The world had returned to its proper pace.
My steps, which had been so precise, so monastic for two years, now felt loose and buoyant, matching the casual, easy stride of the person walking beside me. Just weeks ago, I walked this same path, listening only to the lonely, rhythmic scuff of my shoes on the asphalt. I was a ghost tracing a memory, convinced that if I followed Jun's exact route, the universe might be tricked into correcting itself.
But this morning, there was no sound of solitude. There was only the simple, overlapping rhythm of two people moving together.
"You're walking too fast, Yui," Jun murmured, his voice a low, gentle rumble. He was looking at the old, moss-covered stone monument that marked the turn toward the station, a landmark I hadn't even consciously registered in years. "Do you find my company so boring that you have to rush off?"
"I am not!" I retorted, though I couldn't stop the small, traitorous smile from tugging at my lips. I tugged his hand, pulling him forward toward the ancient, rust-colored bridge that arched over the narrow river. "We have to hurry or we'll miss the express train! You're going to be late on your very first day back, you idiot!"
We were passing the small, quiet shrine nestled in a pocket of tall cedar trees. The air here was always cool, smelling of damp earth and wood-smoke. For twenty-four months, this spot had felt like a tomb—solemn and grey. Now, the sunlight, faint and diffuse through a heavy, cloudy sky, caught on the droplets clinging to the tips of the cedar needles, making the entire glade shimmer.
It was ridiculously bright, and I couldn't stop staring.
"What is it?" Jun asked, pausing to look where I was looking.
"I didn't know there was a place like this," I confessed, shaking my head. I had walked through a world of grey, and now that the world was real again, the colors were almost too sharp, too beautiful. "I forgot the leaves on that camphor tree turn this shade of gold. I forgot the river is this clear."
Jun didn't offer a heavy answer about denial or grief. He simply squeezed my hand, a gesture of quiet, perfect understanding.
"It's always there," he said, and his voice was the only philosophy I needed. "You just weren't looking at it before, Yui."
I could only shake my head, a small, genuine laugh escaping my lips. He was right. It's always there, but in my isolation, my mind had filtered it out, leaving behind only the cold, stone reality of his absence. Now, the light was almost blinding—a vibrant, perfect signal that the world had restarted its color palette.
We crossed the tiny wooden bridge that spanned the narrow, crystal-clear stream. The water rushing over the stones used to be a mocking sound of time passing; now, it was just the gentle, reliable noise of a small town waking up. I squeezed his hand, suddenly wanting to run, to pull him faster down this beautiful, restored path. But the simple, measured pace felt more precious than speed.
There was no need for conversation. The silence between us was no longer the heavy, suffocating weight I had guarded for two years. It was light, easy, and filled with the gentle, rhythmic music of our synchronized breathing and the occasional soft scrape of his sneaker against the pavement.
The train station was small, thankfully, a perk of living in a seaside town no one had ever heard of. Even during the morning rush, there were only a handful of familiar faces waiting. We found a quiet bench in the corner of the platform and settled down, our knees knocking together awkwardly.
The train was late. The gap in the schedule, which would have made me frantic just a week ago, was now a small gift.
Jun set down his backpack. The moment we settled, I instinctively shifted my weight. I leaned my head sideways and settled my cheek onto his shoulder.
His body was immediately, perfectly accommodating. His shoulder wasn't just a bone and muscle structure; it was my pillow, molded exactly to the curve of my head—a piece of custom-made furniture I didn't realize I was missing.
"You're going to fall asleep," he murmured, his breath stirring the hair over my ear.
"It's your fault," I mumbled into his jacket.
My eyes drifted shut. I felt Jun's weight shift as he lifted his arm and wrapped it around me, holding me securely against his side. The deep, heavy sigh he let out wasn't exhaustion; it was contentment.
A few minutes passed in this state of perfect suspension, until a soft pressure woke me.
Jun's hand was resting lightly against my cheek. His thumb stroked the curve of my jaw, a gentle, deliberate motion.
"Wake up, Yui," he murmured, his voice low enough not to disturb the few students nearby.
*
The last stretch of the walk, from the station to the school gate, was different. As the landscape changed from mossy shrine to manicured lawns, we became visible. We were a public spectacle now. The stares intensified: the curious glances of the commuter adults, the wide-eyed awe of the younger students, and the focused, confirming gazes of our own classmates.
I heard the whispers—the stunned "It's him" and the curious "They're holding hands"—but the noise was muffled, distant. All I could feel was the intense, warm pressure of Jun's palm against mine.
I registered the attention, but I didn't feel it. It was noise, a low hum of static. My entire focus had narrowed down to the three inches of space between our hips. The world had dissolved into only two elements: You and Me. As long as our hands were locked together, nothing else was real.
We finally reached the familiar main gate of our high school, and the bubble popped.
"I need to go to the Faculty Office first," Jun said, finally releasing my hand so he could adjust the strap of his old backpack. "Transfer paperwork. It shouldn't take more than thirty minutes, they said."
"Right," I replied, trying to sound casual, but the air instantly felt cold where his hand had been.
It was only thirty minutes. Thirty minutes until his first class, until the teacher led him in, until we were back in the same room. But the space opening between us—as he turned to walk toward the administration building and I turned toward the classroom wing—felt like a chasm.
My heart, which had just survived two years of the impossible, now panicked at a half-hour separation. I felt the sharp, ridiculous ache of a lover being left at an airport in a melodrama, complete with the slow-motion parting and the inevitable, crushing certainty of temporary loss.
What have I become? I thought, covering the absurd, dramatic pain with a quick, bright smile. I'm an idiot.
"See you in a bit, Jun," I called out.
"Later, Yui." He gave me a final, serious nod, and walked through the door.
I turned quickly and headed toward my classroom, ignoring the urge to look back, my heart already counting down the seconds until my world would feel complete again.