
When they pulled apart, Ayato smiled through her tears.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For giving me something real to hold on to."
He touched her cheek, wiping a tear with his thumb.
They stayed on the rooftop until the sun dipped low, painting the sky in lavender and gold. No more words. Just the wind, the sky, and the sound of their two hearts beating in quiet rhythm.
Finally, Ayato looked at her watch and sighed.
"I have to go. Mom's waiting."
Izumi nodded. "I'll walk you."
"No," she said, holding his hand tightly. "Let me remember you here, on this rooftop, under this sky."
He didn't argue.
As she walked away, Ayato turned once more and waved. "See you tomorrow?"
"Always," he replied.
And then she was gone, her figure disappearing down the stairwell, like a dream fading with the morning light.
Izumi stood alone for a while, watching the clouds move lazily across the sky.
And he made another silent promise—
He wouldn't forget her.
Not next week.
Not next year.
Not ever.