The silence of the Hanamura house was a meticulously preserved vacuum. After school, Yui was seated at her desk, ostensibly studying, but the rhythmic sound of her pencil against the paper felt like an intrusive, lonely alarm in the stillness.
Her room was a sanctuary of neatness, every surface controlled, every object placed with intent. Yet, there was one necessary flaw: a small, cedar-wood box tucked beneath a loose floorboard near her desk. Only Jun, who used to hide manga under that same board, knew it existed.
Tonight, she needed the box.
She pulled it out, the scent of dried wood and old paper filling the small, contained space. Inside lay the simple, cheap artifacts of their abandoned life: a brand-new, graphic T-shirt featuring a goofy cartoon mascot they both liked, and the birthday card she'd meticulously written two years prior.
Yui picked up the card. It was a standard, store-bought fold-out, but her words, penned in her neat, excited script from a life that felt like another person's, were devastating:
"To Jun! Happy 15th! This is the year we start saving for real, okay? I'm serious about that future apartment! Love you more than grilled fish! – Yui."
Her own handwriting felt like the cruel evidence of a stranger. The script was full of the bubbly, simple confidence of a girl who believed the future was a straight, inevitable line running right into his arms.
Her fingers trembled, crumpling the edge of the paper. A sound escaped her—a quiet, fractured thing that sounded precisely like shattered glass. She hadn't permitted herself this sound in over a year.
She sank onto the floor, pulling the T-shirt to her face, breathing in the sterile, new-cotton smell that had never been warmed by his body. The silence in the room became a physical weight, pressing the air out of her lungs, demanding a confession.
Fifteen. Jun is seventeen now. He's two years older than the eternal boy whose future I promised to share.
The thought was a spike of cold despair. Her careful maintenance of Jun-at-fifteen, the perfect figure of her memories, dissolved. He was supposed to be here, perpetually complaining about homework, trying to steal her fish, and laughing at the absurdity of their apartment savings plan.
The accumulated weight of seven hundred days—the exact duration of her meticulously maintained denial—finally achieved critical mass and slammed into her. The hope, the rituals, the Silent Princess act—it all felt like a fragile dam that had finally broken.
"You said you'd marry me," she whispered, her voice cracking, her eyes blurring the words on the card. "You promised! Why did you go, you idiot? I'm waiting! I'm still waiting here!"
It was the confession of a broken heart, a scream of abandonment and undying love all at once. For a few frantic minutes, the elaborate facade of The Silent Princess cracked, revealing only the shattered girl she had sealed away two years prior.
Then, the storm passed.
She took a slow, shuddering breath, the kind that tasted like defeat but ended in rigid resolve. Yui gently smoothed the creases from the card, placing it carefully back into the cedar box. She folded the new T-shirt with the same meticulous precision she used on her school uniform.
She was not defeated. She was just... reset.
I know you're fighting. She stood, her face damp but resolute. I will not be the one who gives up our future.
Her love was no longer a sweet memory; it was a defiant, desperate engine of existence, fueled by the sheer force of her unwillingness to concede. If her unwavering belief was the only thing standing against the reality of the cold, vast sea, then she would hold it, even if it meant breaking herself every single night.
The floorboard was pushed back into place. The room was silent once more. The Silent Princess was back on duty.