The next morning, the school hallway felt different—thicker, almost, with an atmosphere that resisted the usual casual chaos. It was like walking into a familiar house where all the furniture had been subtly rearranged; she knew where she was, but the routes to safety felt gone.
As Hina walked past the bustling lockers, the scent of stale gym shoes mixing with the faint sweetness of student perfume, her eyes scanned the crowd. They found Ren.
He looked as calm as a stone in a flowing river—backpack slung casually over one shoulder, the silver earbuds glinting slightly as he nodded to the bass line only he could hear. His presence was a still point in the morning frenzy. But something about him felt insulated now. More distant. Less reachable.
Her first, raw instinct was the muscle memory of avoidance—to duck her head and merge with the passing traffic, sparing them both the awkward stir.
But she didn't.
She gathered her resolve, the breath catching tight in her lungs, and stepped into his trajectory just as he reached his designated gray locker.
"Good morning, Ren," she said, her voice a quiet anchor in the surrounding noise, but steady enough that she didn't wince at the sound.
Ren pulled out the right earbud, the music cutting abruptly, and blinked at her in mild, noncommittal surprise. "Oh. Good morning, Hina."
He offered a polite smile, the kind that was socially correct but didn't soften the corners of his eyes—not cold, exactly, just securely guarded. The air between them, which had once felt like an open channel, was now a fragile, glass-thin barrier.
Hina hesitated. Should she step fully into his space? Walk beside him like they used to, shoulder-to-shoulder, close enough to feel the light brush of his sleeve? Or would that shatter the tentative progress she was trying to rebuild?
Be respectful. Be gentle, she told herself.
Instead of saying more, she simply walked alongside him as he moved away from the locker—not crowding him, not falling behind, maintaining the exact invisible line Daiki had established the day before.
Ren didn't fill the space with conversation.
Neither did she.
The silence wasn't the comfortable, companionable quiet of shared history; it was the kind that made her acutely aware of her own breathing and the thump-thump of her own shoes on the linoleum. It was the kind that made her long for an earlier version of herself—one who didn't hesitate, one who didn't carry this heavy sack of guilt.
Lunch arrived with the familiar heat of the early afternoon sun. Ren and Daiki took their usual spot under the sprawling, ancient courtyard tree, its canopy offering a dense, cool shade—a territory they had claimed months ago.
Sometimes Akari joined. Sometimes she didn't. Today, the soft chime of her laughter signaled her approach.
She sat beside Ren, smoothing the fabric of her pleated skirt before settling in, and offered that soft, genuine smile—the one that always seemed to leach the stress right out of Ren, leaving him a little lighter, a little more relaxed.
Daiki, ever the meticulous wingman, made sure they had space. It meant finishing his packed meal of a chicken sandwich and fruit alone on the far corner of the stone bench, meticulously pretending not to observe the quiet, focused way Ren's gaze lingered on Akari when she wasn't looking. The casual intimacy was there, palpable in the slight turn of their shoulders toward each other.
Daiki never complained. His sacrifice was silent, almost ritualistic.
But Ren noticed the effort.
Later that day, as the sun dipped toward the horizon, casting long, dusty shadows of the telephone poles over the pavement, Ren finally said it aloud as they walked home.
"Hina's been acting weird lately," Ren muttered, kicking a loose pebble with the toe of his sneaker. "Like she's… almost holding her breath around me. It's different."
Daiki scratched the back of his neck, his eyes avoiding Ren's. The sudden spike of guilt was hot and unpleasant under his collar. "Yeah. About that… I might've had a word with her."
Ren stopped mid-stride, his expression shifting from vague annoyance to sharp inquiry. "What do you mean, you had a word?"
"I told her to stop getting close again," Daiki admitted, staring fixedly at the sidewalk cracks. "Because, honestly? You and Akari—you're in sync. And it genuinely looked like you were finally moving forward, finding something stable. I just… I didn't want her dragging you back into those old feelings that already messed you up once." He felt his cheeks warming slightly, a physical sign of his overreach.
Ren gave him a long, measuring look. It was half-serious disappointment, half-wry amusement.
"We're not dating, Daiki. Akari and I, I mean."
"I know you're not dating!" Daiki responded quickly, defensively. "But you like her. It's obvious. The way you look at her when she's telling a story. It's different than how you look at anyone else."
Ren exhaled slowly, the air escaping his lungs like a small, private concession, his eyes focused on the scuffed pavement. "Yeah… I do. I like Akari. I like the way she listens without the slightest hint of judgment, and how she never seems to ask for more than I can comfortably give. But…"
He trailed off, unable to complete the sentence.
"But you still have feelings for Hina," Daiki finished the thought, his voice flat.
Ren finally nodded slowly, the movement almost imperceptible. "It's not black and white. It's messy. I honestly wish it was simple."
For a heavy moment, neither of them spoke, the only sound the chirping of cicadas signaling the coming evening.
Then Ren offered a lopsided smile—the kind that tried to play off the depth of the feeling but couldn't quite hide the actual weight beneath it.
"Look, I get what you were trying to do. And I appreciate the loyalty, man. You were protecting me." He paused. "But maybe you jumped the gun."
He softened his tone further. "Hina's already trying to do better, Daiki. You saw her today—she's not forcing anything. She's trying to respect my space. That guilt she's carrying? She doesn't need to drown in it because you put the fear of God into her."
Daiki fidgeted, looking away, chewing his bottom lip in silent discomfort.
Ren nudged him lightly with his elbow, the gesture easing the tension. "If you're really my best friend, like you claim… you'll go apologize to her. And set the record straight."
Daiki groaned, physically rolling his eyes. "Ugh. Seriously? I have to go through the emotional wringer for your complex love life?"
Ren smirked, the tension finally breaking away from his face. "Dead serious. And I'll know if you chicken out, so don't even try."
Daiki gave a reluctant, theatrical nod. "Fine. But if I cry because of the sheer awkwardness, I'm absolutely blaming you."
Ren laughed for real that time—a clear, easy sound that felt like spring breaking through a long, tense winter.
And somewhere behind them, in the shared wake of their conversation, the complex tension between the comfort of the past and the cautious promise of the present quietly loosened its tenacious grip—just a little.
CLOSER THAN STRANGERS
AND AS DAIKI WATCHED REN WALK AHEAD, THE SOUND OF HIS OWN HEART BEATING IN THE QUIET EVENING AIR, HE COULDN'T SHAKE THE FEELING—SOMEONE WAS GOING TO GET HURT. AND HE WASN'T SURE WHO HE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE PROTECTING ANYMORE.