The morning was warm, but not comforting. There was a heaviness to the sunlight today — a strange, golden stillness that didn't quite feel like spring. Sayaka stood at the school gates, her shoes perfectly lined up with the metal bars, her fingers curled tightly around the strap of her bag.
She had been there for almost twenty minutes.
Waiting.
Not because she had anything urgent to say.
Not because she'd planned anything.
But because part of her hoped the universe would decide for her.
And maybe because she didn't trust herself not to run away again.
The letter was still there.
Tucked in the side pocket of her bag. Folded three times. Pages slightly soft from how many times she'd handled it. The ink was dry, but the words still felt wet — raw and trembling, like her thoughts had never really settled.
She hadn't added to it.
She hadn't crossed anything out.
But she'd read it so often she could hear the rhythm of the sentences in her sleep.
"If I'm wrong about you, then let me be wrong."
"But if I'm right… if even one part of you feels the same — please, say something. Even if it's nothing at all."
She had written those lines just after midnight, with her window open and the cherry blossoms whispering against the sill. At the time, it had felt brave. Romantic. Honest.
Now?
Now it just felt like weight.
She looked up when she heard footsteps.
Ren.
He wasn't hurrying. He wasn't dragging his feet either. He walked like he always did — casually, confidently — but with a slight squint against the sun and something tired in his shoulders.
He was late.
No, she had been early.
Too early.
He spotted her almost instantly. His pace slowed, ever so slightly, like he wasn't sure what expression to wear on his face.
Sayaka kept hers neutral. She didn't want to seem eager. But her hand gripped the strap of her bag tighter.
He stopped a step away from her.
"You're here early," he said.
"So are you."
He smiled faintly at her reply. Not a full smile — just enough to soften the lines near his eyes.
They stood there for a moment in silence.
Sayaka looked down at her shoes. Then at the gates. Then at the blossom tree closest to them. The petals had begun to fall now — the start of the end of spring. A breeze lifted one and spun it slowly between them.
She took a breath.
"I had a weird dream last night."
Ren looked surprised, but didn't interrupt.
"You were in it," she continued. "But you kept walking into rooms without doors. And every time I tried to follow, the walls closed behind you."
He blinked. "That's… oddly poetic."
Sayaka laughed, but it was hollow. "Yeah. I didn't mean it to be."
He tilted his head. "Do you think dreams mean anything?"
"Maybe." She paused. "Maybe they're just… feelings we don't say out loud."
Ren was quiet for a long moment.
"I've had dreams like that," he said eventually. "Where I'm trying to talk, but nothing comes out."
Sayaka looked at him.
"I guess that's how I feel sometimes. Like I'm shouting inside, and the outside just doesn't… know."
The moment stretched between them.
Sayaka felt it — a quiet pull, a tension just beneath the surface. The kind you feel when you're about to ask the question that might change everything.
Her hand drifted toward her bag.
Touched the zipper.
Paused.
"I wrote something," she said quietly.
Ren's gaze flicked to her hands.
"I don't know if it's good. Or clear. Or even fair to give it to you."
He opened his mouth slightly, but didn't say anything.
"I just…" Sayaka looked up at him. Her voice barely a whisper now. "I want to believe that saying something — anything — is better than silence."
Ren didn't move.
His face wasn't shocked. It wasn't scared. It was something gentler — thoughtful. As if he was trying to figure out what page they were on, and how long he'd been behind.
Sayaka pulled her hand back from the bag.
Not yet.
The moment wasn't wrong. But it wasn't quite right either.
"I'm scared," she admitted. "That I'm reading everything wrong."
Ren finally spoke.
"If you are… then at least you're brave enough to try reading it."
She smiled — small, tired, grateful.
He stepped slightly closer. Not enough to close the gap, but enough that she felt it.
"Sayaka…"
She looked up again.
"If you ever want me to know something," he said, voice low, "you don't have to write it."
She swallowed. "I know."
"But I'll still read it. If that's what you need."
Sayaka nodded slowly.
A single cherry blossom drifted down between them and landed on Ren's sleeve.
He looked down at it, brushed it off gently, then looked back at her.
They didn't say goodbye.
They just walked into school side by side, quiet, but closer than they had been in weeks.
And the letter?
It stayed in her bag.
For now.
Because some truths didn't need to be read right away.
Some truths needed time to ripen, like fruit.
Some truths needed the silence — to grow roots.