Days turned into weeks.
Classes went on, laughter filled the hallways —
but Aiyumi's world felt quieter than ever.
She still smiled, still talked, still laughed with her friends…
but her eyes no longer sparkled like before.
There was always a pause before every smile,
a hesitation before every "I'm okay."
At lunch, she would glance at the other side of the canteen —
where Ren sat surrounded by his classmates.
He laughed, teased, acted like nothing ever happened.
But every time their eyes almost met,
he looked away first.
She pretended not to notice.
He pretended not to care.
That distance — the one between two tables, two classes, two lives —
felt like a thousand miles.
At night, she'd open her sketchbook again,
flipping through pages filled with happier memories.
Every drawing had him in it —
somewhere, smiling beside her.
Now, when she tried to draw, her hand stopped midway.
The lines didn't flow anymore.
Even art — the thing she loved most —
felt heavy.
Ren saw her sometimes in the corridor.
Hair tied loose, eyes tired, shoulders low.
He wanted to say something —
anything.
But the words stuck in his throat.
"She looks fine," he lied to himself,
even though his chest ached every time she forced a smile.
He'd wait until she walked past,
then quietly turn to watch her fade down the hallway.
Unseen. Unheard.
Still there.
💭 Two hearts, still connected by silence.
Both missing each other —
neither brave enough to admit it.