Eadlyn woke to the sound of cicadas drilling the air, their cries rising like heat from the tatami. His limbs felt heavy, not from lack of sleep but from the weight of yesterday — the call from his mother, the lantern-lit conversation, the quiet vulnerability shared among three people who weren't used to sharing much at all.
He stretched, rubbed his eyes, and stared at the soft ceiling light filtering through the rice-paper walls.
Something had changed last night. Not dramatically. Not loudly.
But like a knot being loosened somewhere inside him.
He went downstairs.
Grandmother was preparing breakfast quietly, the soft scraping of her knife a steady rhythm. She glanced at him, reading more in his face than he said.
"You walked late," she observed.
"Hmm… yeah. Just needed some air."
She nodded knowingly — the kind of nod only someone who has seen decades of restless hearts can give.
"Be careful with late-night thoughts," she said gently. "They tell the truth, but they also exaggerate it."
He almost smiled.
Maybe she had been young once too.
After breakfast, he stepped outside. The sky hung low with leftover humidity, the kind that made the world feel slow, stretched, and reflective.
He walked toward the small street that led to the convenience store — not because he needed anything, but because staying still made his thoughts too loud.
Halfway down the road, he saw a girl leaning against the vending machine.
Nino.
Her hair was tied loosely today, a few strands sticking to her cheek in the summer heat. She looked unusually awake — eyes sharper, posture straighter, as if she'd spent the whole night sorting her feelings into careful piles.
When she saw him, she straightened.
"Morning," she said softly.
"Morning."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward.
It was…mature.
Like both of them knew they were still carrying pieces of last night and weren't ready to put them down yet.
Nino looked away first.
"Thanks for yesterday," she murmured.
"I didn't realize how much I needed to talk to someone."
He leaned against the vending machine beside her.
"I didn't do anything," he said.
"You stayed," she replied.
The simplicity of the word startled him.
Not because it was dramatic —
but because of how much weight it held.
People didn't need to fix wounds.
Sometimes presence was the only medicine they knew how to ask for.
Nino opened her can from last night — unopened until now — and took a sip.
"Sayaka…" she said slowly, "She's different from what I thought."
"How so?"
"She looked so calm. But last night… it felt like she was telling the truth for the first time."
Eadlyn nodded.
There had been something raw in Sayaka's voice — a gentleness wrapped in armor.
Nino looked toward the school hill.
"Do you… think she likes you?" she asked suddenly.
The question wasn't jealous.
It was observational, like she was trying to map her place in a story she didn't fully understand.
Eadlyn blinked.
"I don't know," he said honestly. "Sayaka's hard to read."
Nino chuckled.
"That's an understatement."
They stood silently again, until Nino sighed.
"I should head back. My parents will think I vanished."
She waved half-heartedly and walked away, her steps quieter than usual.
When he turned the corner toward home, he almost bumped into someone.
Sayaka.
Her uniform shirt sleeves were neatly rolled. Her ponytail was tied higher than usual. She looked more composed than the night before — too composed, like someone who had rebuilt their expression with careful hands.
"Morning," he said.
"Good morning," she replied, her tone calm but softer than normal.
They walked in the same direction, not speaking at first. Sayaka's gaze drifted over the slipping sunlight on rooftops, the scattered shadows beneath balconies.
Then she asked, very quietly:
"Did Nino say anything… unusual last night?"
He paused.
"She said she just needed someone to be there."
Sayaka lowered her gaze slightly, absorbing the answer.
"That kind of honesty is rare," she murmured. "People usually talk only when they're angry or when they want something."
Her words hung in the air — reflective, not bitter.
"Last night felt…different," she admitted.
"Yeah," he said with a soft chuckle. "That's one way to put it."
Sayaka slowed her steps a little.
"Eadlyn," she began, a gentle crease forming between her brows.
"I'm not used to talking about my family. Or myself. I don't like being seen unless I choose it."
He turned to her.
"I know."
She looked surprised.
"You do?"
"You don't speak much," he said. "But when you do, it's always because you mean it."
Sayaka inhaled lightly — not a gasp, just a breath filled with something unspoken.
"…That's rare," she said. "Having someone understand that without judging it."
Before he could reply, she glanced toward her house.
"I should go. But…"
Her voice softened.
"I'm glad we talked yesterday. Really."
He watched her walk away, her steps light but steady.
Something about her posture felt different —
less rigid,
less armored,
as if some part of her had allowed itself to loosen.
Back home, he opened his notebook, the pages still smelling lightly of ink. He didn't write a diary entry this time.
Instead, he wrote a single sentence:
Some connections don't grow through big moments.
They grow through small understandings.
When he closed the notebook, he realized something unmistakable:
Nino had shown vulnerability.
Sayaka had shown softness.
And he—
He had shown presence.
Three threads, different in texture, different in color, but slowly weaving into something he couldn't define yet.
But he didn't need to.
Not today.
Some truths didn't need conclusions.
They only needed mornings like this.