The next morning, the air felt strangely heavy for Ren. Even though the sun was bright and the usual chatter filled the classroom, his thoughts lingered on the night before—her soft smile, her quiet "I trust you," and the way she disappeared into the crowd after visiting his workplace.
He sat at his desk, staring out the window, his notebook still blank. The teacher's voice faded into a dull hum as his mind replayed everything again and again.
Why me?
Out of everyone, why did Aoi tell him something so personal, something so fragile?
When the bell rang, he barely noticed until he heard that familiar voice.
"Ren," Aoi called softly, leaning slightly against his desk, her pink ribbon swaying with the faint breeze from the window. "You look like you didn't sleep at all."
Ren looked up, forcing a small smile. "I guess I was thinking too much."
"About me?" she teased lightly, her tone calm but her eyes curious.
He paused. "...Maybe."
Aoi smiled, brushing her hair aside. "Then you shouldn't waste your thoughts on silly things."
But behind her playful words, there was something else—something quieter. A tiredness hidden behind that gentle expression. Ren noticed, but said nothing. When the teacher entered, Aoi quietly returned to her seat.
Throughout the day, Ren caught himself watching her. She smiled, she laughed, she acted the same—but something about her felt distant. Like she was smiling through the pain, not beyond it.
After school, the orange light of sunset stretched across the hallways. Ren was about to leave when he saw Aoi standing near the gate, waiting.
"Ren," she said softly, "walk home with me?"
He nodded, and they began their walk down the quiet street, where cicadas sang and vending machines buzzed softly. The warm evening breeze carried a calm that words couldn't fill.
Finally, Ren spoke. "Aoi… yesterday, when you said you trust me… why?"
Aoi stopped walking. The fading sunlight brushed her hair with gold. She looked down at her hands for a moment before replying.
"Because you don't look at me with pity," she said quietly.
Her voice trembled, just slightly.
"When people find out about my illness," she continued, "they start treating me differently. Softer… as if I might break any second. But you—" she looked up at him, smiling faintly, "you talk to me like I'm still me."
Ren said nothing. The air between them grew still for a moment, filled only by the rustling of leaves and distant chatter.
Aoi took a slow breath and looked at the sky. "You know, I've always liked evenings like this. They feel peaceful… but also a little sad."
Ren followed her gaze, watching as the sun sank behind the rooftops. "Yeah," he murmured, "it does."
They walked quietly after that, the silence neither heavy nor empty—just a quiet understanding between two people who didn't need to say much.
When they reached her street, Aoi turned to him and smiled again.
"Thanks for walking with me. It feels nice."
Ren nodded. "Yeah… same."
Aoi hesitated for a second, then asked softly,
"Ren… do you think people can be happy, even if they know their time is limited?"
He looked at her, unsure how to answer. Before he could, she smiled—gently, almost like she already knew his silence.
"I think they can," she said, her eyes glinting faintly under the streetlight. "As long as someone remembers their smile."
With that, she turned and began walking home, her pink kimono ribbon swaying behind her as the light faded.
Ren stood there for a while, watching her until she disappeared from sight. The night breeze passed by, quiet and cool. He didn't know what to think, only that something about her words wouldn't leave his mind.