Sayaka had read it one last time.
Just once more.
The paper was soft now, edges curved from her thumb. The ink hadn't faded, but the weight of the words had deepened over time. The letter wasn't perfect — it wasn't even eloquent — but it was hers. Raw, uncertain, trembling with all the things she could never quite say aloud.
"I think I've been writing to you even when I didn't know your name."
"And now that I do, I'm afraid I'll lose the courage."
It was early. The school hallways were still silent, washed in bluish morning light. She had come before the bell — before the noise and crowds and eyes.
Her fingers closed around the envelope.
Today was the day.
Not because she felt ready.
But because not doing it had begun to feel heavier than her fear.
She took the long path around the courtyard, her footsteps soundless on the pavement. The cherry blossoms had thinned; petals lay like whispers across the ground. Everything looked the same. But nothing felt like before.
She turned the corner — and froze.
Ren.
He stood by the shoe lockers, alone, sliding his indoor shoes into place. His hair was slightly damp — probably from walking through the mist that had hung in the morning air. There was something unguarded about him in that moment. No one else around. No laughter. No distractions.
Just Ren.
And the letter in her hand.
Sayaka didn't move.
Not yet.
She watched as he adjusted the strap of his bag and turned to face the hallway — his eyes landing on her like a quiet question.
Their gazes held.
Not dramatic.
Not sudden.
But enough.
Her heart stumbled in her chest.
And then — slowly — she stepped forward.
She didn't speak at first. Neither did he.
He tilted his head slightly, curious, but not pressing. He waited — the way he always did with her. Like he knew her pace, and never rushed it.
"I have something," she said finally. "For you."
He blinked once. "Okay."
Sayaka hesitated. Her fingers tightened around the envelope.
"I wrote it a while ago. But I wasn't sure… if I should give it to you."
Ren looked at her with quiet kindness.
"Why now?"
Her throat tightened. "Because… I think I won't be able to breathe if I keep carrying it."
She held it out to him.
Slow.
Like offering a secret.
He took it gently — like he understood the weight.
But he didn't open it.
He just looked at it, then at her.
"I'll read it," he said softly. "Later."
Sayaka nodded. "I know."
And then she turned.
Not dramatically. Not in shame. But in peace.
Because now the weight was no longer hers alone.
Elsewhere, moments later...
A door clicked.
Hana stepped out of the hallway she hadn't meant to be in.
She hadn't planned to overhear.
She hadn't even meant to be that early.
But she'd seen it.
The letter.
Sayaka's face.
Ren's eyes.
She hadn't heard the words.
But she didn't need to.
Some truths echo louder in silence.
She stepped back, her breath caught in her chest. Something warm and cold tangled behind her ribs.
And without thinking, she whispered:
"I'm too late."