It started with coincidence.
Or maybe the universe just liked watching two quiet people orbit each other until they accidentally collided.
Either way, Aika found herself walking home next to Ren Hayashi one gray afternoon in October, the kind of day where the clouds looked tired and the wind carried things you couldn't name.
She hadn't meant to.
She left the gates like usual — books clutched to her chest, headphones in but no music playing — when she noticed him ahead, walking at his usual pace. Not slow. Not fast. Just... like someone with nowhere to be, but no time to waste either.
She almost let him go.
But he looked over his shoulder — once, then again — and tilted his head like a question mark.
She caught up to him without thinking.
"I didn't know we lived in the same direction," she said.
"We don't," Ren replied. "But I don't mind detours."
Aika blinked. Then smiled, unsure if it was his way of teasing or just being honest. Maybe both.
They walked in silence for a while. The world moved quietly around them — bikes passed, dogs barked in the distance, a salaryman cursed at his umbrella. The usual rhythm of an ordinary after-school hour.
But this didn't feel ordinary.
"You're not going to the shop today?" she asked.
"Closed on Wednesdays. Miharu's knees act up."
"Miharu's your grandma?"
He nodded.
"She raised you?"
"Since I was eight."
Aika didn't ask what happened before that. The kind of silence Ren wore around certain topics felt less like armor and more like scar tissue. You don't cut through that just because you're curious.
They turned a corner. The streets grew narrower, more residential. A row of laundry flapped above them — a small girl's socks, a businessman's dress shirt, something floral and soft.
"You said your grandma was sick," Aika said quietly.
Ren's hands were in his pockets. He shrugged with one shoulder. "It's not the kind of sickness that goes away."
That stuck.
Before she could find words for that, someone called her name.
"Big sis!"
Aika turned just in time to see a small blur of motion launch itself at her. She barely caught the hug.
"Slow down, Sora," she laughed, ruffling the little girl's hair.
Sora Misora — age ten, full of opinions, and missing both front teeth — clung to her sister like a sloth. She looked up at Ren with all the caution a small sibling could muster.
"Who's that?"
"This is Ren," Aika said. "He's a friend."
Ren blinked. Friend. That word again.
Sora frowned up at him. "You look like a boy who never says sorry."
Ren's mouth twitched. "I only say it when I mean it."
"That's not very often, I bet," she replied, arms still crossed.
He met her stare for a long moment, then said, "You're right."
Sora squinted, then nodded like she'd just finished an exam. "He's okay."
"I'll catch up," Aika said to her, gently nudging her along.
Sora hesitated, then darted ahead, her backpack bouncing with each step.
"I like her," Ren said.
"She doesn't like anyone."
"She's honest."
"So are you."
They crossed the last stretch of sidewalk to her block. Aika slowed, her hands fiddling with the strap of her bag.
"You can come by tomorrow. If you want," Ren said suddenly. "The flower shop, I mean."
Aika nodded. "I want."
He didn't smile. But he didn't need to.
And then, just before she stepped through her gate, he said:
"Hey."
She looked back.
"Your sister was wrong," he said.
"About what?"
"I say sorry all the time."
His voice was soft. Like maybe he meant it for someone who wasn't even there.
---
That night, after dinner and dishes and brushing Sora's hair while she complained about knots, Aika curled into her bed and wrote:
> I walked with him today.
We didn't hold hands, but somehow it still felt like closeness.
Like warmth tucked in between sidewalk cracks.
He's carrying something heavy.
But he walks like he's used to the weight.
And for the first time, I wanted to help carry it too.