The simple act of holding his hand was no longer a secret. It was a physical, public declaration, and I reveled in the consequence.
As I led Jun away from the clamor of the main building, our intertwined hands—my small, cool fingers laced tightly through his large, warm ones—attracted every gaze in the courtyard. I felt the familiar burn of whispers and stares, but today, they were fundamentally different. They were no longer the stares of pity, but of confirmation. Yes, he is real. Yes, she was right. I didn't shrink from them; I squeezed Jun's hand harder, pulling him along with an almost aggressive affection. Every curious glance was a witness to my victory.
"Your high school is... loud," Jun commented, glancing over his shoulder at a cluster of girls who didn't even bother to look away. He sounded slightly overwhelmed, but quickly masked it with a light curiosity, turning his focus entirely to me. "Is this what your life has been like, Yui? Always attracting a crowd?"
He was trying to make it a casual joke, but the subtext was there, heavy and cold, like the sea mist.
"You're the one attracting the crowd, idiot," I countered, tugging him around a corner. "The myth boy is here. The one who came back."
He sighed, his shoulders hunching slightly, and his voice dropped. "I'm sorry, Yui. You had to deal with... this." He motioned vaguely at the sea of students. The guilt was always there now, a quiet anchor tethering his rediscovered love to his lost memory.
I don't care about the past, I thought fiercely, looking up at his profile. As long as you are by my side.
"Don't talk nonsense," I scolded, the sharpness in my voice only for him. "My life was just quiet... but I guess I prefer the noise you cause."
We finally reached the edge of the athletic field. Here, a low, smooth granite bench sat beneath a massive, old Camphor Tree. It was spectacular, its vast, dark-green canopy casting a sanctuary of deep, dappled shade over the bench and the wild grass around it. The air was quieter here, smelling of dry leaves and the faint, fresh scent of cut grass from the field. It was far from the chaos, yet perfectly visible from the gym and the main walkway—the ideal spot for my public domesticity.
I carefully set my bag down and began to unpack the treasures I had spent the previous evening preparing. Even seated, I could still feel the ambient pressure of the onlookers. A few boys were kicking a soccer ball on the distant field, occasionally glancing our way, and two students near the bleachers were openly staring.
I didn't care. The sight of Jun sitting beside me, waiting patiently, was the only thing that mattered.
I unwrapped the two bentos. The containers were identical, but the contents were a mirror of my devotion: rice balls pressed into perfect, delicate shapes, tiny, colorful vegetable garnishes, and the absolute centerpiece.
Jun leaned over, his eyes widening. "Oh, look at that. You even included my favorite tamagoyaki. I'm impressed, Yui-chan. You've really leveled up your housewife skills."
He then spotted a small piece of dark, glossy fish wrapped neatly in shiso leaf. His brow furrowed in mock disbelief.
"But Yui-chan," he teased, a playful light in his eyes, "a beautiful high school girl shouldn't eat stinky grilled fish in public. It totally ruins your image. Think of the smell!"
The joke was stupid, cliché, and perfectly, devastatingly Jun.
That comment—the exact one he used to make in middle school when I'd pack the same item—hit me with the force of an oncoming wave. It wasn't the food he was teasing; it was the memory. The familiar, easy banter, the subtle push-and-pull, the feeling of absolute certainty that I was the only person in the world who understood his low-effort teasing. The dam of two years of suppressed hope didn't just break; it completely dissolved, replaced by a pure, blinding light of happiness.
He's here. He is actually here. He is sitting right in front of me, saying the exact same silly thing, after I thought I'd lost this moment forever.
"Shut up and eat, idiot," I retorted, my voice coming out slightly rougher than intended. But I couldn't stop the smile that spread across my face—an unguarded, soft smile that only he was allowed to see. "The fish is for me, not you. I earned it."
We ate in a state of perfect, domestic bliss. We talked about nothing important—a boring history test, the ridiculously high price of convenience store desserts, the way the sunlight hit the grass. It was precisely the kind of tedious, effortless existence I had starved for.
A cool, sudden breeze rustled through the massive tree, scattering a few yellowing leaves onto the bench and across my hair. I paused, watching a stray leaf settle right against my cheek.
Jun reached out, his movements slow and deliberate. His fingertips brushed my temple as he gently picked the leaf out of my dark hair. He held the small, amber piece of the camphor tree between his thumb and index finger, his eyes warm and serious.
"This is a good place for lunch, Yui," he murmured, his gaze falling to our bentos and then back to my face. "It's quiet, but it's still... ours. Shall we eat it here from now on?"
His hand, which had been holding the leaf, settled tenderly against my cheek. It wasn't just an offer for a place to eat; it was a promise to permanently end my solitary meals. It was a quiet vow to never let me return to the cold solitude of the last two years.
My breath hitched. I leaned into his palm, feeling the soft warmth of his skin against my own. I brought my hand up to cover his, holding it captive on my cheek.
"It's a promise, then," I replied, my voice thick with the solemnity of the new contract.