The air was thicker today — not with heat, but with anticipation.
Ren noticed it the moment he stepped onto the school grounds. Something in the wind. In the way the cherry blossoms swayed more gently, as if listening. In the soft pressure in his chest that hadn't let up since the last letter.
He replayed the words for the hundredth time as he walked:
"Look closer than the eye, deeper than the words."
And now, the third message — slipped between the pages of his textbook just yesterday:
"I saw you."
Each note chipped away at the silence between him and the person who was watching — no, reaching for him.
He passed Yuki on the way to class, who waved with a smile as usual. "Still got that letter-lover ghosting you?" she teased.
"Ghosting implies I know who they are," he replied.
"True. So… stalking, then?"
He rolled his eyes, though her smile brought him comfort. "Not helping."
She nudged him gently. "Maybe you're the mysterious one. Ever think of that?"
Ren didn't answer. He wasn't mysterious. He was ordinary. If anything, invisible. Which made the letters all the more confusing.
During literature class, Mr. Mori was reading aloud from a love poem by Misuzu Kaneko. Ren barely heard it.
His gaze was locked on Hana, two rows ahead.
She sat with her usual stillness — neat, quiet, contained. Yet something about the way she held her pencil today, the way her eyes didn't quite meet the teacher's, made his heart thump. Had she been the one watching him?
She turned slightly in her seat, and their eyes met for a brief second.
Just enough.
She quickly looked away.
After school, Ren lingered under the Whispering Tree longer than usual. Students trickled out in pairs and groups. The air was cool, the breeze making the petals flutter down like soft confetti.
He reached into his bag and pulled out his reply — the one he had written last night, hesitant but honest.
"I don't know who you are. But I want to. Thank you for seeing me. Tell me where to look."
He knelt beside the tree and tucked the note into the roots. He stood, brushed the dirt from his hands, and turned to leave.
And saw Hana.
She stood a few steps away. Not approaching. Not leaving. Just watching.
Ren's throat went dry.
Before he could speak, she turned and walked away.
The next day, the note was gone.
In its place was a new one, written in the same neat script:
"You already know. You just don't see."
He read it three times, sitting against the tree with his knees drawn up. His fingers trembled, not from fear, but from something he couldn't name. Something between hope and confusion.
He was starting to think he did know. But if he said it out loud, it might break.
Back in class, the atmosphere was different.
Ren could barely focus. Every movement Hana made caught his eye. The way her hand moved across her notebook, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the small sigh she gave when she thought no one was listening.
After the bell rang, he caught up with her.
"Hana."
She paused in the hallway.
"Can I ask you something?"
She looked at him, calm but unreadable. "You just did."
Ren almost laughed, but it stuck in his throat.
"Are you the one leaving the letters?"
She stared at him, unreadable. Her eyes didn't flicker. Her voice didn't shake.
But she said: "What if I am?"
They stood in silence for a long moment. The hallway around them emptied. Footsteps faded. Doors shut.
"Then why not just say something?" Ren asked.
"Because I'm not ready," Hana said. "And because... part of me didn't think you'd answer."
"I didn't know how," he said honestly.
She looked down. "Sometimes I feel like we're both standing on opposite sides of a mirror. Seeing each other, but not able to reach through."
Ren took a breath. "Then maybe we break the glass."
They started walking together more often after that. Not every day. And not always with words. Sometimes, just quiet steps side by side — through the school garden, across the bridge, beneath the trees.
The letters didn't stop.
If anything, they became more personal.
"You always sit like the world's going to fall on your shoulders."
"You're not invisible. I see you in colors."
"You're braver than you think."
And Ren replied.
"When you write, it feels like I'm being understood for the first time."
"I used to think silence was safer. Now I think maybe it's loneliness in disguise."
"If you tell me your name, I won't forget it."
One late afternoon, Ren sat alone under the Whispering Tree. The sun was low. The petals cast long shadows. A breeze tugged at his jacket.
Hana appeared, sketchbook in hand. She sat beside him without speaking for a while. Then, she opened the book and held it out.
Ren stared at the page.
It was him.
Not just a sketch — a moment captured in soft pencil lines. He was beneath the tree, head bowed, surrounded by petals, a note in his hand.
"You've been drawing me," he said softly.
"I've been seeing you," she replied.
And then, finally, she handed him the last note.
It was smaller than the others. The handwriting more careful. More vulnerable.
"My name is Hana."
"I'm the one who's been writing to you."
"And I think I've liked you since before I even knew what to call it."
Ren looked up at her. His heart was thudding so loud, he was afraid she might hear it.
"I think I knew," he whispered. "I just needed to believe it was real."
They sat quietly, the blossoms falling around them, the distance between them finally broken.