"When you begin to notice silence, it's usually because something in you has changed."
The school library was quiet, even for a Thursday.
The windows were half-open, letting in the breeze.Cherry blossoms hadn't fallen yet, but the air already hinted at spring.
Hana sat by the far wall, a book open in front of her, but she wasn't reading.
She was waiting.
Not consciously — not like someone watching the clock.It was quieter than that.A kind of stillness that fills the space before something begins.
Ren entered quietly.
He didn't notice her at first.She watched as he walked toward the art section, his bag slung lazily over one shoulder.
He wore headphones, but no music played.
Just something to make people leave him alone.
Except… Hana didn't.
She stood up.
Crossed the room slowly.
And stopped a few feet behind him.
"Ren," she said, softly.
He turned, startled, tugging one headphone off.
"Oh. Hey," he said. "Didn't see you."
There was an awkward second between them.Not tension — just the usual hesitation between people who don't usually talk like this.
"I liked your sketch," Hana said. "The one you made in history class. The ink lines… felt like they were holding something back."
Ren blinked.
No one ever described his art like that.
"Thanks," he said, almost too quietly. "I didn't know anyone noticed."
"I did."
They stood in the aisle a moment too long.
Books surrounded them on both sides — forgotten.
Outside the window, petals danced on the wind.
Hana looked away first.Then reached into her bag and pulled out a notebook — small, worn, soft at the edges.
Not the notebook.
But close.
"I write sometimes," she said. "But not stories. Just... words I don't say out loud."
Ren nodded slowly.
Like he understood exactly.
"Do you ever write things you don't want anyone to see?" she asked.
He thought a moment. Then:
"All the time."
A small smile tugged at her lips. "Me too."
They didn't say more.
They didn't need to.
The silence between them grew... comfortable.
As if two people had just discovered that the quiet didn't have to mean distance.
Across the room, Sayaka sat by the window.
She'd come in after them.
She hadn't meant to stop.
But when she saw them there, standing close, not touching — yet clearly connected — she froze.
And watched.
Not because she wanted to.
Because she couldn't look away.
The way Ren leaned forward just slightly when Hana spoke.
The way Hana lowered her gaze, nervous but unafraid.
Something was happening, and Sayaka didn't understand it yet.
But her fingers tightened around the edge of her notebook.
And that small ache in her chest —the one she thought was just passing doubt —started to settle in.
Later that evening, Sayaka sat at home, alone in her room.
She opened her planner again.
Unfolded the letter.
For the first time since she found it, the words made her feel cold.