Summer arrived before anyone was ready for it.
The bell rang once, sharp and final, and just like that, the classroom lost its shape. Chairs scraped against the floor, voices overlapped, and the chalkboard—still half-covered in equations no one would ever solve—became irrelevant. Outside, the sunlight pressed against the windows as if it had been waiting all morning for permission to come in.
I closed my notebook slowly.
On the last page, I had written a single sentence during lunch break:
This feels like the beginning of something I won't notice ending.
I didn't know why I wrote it. I usually didn't write things like that.
"Hey, Aoi."
Mio leaned over from the seat in front of me, her ponytail swaying slightly as she smiled. She always smiled first, like it was a habit she'd never learned to break.
"You're spacing out again," she said. "You excited for summer or what?"
I hesitated. "I guess."
She laughed softly. "That's not an answer."
Before I could respond, Ren stretched his arms over his head from the window seat, letting out a long yawn. "Summer's just summer. Eat, sleep, hang out. Nothing special."
"That's exactly why it's special," Yuna said, slinging her bag over her shoulder. She stood near the door, sunlight catching in her hair. "You never appreciate it until it's gone."
Ren blinked. "That was weirdly deep. You okay?"
Yuna grinned too quickly. "I'm always okay."
No one questioned it.
We never did.
The cicadas were already loud outside, even though it was barely the first week of break. Their sound wrapped around us as we walked down the familiar street, four shadows stretched long across the pavement.
Our usual place was the old vending machine near the river—half-broken, sun-faded, and somehow always stocked with the same drinks. We sat on the low concrete wall beside it, feet dangling, watching the water move lazily below.
Mio bought a lemon soda and handed it to me before I could protest.
"You always forget to drink," she said.
"I don't forget," I replied. "I just don't notice."
She smiled again, softer this time.
Ren cracked open his can and leaned back on his hands. "So. What's everyone doing this summer?"
"Nothing," he added quickly. "And don't say 'studying.'"
Yuna kicked her legs back and forth. "I wanna go to the festival. All of them. Even the boring ones."
"There's no such thing as a boring festival," Mio said.
"That's because you romanticize everything."
Mio tilted her head. "Is that bad?"
Ren shrugged. "Not if it works."
They laughed. I watched them instead of joining in, committing the moment to memory—the way the sunlight reflected off the river, the rhythm of their voices, the warmth that came from being here, together.
It felt permanent.
That was the problem.
Later, as the sky softened into orange and gold, we lay on the grass near the riverbank. Someone had brought popsicles—no one remembered who—and they melted faster than we could eat them.
"This summer feels different," Mio said suddenly.
Ren glanced at her. "You say that every year."
"I know," she replied. "But this time I mean it."
Silence followed. Not awkward—just heavy.
Yuna stared up at the sky, her hands folded on her stomach. "Summer always feels shorter when you start counting it."
"Then don't count," Ren said.
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.
I turned my head slightly, watching a cloud drift past. "What if we don't notice when it ends?"
Mio looked at me then. Really looked at me. "Then we'll remember it anyway."
I wanted to believe that.
The cicadas cried louder, as if reminding us that time was already moving.
When we finally stood to leave, the sun was dipping low, painting everything in soft gold. Our shadows stretched long again, just like earlier—but this time, they pointed away from each other.
At the corner where we always split up, Yuna paused.
"Let's meet here tomorrow," she said. "Same time."
Ren nodded. "Obviously."
Mio smiled. "I'll bring snacks."
They looked at me.
"I'll bring my notebook," I said.
Yuna laughed. "Of course you will."
As they walked away, one by one, I stayed behind for a moment longer. The street was quiet now, cicadas echoing in the distance.
I opened my notebook again.
On a new page, I wrote:
Summer times are coming.
I didn't know yet that they were already leaving.