Why are there seasons?
I've asked myself that more times than I care to admit.
No, not in the scientific way. Not about weather, not about how the Earth spins into place, or about the clouds forming from evaporation.
But about people.
Why do we bloom so suddenly in spring, reckless with hope, only to wither when things turn cold? Why does something that feels endless in the heat of summer fall apart with the first chill?
Humans are so fragile. They pretend they're constant, but they change like weather, without warning or reason. And you never know which version of them you'll meet tomorrow.
Maybe that's just how it works. Maybe every heart has its own orbit.
Close for a while, then drifting, then gone.
...
Rael. That's the name given to me.
Just a regular high school guy. Into poetry and academics. It's not the most exciting combo, I know.
It's funny, I can write about stars, seasons, and sorrow like they're second nature… but when it comes to describing myself, there's barely anything to say. I'm not one of those wildly eccentric types with flashy glasses and louder-than-life energy, or the kind who draws attention just by being loud or disruptive, and still somehow gets praised for it.
I'm not popular either, not the kind with dazzling talent, not the one with a face people can't stop looking at.
And no, this isn't one of those stories where a guy stumbles into fate.
Where he trips over a girl he's never met, the wind brushing past as strands of her uneven hair shift across sharp, unreadable eyes. Their gaze meets beneath falling sakura petals, like a scene that thinks it's deeper than it really is.
They call it a "first encounter." Love at first sight.
It sounds sweet, so sweet, you're supposed to feel breathless, shaken, swept into something magical.
As if the world shifts, and suddenly, a stranger becomes the start of everything.
...
...
But I've never bought into that.
Real feelings don't arrive with background music and fluttering petals.
And even if I let myself fantasize about finding "the one," it never comes true.
Like a flower convinced to bloom, only to wither in the dead of winter.
I don't think people dislike me, but I doubt they like me either. It's not like I'm hard to be around. I just… don't fit into the rhythm of things. Maybe I say the wrong things. Maybe I don't say enough.
Still, I wonder—if someone ever tried to understand me, would they find something worth seeing?
***
Amaterra Global Academy. Tucked into the heart of Tokyo, dressed up like it has something to prove.
The name blends two cultures. "Ama" is derived from Amaterasu in Japanese mythology, and "Terra" is the Latin word for Earth. How pretentious it sounds, like it charges tuition just to be spoken out loud.
The campus feels like it was pulled from a concept artist's dream — spotless floors, polished glass, and wood-paneled walls that creak softly, like they're in on some secret. There's a courtyard with cherry blossoms and imported maples, positioned so perfectly it almost feels staged. Everything's curated, down to the way the sunlight filters through the leaves. It's a place that tries so hard to look effortless, but it ultimately loops back to being obvious.
I'm stuck in what feels like a cliché straight out of an anime. And the fact that this is Japan? Just adds fuel to the stereotype.
I wore an ash-blue coat over a dark uniform, clean but forgettable. Glasses, because I thought it made me seem less... closed off — wavy hair, plain face, nothing worth a second glance. A brown denim backpack hung from one shoulder. In the right hand, a case filled with whatever else this school required.
If this were a show, I'd be the background character the protagonist walks past before the plot even begins.
Right... a show.
I'll admit it.
The moment I stepped onto this campus—
The world felt... different—different from real life.
It's like anime.
The way the sunlight hits just right on the corridors, how students pass each other with a soft blush or an awkward pause, like every moment's a storyboard frame. I could almost hear background music playing — a shy piano theme, perhaps, or the sound of a breeze carrying the rustle of leaves across the courtyard.
Groups of students wandered past the garden paths, their voices light, their smiles held just long enough to feel like moments captured in slow motion. An underclassman leaned in close to share a single earbud with her friend, swaying slightly to a song only they could hear. Near the bench, a third-year held an open book upside down, eyes half-closed, as if he wasn't reading at all but simply pretending to, lost in the warmth of the day. Two girls sat cross-legged on the grass, giggling over a messy sketch one of them drew, like it was the funniest thing in the world.
Each of these moments felt like it belonged to a set, like a scene rehearsed a thousand times.
A set I was never meant to step into.
But they weren't staged. They were real. And somehow, that made it worse.
I thought I was just watching a scene unfold. But someone else was already capturing it.
Clement.
He stood a little off to the side, a tripod planted on the bricks, adjusting the camera with that same serious expression he always wore, like he was filming something for a quiet arthouse movie that no one but him would understand. His sleeves were rolled up, and his lanyard hung crooked on his neck, focused, sharp, and composed.
Part of me thinks he saw it the way I did—fleeting, distant, and almost unreal. But instead of passing through it, he captured everything.
As I looked back, everything seemed untouched.
The sunlight still fell exactly right, soft and golden. Laughter lingered in the air, caught mid-breath, and the breeze still carried the warmth of it all. Even the people looked like they hadn't moved, like the scene itself was holding still, waiting for him to press the shutter.
Even if he wasn't in the frame, he had that rare presence, the kind the story always keeps in focus, even when he's the one behind the camera.
I almost kept walking—until something caught my eye just beyond him. Somewhere over that garden, just past the steps above,
I stepped closer to the garden. The breeze stirred, and the leaves rustled softly above.
And there, beneath it all...
I saw her.
Eunice.
She stood beneath the soft shade of a maple tree, quiet and still, almost part of the scenery.
A pale bucket hat rested gently atop her head, its brim catching slivers of light. The wind tugged at her long, black hair, lifting it like petals scattered into the air. She didn't move — just looked out over the garden, like it was the first spring she'd ever seen.
And yet, the world around her seemed to shift.
The flowers bloomed a little brighter.
The air held its breath.
Even the silence felt softer, like the garden itself had noticed her.
That was Eunice Purificacion, the class secretary.
There's something about her that feels like spring itself—gentle, yet bright. A presence that never asks to be noticed, but ends up being the reason everything feels a little more alive.
It's how beautiful spring is.
...
I should stop thinking. Class is about to start soon—
My glasses slipped. I didn't even realize they were loose.
But before they could hit the ground, someone caught them, and just for a second, caught my eyes, too.
"Here! That was close!"
The breeze picked up again. It felt like a coincidence, but it was timed too perfectly to ignore.
She placed the glasses gently into my hands. Her fingers brushed against mine, and it was warm, steady, and tender.
Then I saw her smile.
She had bright red hair and wore round glasses that framed her cheerful eyes. They curved when she smiled, lighting up her whole face. There was something effortless about the way she carried herself, something confident and easy, like she belonged anywhere she stood.
Everything about her felt warm.
Like summer.
"Oh! You're Rael, right?"
I blinked, caught a little off guard.
"Yeah," I said, still trying to catch up with the moment.
"I'm Yuna! Yuna Natsuki! We're in the same class, remember?"
I nodded, quickly reaching into my pocket for a handkerchief.
"Right… yeah. I remember."
I took off my glasses to wipe them, even though they didn't have any smudges. They didn't even have a prescription. I wasn't blind, yet I wore them anyway.
Maybe it made me feel a little more... in place, like something to hide behind, or something to become.
She tilted her head and smiled again.
"The glasses look good on you! I like the style."
My hand paused for a second. I scratched my cheek and gave a half-laugh, unsure how to react.
"Well, I guess… thanks?"
I could feel it then, that faint pressure, like someone was watching, even though no one around seemed to care.
My eyes shifted back, toward the garden, beneath the maple tree.
She was still there. Eunice.
She wasn't staring, not exactly. But she glanced toward us, just for a moment, eyes slightly widened, like she hadn't expected to see me there.
Or see me with someone else.
I turned back quickly, almost too quickly, and adjusted my posture beside Yuna. Why was I nervous?
Then Yuna raised her hand.
"I hope we have a great year together!"
I hesitated—then smiled, reaching out to shake it.
"Yeah," I said. "Same goes for you."
After we shook hands, we drifted away in different directions as I headed toward our classroom.
I was just about to disappear into the sea of footsteps when—
"Eunice! I didn't know you were here all along!"
Yuna's voice rang out behind me, light and bright as ever. I froze, hearing her calling Eunice's name out loud. My body stiffened with a quiet chill. They knew each other?
I didn't want to turn around, and yet, some part of me had the urge to do so.
Just one glance, that's all. I'll make it quick.
And I gave in.
Over my shoulder, I saw them standing together beneath the trees. Yuna was mid-sentence, gesturing with her hands like she always did, animated, easy, glowing.
And Eunice…
She was smiling.
It wasn't wide or loud, and it barely moved her lips. But her eyes curved gently at the edges, softening like sunlight touching the surface of a still pond.
Even from this distance, it reached me.
Or maybe it didn't.
Maybe I just wanted it to.
The breeze shifted. I turned away—too quickly—and walked forward, faster than before, pretending I hadn't seen anything at all.
And then I suddenly bumped into Clement, taking a picture of the sky on the path.
"Oh— sorry, I wasn't looking!" I blurted out, stumbling a step back.
He didn't flinch, still peering through his camera, which always hung around his neck like a second identity. Then he leaned in slightly, his expression lighting up, like he'd just caught a shooting star on film.
"Look at this!" he beamed, flipping his camera screen toward me. "See the soft blur on the edges? It pulls your eyes to the center, making the whole thing feel deeper. And the sky here..." he pointed excitedly, "...these gradients of blue bleeding into the clouds? That kind of light layering only happens for, like, a minute."
He went on something about framing and natural contrast, but honestly, it was hard to follow.
Dang, this guy talks way too much about photos.
Then again... I'm not one to talk.
"You don't have to worry," he said suddenly, more gently. "If it weren't for that bump, I wouldn't have gotten this shot. So actually... I should be thanking you!"
"Really?" I blinked, a bit surprised—and a bit touched.
He nodded, with a cheerful grin stretching across his face. "Timing's everything."
I looked at the camera again. Something tugged at me.
Clement had been snapping photos since day one — which, granted, was just yesterday — but still. There was something calm about it. Deliberate. Like he already knew exactly what he was looking for. Even if no one else could see it, even if he couldn't fully name it himself.
I wondered how many moments he'd captured already. What did he see when he looked through the lens?
"How many photos have you taken since you got here?"
"Since yesterday?" Clement tapped his chin. "About... a hundred twenty-seven!"
A hundred twenty-seven, huh. He even keeps count of his photos and remembers them without checking. That raised an eyebrow.
"Don't worry," he laughed. "I filter them later. Only the best photos survive."
I hesitated. Then, "Can I see them?"
"Oh? Sure!" he said brightly, handing over the camera without a second thought.
I flicked through quickly. He had captured the school gate, and the angle made it look almost cinematic. Then shots of the courtyard, close-ups of leaves, flowers, morning dew, even a cat sneaking across the sports field. Every frame had this strange, quiet sense of being meticulous.
And then I stopped.
A photo of the maple tree, tall and full of soft green leaves. Beneath it, a girl stood, wrapped in golden light. There was something ultimately poetic about it.
But right after that…
Wait...
Is that...?
A picture of Yuna... putting my glasses back on my face?
"What the— "
Before I could say anything, Clement snatched the camera back with reflexes he shouldn't legally have.
"You can check the rest later!" he laughed, backing up fast. "Class is starting soon anyway!"
"Delete that," I said flatly, staring him down. "Right now."
"Hey, chill, chill!"
He turned on his heel and ran. I chased after him, but he ran too fast, so I gave up. Clement was already a blur up the path, his laughter fading behind him, the camera swinging like it had a life of its own.
Just as Clement turned the corner and disappeared, I caught something else—
A girl, alone by the far bench near the garden wall.
She wasn't loud. She wasn't sobbing into her hands or drawing attention.
Just a girl sitting quietly on a bench, her face half-buried in her arms. Her shoulders trembled every few seconds, like she was trying to breathe, without the world noticing.
It was only the second day of school, and someone was already crying.
I slowed down, unsure if I should look, say something, or do anything at all.
Because some scenes aren't meant to be interrupted.
They aren't made for bystanders or rescue. They're just quiet enough to remind you that not everything in life waits to fall apart.
So I walked past.
And maybe that was the first moment I realized—This place was nothing like the stories.
***
I was about to head inside the classroom when I heard it.
Voices. Not the usual hum of students chatting or the occasional laugh echoing off the courtyard walls.
These voices were sharp, with frayed edges.
"You think she needs saving from me?"
"I know she does. She's not happy. Anyone with eyes can see that."
I stopped near the stairway, half-hidden behind the glass railing. Below, near the far end of the path, two boys stood inches apart. One of them was tall, confident in the way anger made people look sure of themselves. The other looked like he hadn't slept, fists trembling even though he wasn't raising them.
"You confessed on the second day of school?" the taller one said, exasperated. "You don't even know her."
"Neither do you! All you do is control her. You don't see her."
A silence followed, but not the one that settles things.
It just sharpens the air.
From where I stood, I couldn't see the girl. Maybe she was already gone, or maybe she never spoke to begin with.
But what I did see was this:
A boy fighting for an ideal, and another clinging out of fear. And somewhere in between, someone who never got to choose.
I didn't mean to listen. I didn't want to. But once you hear something like that, you can't really unhear it.
It was only the second day of school. And someone already thought love could save someone.
Someone else thought it meant ownership.
And in all of that shouting, no one asked what the girl wanted.
I stepped away quietly, like walking out of a scene that didn't belong to me. The breeze returned. The light softened. But it didn't feel the same as before.
Something had shifted.
And I was left standing there with a question I couldn't shake.
And just like that, the quiet returned.
The breeze settled. The light softened. The path ahead felt a little emptier now, though no one else had come or gone.
I stood there, still for a moment, trying to shake off the strange weight pressing on my chest.
Why are there seasons?
Why do they change… right when you're starting to feel at home in one?
Maybe it's not about weather. Perhaps it never was.
Maybe seasons exist because people do.
Some walk in like spring, quiet, almost invisible. But they leave color wherever they go. You only realize it once everything's in full bloom, and you're standing in it, wondering how you missed it happening.
Others arrive like summer, loud in the best way, warm enough to forget there was ever cold before. They light up the scene the moment they enter it, pulling everyone toward them like gravity disguised as a smile.
But seasons don't ask for permission.
They shift.
They pass.
They never wait for you to catch up.
And just when you think you've found your footing, when you're sure things are going to stay the way they are.
The air shifts. The warmth thins. And you're left wondering if you imagined the whole thing.
People are like that, too.
We call them constants, pretending that they'll always stay. But they change like weather, sometimes gently, sometimes all at once.
Like the boy who confessed too soon, trying to pull someone out of a story she never asked to be saved from.
Like the boyfriend who clung too tightly, not realizing he was squeezing the breath out of something already fragile.
It's only the second day of school.
Already, a girl cried quietly under a tree. Now, someone shouts on a path that was silent just moments before.
Maybe she was heartbroken. Or maybe she was that girl, caught in between.
But in that moment, it was enough to remind me:
Love doesn't wait for its turn.
And neither does heartbreak.
Love doesn't wait for its turn. Neither does heartbreak.
Illusion. Pride. They arrive unannounced, not unlike a change in season.
Sometimes, they just arrive. Like a gust of wind. A misstep. A storm.
And me?
I'm just a background character. Caught between all of it.
Watching these seasons pass through others like scenes I was never written into.
It was already nine. Class had started.
I wasted too much time thinking about all of this.