The evening air brushed cool against Shion's skin as he walked home from Sakura High, the streetlights casting long shadows on the petal-strewn pavement. Cherry blossoms clung to his shoes, delicate and fleeting, as if they wanted to be carried a little longer. He adjusted his glasses, his steps steady, but his mind wandered—back to Aika's smile, the way her voice had softened when she said, "You're kind of poetic, Yukimura-kun."
It's just a project, he told himself, the words a shield to keep his thoughts in line. But they felt flimsy tonight, like paper in the wind. Why did her smile linger in his head? Why did it matter? He pushed the thought down, but it stirred again, quiet and persistent, like a petal caught in his sleeve.
The next afternoon, the school courtyard was calmer, the morning's chatter replaced by the hum of after-school clubs. Shion stood by the gate, his bag slung over one shoulder, his copy of Kokoro tucked under his arm. He glanced at his watch: 3:55 PM. Early, as always. Waiting didn't bother him—it was a chance to notice things. A sparrow flitted along the fence, a cherry blossom petal in its beak. The world felt soft today, fragile.
"Yukimura-kun!" Aika's voice cut through the quiet, bright but not sharp. She jogged toward him, her ribbon swaying, a single petal caught on her sleeve. Her cheeks were flushed from the rush, and her smile was warm, unguarded. "Sorry, did I keep you waiting?"
Shion shook his head, his voice steady. "No. You're early."
She laughed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. The petal on her sleeve fluttered but didn't fall. "Guess we're both like that. Come on, the taiyaki stall's by the station."
They walked together, their steps falling into an easy rhythm. The town hummed with spring—shopkeepers swept petals from doorways, and the faint scent of grilled mochi drifted from vendors. Shion kept his eyes forward, but he was hyper-aware of Aika beside him. The soft tap of her shoes. The way she hummed a tune, barely audible, like a secret she didn't mind sharing.
"You read a lot, don't you?" she asked, glancing at the book under his arm. "What's Kokoro about?"
Shion's fingers tightened around the spine, a reflex. He wasn't used to people asking about his books—most didn't notice. "It's…" He paused, searching for words that wouldn't sound too heavy. "About loneliness. And people trying to connect but… missing each other."
Aika tilted her head, her eyes soft, searching. "That sounds sad. But kind of beautiful, too." Her voice was quiet, like she was turning the idea over in her mind. "Like it's okay to feel alone sometimes, as long as you keep trying."
Shion glanced at her, caught off guard. Her words felt personal, like she wasn't just talking about the book. He wanted to ask what she meant, but the question stuck in his throat. Instead, he said, "It's not for everyone. Too slow for most."
She smiled, a flicker of something—wistfulness?—crossing her face. "Some things take time to appreciate."
He didn't respond, but her words sank into him, stirring something he couldn't name. Was she talking about the book, or something else? He adjusted his glasses, focusing on the path ahead, but his heart gave a small, unsteady thud.
The taiyaki stall was a small wooden cart under a cherry tree, its faded awning swaying in the breeze. The vendor, an older man with laugh lines etched deep, flipped fish-shaped pastries on a griddle, the sweet scent of red bean paste curling into the air. Aika stepped forward, her eyes bright.
"Two, please!" She held up two fingers, her voice cheerful. "Custard for me. Yukimura-kun, what about you?"
Shion blinked, caught by the way she said his name—casual, warm, like they'd done this a hundred times. "Red bean," he said after a moment, the choice safe, familiar.
"Good pick!" Aika handed him a warm taiyaki wrapped in paper, her fingers brushing his for a fleeting second. His hand twitched, a jolt of warmth sparking where their skin met. He told himself it was the heat of the pastry, but his pulse didn't agree. He pulled back quickly, clutching the taiyaki like a lifeline.
They sat on a bench under the cherry tree, its branches casting soft shadows over them. Aika took a bite of her taiyaki, her eyes fluttering closed. "Mmm, so good. Nothing beats custard fresh from the griddle."
Shion took a small bite of his own, the red bean paste warm and subtly sweet. A petal drifted onto the bench between them, pink and fragile. He chewed slowly, watching it. "It's… nice," he said, his voice softer than he meant.
Aika grinned, leaning closer. "Nice? That's it?" Her shoulder nudged his, a playful gesture that made his breath catch. "Come on, Yukimura-kun, give me something more… you."
His lips twitched, a faint smirk breaking through. "It's warm," he said, meeting her gaze for a moment. "Like spring, but sweeter."
Her laughter was soft, like petals falling. "That's more like it." She leaned back, her eyes sparkling. "I knew you had a poetic side."
They sat in silence for a moment, eating their taiyaki as the world moved around them. Shion stole a glance at her—her fingers brushing away a crumb, the way she tilted her head to catch a falling petal. She was so… alive, so present in a way that made his quiet world feel fuller. He wondered what it would be like to be someone she looked at, really looked at—not just as a project partner, but as… something more. The thought came unbidden, and he pushed it away, startled by its weight.
"So," Aika said, breaking the silence. "For our project, I was thinking we could do a tea ceremony demo. Explain the history, but also show how it's done. What do you think?"
Shion nodded, his mind settling back into safer territory. "We could focus on the tools," he said, his voice calm but thoughtful. "The chawan, the whisk—each one has a purpose. It'd make the presentation… real."
Aika's eyes lit up, and she leaned forward, her notebook open on her lap. "That's perfect! I love how you think about the little things." She paused, her smile softening. "Most people don't notice stuff like that."
Shion looked away, his cheeks warming. "It's just logical," he muttered, but her words settled into him, soft and unexpected, like a petal on still water. Why does she say things like that? he wondered. Like she sees me. The thought made his chest tighten, and he focused on his notebook, sketching the curve of a chawan to steady himself.
Aika doodled in her own notebook, her lines clumsy but earnest—a teacup, lopsided but recognizable. Shion watched her from the corner of his eye. She's trying so hard, he thought. For what? He wasn't used to this—someone seeking out his ideas, his presence. It felt… strange. Not bad, just… new.
The sun dipped lower, painting the sky in hues of pink and gold. Aika stretched her arms, her sleeve brushing against his. "This is fun," she said, her voice quiet, almost shy. "Working with you, I mean. You're… easy to be around."
Shion's breath hitched. He adjusted his glasses, searching for words. "I don't… say much."
Her smile was soft, her eyes catching the last of the sunlight. "That's what makes it nice. You don't fill the quiet with noise." She paused, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her notebook. "Sometimes I need that."
He glanced at her, caught by the flicker of something in her voice—something unguarded, like a crack in her usual brightness. He wanted to ask what she meant, but the moment passed, and she was smiling again, the vulnerability tucked away.
"Want to meet again tomorrow?" she asked, standing and brushing crumbs from her skirt. "We can visit the tea ceremony club. Maybe they'll let us borrow some tools."
"Sure," Shion said, his voice steady but his heart unsteady. He stood, slipping Kokoro into his bag. "Same time?"
"Yup!" Aika's smile was back, bright but softer now. "See you then, Yukimura-kun."
She waved and turned toward the station, her silhouette framed by the cherry blossoms, their petals glowing faintly under the streetlights. Shion watched her go, his gaze lingering longer than he meant. A petal rested on the bench, delicate and still. He picked it up, turning it over in his fingers before slipping it between the pages of his notebook—like a secret he wasn't ready to name.
Just for the project, he told himself, the words familiar but less convincing. As he walked home, the taste of red bean lingering on his tongue, the quiet didn't settle the same way. It felt… different.
As if someone had stepped inside it—and stayed.