Kenta Morishima never walks anywhere; he drifts.
Ren spots him halfway through the walk to school—hood up, earbuds in, balancing a can of soda on the strap of his backpack like it's part of the uniform. He doesn't bother with a greeting. Kenta just grins and falls into step.
"You're up early," Ren says.
"I'm always up early," Kenta answers, opening the soda with a hiss. "Just not outside this early."
They cross the small bridge by the river. The wind pushes the surface into soft ripples; cherry petals skate on top like tiny boats with nowhere to go.
Kenta leans on the railing. "So, how's the patient?"
Ren blinks. "Who?"
Kenta rolls his eyes. "The sprinter you've been orbiting all week. Kisaragi, right? I heard she went down mid-lap."
Ren exhales. "She's fine. Just strained."
"That's all?" Kenta smirks. "You've been looking like a guy watching a ghost. Figured there was more to it."
"There isn't." Ren starts walking again.
Kenta keeps pace. "Right. Just physiotherapy. The smile on your face last night was probably from bandage quality appreciation."
Ren shoots him a look. "You texted me about the tape."
"Yeah, but you replied like you'd just finished a haiku. Don't pretend it's normal for you to sound… alive."
Ren doesn't argue. The path curves toward the school; the cherry trees ahead are shedding faster now, petals swirling around their feet. For a moment it looks like they're walking through snow.
Kenta lowers his voice. "You like her."
Ren stops. "It's not—" He rubs a hand over his neck. "It's not that simple."
"It never is. That's the fun part."
"Not for her," Ren says. "She's scared of stopping. I get it."
Kenta tilts his head. "So you're her mirror?"
"Maybe just the reminder she doesn't want."
The wind lifts again, scattering petals between them. Kenta watches Ren for a long moment, then nods. "You sound like Coach."
Ren's mouth twitches. "That's not a compliment."
"Depends on the day," Kenta says. "But seriously—don't overthink it. You're helping her walk again, not dragging her back into the race."
Ren looks out across the field beyond the gate. "Sometimes I can't tell the difference."
By lunch, the corridors hum with weekend stories. Aoi's name drifts through them—something about a cat café, a group photo, her smile brighter than usual. Ren hears it, pretends not to.
He's eating with Kenta behind the gym, the quiet side where the vending machines hide. The air smells like grass and chalk.
Kenta nudges him with a chopstick. "You going to tell her you used to run?"
"She didn't ask."
"Not yet."
Ren chews slowly. "If I tell her, she'll look at me differently."
"Yeah. Like a person."
Ren shakes his head. "No. Like someone she's supposed to learn from. That's not what I want."
Kenta studies him for a moment, then says, "You don't have to be her coach. Just don't lie about who you were."
Ren leans back against the wall. "That part of me isn't gone, but it's not something I'm proud of."
"What happened?"
Ren's voice lowers, flat. "Regional qualifiers. Elementary. I lost. My dad trained me like a soldier. When I fell short, he stopped calling it training."
Kenta doesn't reply for a while. The vending machine hum fills the silence.
"Still running for him?" he finally asks.
"No." Ren's eyes drift to the sky. "That's the problem. I stopped running for anyone, even myself."
Kenta flicks his empty chopstick wrapper at him. "Then maybe she's your reminder too."
Ren blinks.
"She's scared of running without purpose, right? You're scared of running with it again. Sounds like balance to me."
Ren actually laughs—a short, quiet sound, half disbelief. "You should write fortune cookies."
Kenta grins. "Maybe I will. First one's free: Stop pretending you don't care. Everyone else already knows you do."
Ren shakes his head but doesn't deny it.
That evening, Ren walks home slower than usual. He passes the park where they met the gray cat; it's curled under the bench again, half-asleep. He stops to look at it, the wind tugging softly at his jacket.
He thinks of Aoi's voice from yesterday: You should learn to relax.
And his own reply: You first.
He smiles at the echo.
The cat opens one eye, unimpressed.
"Yeah," Ren murmurs. "You're right. I'm bad at it."
He sits on the bench anyway, just for a minute. No stopwatch. No clipboard. Just the wind, the trees, and the faint sound of the world moving without him.
For the first time, he doesn't rush to catch up.