---
The classroom of Shiomachi High, 2-B, hummed with morning energy — the shuffle of chairs, the chatter of students catching up, the thud of books and bags. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, casting warm squares on the wooden floor and lighting motes of dust that floated like petals trapped indoors.
Ren slid into his seat near the window, still catching his breath from the run. He pushed back his hair with one hand, his gaze drifting out to where the cherry tree's blossoms brushed against the glass. The guitar case leaned against his desk, silent witness to another rushed arrival.
Why does today feel different? he wondered, fingers drumming lightly on the desk. His mind kept returning to that moment — the feel of Aoi's hand brushing his, the look in her eyes, the wind playing with her hair.
---
Aoi, meanwhile, sat at the opposite side of the room, near the door, sketchbook safely stowed. She stared at the blackboard, but her thoughts were far away.
He caught my sketchbook... and then he said it was beautiful.
Her cheeks warmed again at the memory. She twisted the strap of her bag in her fingers, feeling the texture of the worn leather. Around her, friends chatted about homework and after-school plans, but the world felt a little quieter, a little brighter somehow.
---
"Hey, Aoi!"
A voice jolted her from her thoughts. It was Kana Ishikawa — cheerful, quick to laugh, with her hair in a messy bun and a stack of books in her arms.
"You're daydreaming already? Class hasn't even started."
Aoi smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Just... thinking."
Kana plopped into the seat beside her. "About what? Let me guess — art? Or that sketch contest coming up?"
Before Aoi could answer, the door slid open with a clatter.
---
Their homeroom teacher, Mr. Yamamoto, entered, his usual calm but slightly frazzled look in place, glasses slipping down his nose.
"All right, everyone — settle down."
Voices lowered, chairs scraped, books opened. The room felt more still, though outside, the breeze kept playing with the petals, sending them skittering across the windowpane like soft drumbeats.
---
Ren kept glancing at Aoi, almost without meaning to. From here, he could see how the light touched her hair, how she kept brushing it back as if unaware.
Stop staring, he told himself, turning his gaze firmly to his notebook.
But his pencil tip barely touched the page.
---
The day passed in fragments:
The murmur of the teacher's voice as he explained equations that blurred together.
The clatter of lunchboxes opening, the smell of miso soup, and the salty breeze when someone slid open a window.
Mei snapping a photo of the courtyard from the third floor, framing the cherry tree with the sea beyond.
Haruki tossing an eraser at Ren with a grin, whispering, "You're out of it today, man."
Kana whispering to Aoi during art class, "You're blushing! Spill it!"
---
By the time the final bell rang, the sky outside had deepened to soft gold, the sun sinking toward the horizon.
Ren slung his guitar case over his shoulder, heading for the shoe lockers. He hesitated, just for a second, and glanced down the hall.
And there she was.
Aoi stood at her locker, carefully sliding her sketchbook into her bag, hands lingering on the worn cover.
The hall was mostly empty now, their classmates already spilling out into the town, voices fading into the evening air.
Ren found himself walking toward her before he could think too much about it.
"Hey."
Aoi looked up, startled, then smiled — a small, warm smile that made his heart do something unexpected.
"Hi."
They stood there, the quiet stretching between them like a thread waiting to be tied.
"Walk home?" Ren asked, voice softer now.
Aoi nodded. "Okay."
---
They stepped out together, the world painted in sunset colors. The streets were quiet, the breeze cooler now, the scent of the sea stronger.
The cherry tree at the school gate rustled as if in farewell, petals still falling, still endless.
And as they walked, side by side but not yet too close, both of them felt it — that this was the start of something.
Something worth holding on to.