The library was fuller than usual. The hum of pens against paper, the rustle of pages, the occasional cough — it all blurred together into a steady rhythm.
Ryuzí sat hunched over his desk, textbooks spread in careful stacks, his pen moving in precise strokes. His expression was calm, focused — but his mind wasn't.
Across the room, in another aisle, Suki sat at a separate table, his sisters' voices in his head scolding him to take this seriously. His notebook was filled with half-scribbled notes and doodles in the margins. Every few minutes, his head would snap up instinctively, searching.
But Ryuzí wasn't there beside him.
And the space between them felt louder than the quiet room itself.
They'd both agreed — exams mattered. They couldn't spend every afternoon together, not right now.
But the absence stung.
Ryuzí's rooftop lunches were silent again, his bento untouched as he stared at the city below. He told himself the quiet was useful, that he could think better this way.
Yet every time he reached for a pencil, he half-expected Suki to steal it. Every time he solved a problem, he half-expected a voice to cheer, "Honey, you're amazing!"
The silence pressed heavier with each passing day.
Suki wasn't doing much better.
At home, he sat at the dining table surrounded by open books, his sisters hovering like hawks.
"Focus," Emi said, tapping his notes. "You'll regret it if you don't.""Don't doodle," Hana added firmly."Ryuzí's not here to save you this time," Rika teased.
Suki pouted, twirling his pencil. "I'm trying."
But the words blurred on the page. His eyes drifted to his phone, lying face-up beside his notebook. No new messages.
He sighed, slumping over his notes. "…I miss him."
His sisters exchanged glances but said nothing.
At school, their interactions were brief, stolen between classes.
"Morning," Suki whispered as he slid into his seat, offering a small smile.
"…Morning," Ryuzí replied softly, his eyes flicking to him for a moment before returning to his notes.
No teasing. No dramatic greetings. Just quiet, careful exchanges that left both aching.
Suki tapped his pencil against the desk, staring at the side of Ryuzí's face. "…I hate this."
Ryuzí's pen didn't stop moving. "…Me too."
That night, Ryuzí sat at his desk, lamplight pooling over his notes. His head ached from formulas, his eyes blurry from too many words. He reached for his phone before he realized what he was doing.
A message blinked on the screen.
"Don't forget to eat, honey. You're probably skipping dinner again."
Ryuzí's chest tightened. He typed back quickly.
"I ate. You?"
The reply came seconds later. "Cup ramen. Emi says I'll fail if I don't stop doodling. Save me."
Ryuzí's lips twitched faintly. "Id—" He stopped, deleting it. Instead, he typed: "You'll be fine. Focus."
Suki sent back a crying emoji, followed by: "Fine. But only if you promise to dream about me tonight."
Ryuzí groaned, tossing the phone onto the bed. But his heart beat steadier. The silence wasn't quite as heavy.
Days passed in that strange rhythm.
Ryuzí buried himself in notes and problem sets, but every time his phone buzzed with a short, silly message, the tension in his chest eased.
Suki struggled through late-night cramming, but every time Ryuzí's blunt "Stop whining. You can do it" flashed across his screen, his grin returned.
They couldn't be together, not the way they wanted. But they still found each other in the small spaces — in texts, in quick glances, in soft smiles when no one was watching.
One evening, Suki sat on his bed, hugging the pink rabbit plush Ryuzí had won for him. His phone buzzed.
"Good luck tomorrow. I'll be waiting on the roof after exams."
Suki's throat tightened. His grin bloomed, warm and bright. He hugged the plush tighter.
"…Can't wait, honey," he whispered to the quiet room.
And in his own house, Ryuzí stared at the ceiling, his chest aching with a strange, tender anticipation.
I can't wait either.