The hallway felt longer than usual.
Jirō Satō walked beside Akari Watanabe in silence, the faint echo of their footsteps bouncing off the polished school floor. Students passed them in pairs and groups, their voices overlapping in careless laughter, but none of it reached Jirō properly. His mind was still stuck somewhere behind—at the evaluation board, at the rankings, at the choice he had made.
Or rather, the choice he had not made.
Akari walked half a step ahead of him, her posture relaxed, her expression bright enough to fool anyone who looked at her for more than a second. She talked about nothing in particular—something about lunch plans, something about how annoying the teachers were—but Jirō noticed the way her voice rose just a bit too much, the way she didn't once look back at him.
Normally, she would.
When they reached the apartment building, Akari unlocked the door first and stepped inside, tossing her bag onto the couch like always. Everything looked the same. The same neat living room, the same kitchen that still smelled faintly of the dinner they had cooked together the night before, the same framed notice reminding them of the marriage practical rules.
Yet something was different.
Jirō felt it the moment he stepped in.
"I'm gonna change," Akari said quickly, already walking toward the bedroom. "School uniform's starting to feel like a prison."
She laughed—but the sound ended too fast.
The bedroom door closed softly behind her.
Jirō stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do next. Usually, this was the part where things flowed naturally. Akari would call out to him, tease him, complain about something small. He would respond awkwardly, and somehow, they'd end up talking while cooking or watching TV.
Today, the silence stayed.
He moved to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water, staring at his reflection in the metal sink. His face looked the same—average, plain, unreadable. Yet his chest felt tight, like something heavy was sitting there without permission.
This is fine, he told himself.
Nothing's changed.
But that wasn't true.
Something had changed—ever since the final evaluation, ever since Akari had stood there with that smile on her face, telling everyone she was okay with the result.
Jirō took a sip of water and winced when it tasted sharper than he expected.
A few minutes later, Akari came back out wearing casual clothes—an oversized hoodie and shorts, her hair tied loosely behind her head. She looked comfortable. Familiar. Like home.
"Hey," she said, flopping onto the couch. "You hungry?"
"Uh—yeah," Jirō replied. "I can cook if you want."
Akari blinked, then smiled. "Sure. You've been getting better lately."
The compliment should have made him feel good. Instead, it made his chest ache in a way he didn't understand.
As he prepared ingredients, he kept stealing glances at her. She sat scrolling through her phone, legs tucked beneath her, expression calm. Too calm.
Normally, she'd be watching him, commenting on everything he did wrong.
Dinner passed quietly. Not awkward—just… restrained. They talked about classes, about an upcoming assignment, about nothing that actually mattered. When they finished eating, Akari stood up and stretched.
"I'll clean up later," she said. "I'm kinda tired."
"Oh. Okay," Jirō said quickly. "I'll—uh—I'll do the dishes."
She paused for half a second, then nodded. "Thanks."
That pause stayed with him long after she disappeared into the bedroom again.
That night, Jirō lay awake longer than he wanted to admit.
Akari slept beside him, facing the other direction. The space between them felt wider than usual—not physically, but emotionally. He stared at the ceiling, replaying moments from the past weeks.
Her laughter when she thought he wasn't looking.
The way she'd held onto his sleeve when she was nervous.
The warmth of her presence that had slowly become something he depended on.
Why does it feel like I'm losing something… when nothing actually ended?
He turned slightly, careful not to wake her. Moonlight filtered through the curtains, outlining her silhouette. She looked peaceful, but there was a faint tension in her shoulders, like she was holding something in even while asleep.
Jirō swallowed.
He wanted to say something. Anything.
But the words didn't come.
The next day at school, the atmosphere felt heavier.
Whispers followed them as they walked through the corridor. Jirō caught fragments of conversation.
"They didn't switch partners, right?"
"I thought she was gonna go with Tenjin."
"Guess it was just for show."
Jirō clenched his fists.
During lunch, Akari sat with her friends, laughing easily. Too easily. Jirō sat a few seats away, poking at his food while pretending not to watch her.
That's when Tenjin Minami walked over.
Akari looked up, surprised—but not uncomfortable.
They talked. Just casually. Tenjin smiled, his usual gentle expression unchanged. Akari smiled back.
Something twisted sharply in Jirō's chest.
Why do I care? he thought. She can talk to whoever she wants.
And yet, he couldn't look away.
When Akari glanced in his direction, their eyes met for just a moment. Her smile faltered—only slightly—before she turned back to Tenjin.
That hurt more than it should have.
Later that afternoon, Akari found Jirō on the rooftop.
He was leaning against the fence, staring at the sky like he often did when he didn't know how to process his thoughts.
"Skipping club?" she asked lightly.
He shrugged. "Just needed air."
She walked closer, stopping a few steps away. The wind tugged gently at her hair.
"You've been quiet," she said.
"So have you," he replied before he could stop himself.
She blinked, then laughed softly. "Guess we're even."
The silence stretched.
Akari looked at the city beyond the school grounds, her expression thoughtful. "You know," she said slowly, "it's kinda funny."
"What is?"
"How we tried so hard not to mess things up… and now everything feels weird anyway."
Jirō's breath caught.
"I'm not saying it's bad," she added quickly. "Just… different."
He wanted to tell her that different scared him. That the idea of things going back to how they were before terrified him more than any evaluation ever could.
But instead, he said, "Yeah."
Akari nodded, as if she'd expected that answer.
"Well," she said, turning away, "we should probably head back soon."
She started walking, then paused.
"Jirō?"
"Yeah?"
She hesitated, fingers curling slightly at her side. "We're still partners. Right?"
He answered without thinking. "Of course."
She smiled—but it didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Good."
She walked away.
Jirō stood there long after she disappeared down the stairs, the weight in his chest growing heavier by the second.
For the first time since the marriage practical began, a thought crossed his mind—clear, terrifying, and impossible to ignore.
What if staying the same… is how I lose her?
End