Days passed.
Aiyumi stayed away — she avoided the usual spots they had shared: the seaside pier, the quiet corridor behind the art room, even the library corner. She focused on herself, burying her heartbreak under sketches, homework, and small moments of solitude.
Ren noticed.
At first, he pretended it didn't matter. He kept his expression neutral in class, kept his words short, kept the same cold, sharp tone whenever someone tried to ask. But inside, something ached.
He missed her. Missed her laughter, her stubborn little arguments, the way she used to sit quietly and sketch beside him. He missed the way she made the world feel… softer, warmer, alive.
And yet… he didn't let anyone see it. Not her. Not his friends. Not even himself, fully.
"It's her choice," he told himself every time her absence gnawed at him. "She wanted to walk away… so I'll let her."
But his chest tightened anyway. Every glance at the art room, every empty seat by the library, every wave crashing against the pier — it reminded him of her.
He began noticing the little things she had left behind: a stray pencil in class, a page of doodles peeking out of a shared notebook, the faint scent of her hair when she had walked past.
And each time, his heart clenched, even as his face remained cold.
He stayed silent, hiding the truth even from himself: he missed her terribly.
Yet he refused to reach out. Not yet. Pride, fear, and stubbornness held him back.
Meanwhile, Aiyumi's resolve remained strong. She didn't know he was struggling silently, but each passing day reinforced her small, fragile fire: her self-respect, her choice to protect her heart, even if it meant loving him from afar.
And so, the distance grew — a quiet, unspoken chasm between them, filled with longing, regret, and love that neither dared to fully admit it.