The final bell rang through the halls of Yukimura High, a resonant chime that didn't quite feel real. As desks scraped against the floor and laughter bubbled up in anticipation of freedom, Ayame Minoru remained still at her window seat in Class 3-B, her gaze drifting past the glass to the late afternoon light soaking the cherry trees. The world outside felt bigger than ever, like it was waiting.
Graduation loomed just two weeks away, but the detachment had already begun. Students whispered about universities, jobs, long-distance friendships. For Ayame, everything had started to feel like a slow unraveling. Except for one thread that still held.
Across the room, Kael Aoyama leaned back in his chair, a pencil twirling between his fingers. His hair caught the light just enough to make her breath hitch, though she'd never admit it. Calm, unreadable, he was the kind of presence that didn't demand attention—he simply made you forget how to think straight.
"You're going to drill a hole through his skull at this rate," Mika whispered beside her, smirking without looking up from her sketchpad.
"I wasn't staring," Ayame replied, a bit too quickly.
"Sure you weren't."
Kael, as if sensing the exchange, turned his head and met Ayame's eyes. There was that brief moment—like the world thinned around them—and then he smiled. Not a smirk. Just a small, tired smile that said, I see you.
After school, Ayame found him waiting beneath the giant cedar behind the art building, a spot they'd quietly claimed over the years. Spring's golden hour painted the world in amber hues, soft enough to make her forget everything except the moment.
"I've been thinking," Kael said, arms crossed, his voice steady in that way it always was. "A year from now. Same place. Same time. We meet again. No matter what."
She tilted her head. "Why a year?"
"Because after graduation, everything changes. People drift. Things happen. But if we make a promise now—if we fix a point in time—maybe that'll be enough to bring us back."
He unfolded a crumpled napkin. On it, two constellations swirled into a spiral, a single word scribbled in the center: Stardust.
Ayame blinked. "You drew this?"
"Don't judge. I was in math class."
She smiled, reaching for the pen he held out.
They wrote their names beneath the stars—hers looping beside his, like the sketch was always meant to end that way. No declarations, no confessions. Just the quiet gravity of a pact neither of them fully understood.
A breeze swept through the branches. For a moment, the air shimmered—not visibly, but felt in the bones. As if the cedar itself had exhaled, or something unseen had marked their vow.
That night, Ayame dreamt of falling stars.
Endless constellations collapsing into darkness.
And in the silence, Kael's voice.
"If I forget… find me."