Monday arrived with a chill in the air, as if the world had heard the quiet promise of a farewell and decided to mourn early.
Izumi Ichikawa stood by the school gates, his bag slung over one shoulder, watching the trickle of students enter through the arch. Normally, he arrived right before class began, slipping in with barely a second to spare, unnoticed. But today, he was early. He had waited—because she asked him to.
Ayato Yamada appeared at the corner, dressed in the same navy blazer and pleated skirt as always. Yet to Izumi, she looked different—perhaps it was the way her eyes locked onto his the moment she saw him. Or the way her footsteps sped up, despite her heavy bag.
"You came early," she said, smiling as she approached.
"You asked me to," he replied simply.
"Still… it makes me happy."
They walked together into the school, brushing shoulders occasionally but saying little. The air between them was no longer filled with the awkwardness of before. It was something else now. Something delicate and transparent—like a thread connecting them that neither wanted to tug on too hard, in case it snapped.
As they reached their lockers, Ayato broke the silence.
"I told my mom I want to spend this week my way. With you. My friends. Our school."
Izumi looked at her, unsure how to respond.
She added with a sheepish smile, "She agreed. So… I'm yours this week. Don't waste it."
Izumi felt his ears grow hot.
He nodded.
Class began as usual, with the homeroom teacher rambling about upcoming exams and spring cleaning duties. Ayato sat two rows over, occasionally glancing at him. Izumi tried to focus on the board, but her presence made everything blur.
At lunch, their friend Yuu Tanaka invited Ayato to the usual group lunch under the tree in the courtyard. She hesitated and glanced at Izumi.
He gave a small nod.
She smiled. "I'll join you later."
As the group left, Ayato walked over to Izumi's desk and leaned down.
"Wanna eat on the roof again?"
Izumi blinked. "Won't they notice you're gone?"
"I'm leaving soon, remember?" she said, tapping her forehead. "Might as well build memories."
So they headed to the rooftop, their usual place. The breeze was stronger today, whipping at their hair and clothes as the sun peeked through thick clouds. They sat close, shielding their lunchboxes from the wind.
Ayato opened hers and held up a small, oddly shaped rice ball.
"Don't laugh," she said, "I made these myself."
Izumi stared at it. "It's… uniquely shaped."
She narrowed her eyes. "You're this close to losing your share."
"I'm kidding," he said quickly, taking one. "Thank you."
They ate slowly, sharing bites and sips of tea, occasionally pointing out clouds shaped like animals.
Midway through the meal, Ayato went quiet.
Izumi looked at her. "What is it?"
She shook her head, then said, "Do you think we'll still talk after I move?"
He froze. That question again. The one he didn't have an answer to. Not one that didn't feel like a lie.
"I'll try," he said.
She stared at the sky. "You know what I fear most?"
"What?"
"That you'll forget me. Not out of malice. But because that's how time works."
Izumi swallowed.
"I won't," he said.
Ayato looked at him, green eyes searching his face for any sign of doubt. She didn't find any.
"I won't forget you either," she said softly. "Even if you do become some hot college guy who forgets his dorky high school friend."
"You're not dorky," Izumi said, a little too fast.
She grinned. "You think I'm hot?"
"I didn't say that—!"
"You kinda did."
His face turned bright red, and she laughed, the sound echoing into the sky.
When the bell rang signaling lunch was over, they packed up slowly.
Before leaving, Ayato said, "Tomorrow, let's walk home again. Just like the first time."
Izumi nodded. "Okay."
As they descended the stairs, she reached out and briefly grabbed his sleeve. Just for a second.
And just like that, he knew—
This was going to be the hardest week of his life.
The sun dipped low into the sky, painting everything in gold by the time the final bell rang. Students poured out of the classrooms like river water escaping a dam. Izumi, however, remained at his desk, deliberately slow in packing up his things. He knew Ayato would wait. She always did.
When he stepped out into the hallway, she was already there—leaning against the lockers, tapping her foot lightly, her white hair catching the dying light like fresh snow.
"Took you long enough," she teased.
"Blame the teacher. He asked me to stay back to hand out papers."
"Likely story," she said with a smirk, then turned toward the exit. "Shall we?"
They walked together, side by side, through the back gate of the school. The familiar route home was quiet, the streets lined with blooming sakura trees. Their petals danced in the wind like soft pink confetti, some catching in Ayato's hair.
Izumi noticed, but didn't say anything at first. Then, without thinking, he reached out and gently plucked one from her bangs.
She blinked. "You okay?"
He nodded, embarrassed by his sudden boldness. "Sakura petal. It was stuck."
"Oh," she said, her cheeks flushing. "Thanks."
They kept walking.
The street turned into a narrow path beside the river. This was the same path they had taken the first time they ever walked home together, back when everything had started. Back when Ayato had confessed her love for anime, and Izumi had reluctantly let someone into his quiet world.
"I've been thinking," Ayato said, staring at the water. "About that first walk."
"Me too."
"I was really nervous that day. I wasn't sure if you'd find me annoying or weird."
"I thought you were weird," he said honestly. "But… the good kind."
She laughed. "I'll take that as a compliment."
They stopped by a small bench under a cherry tree. Ayato sat down first, brushing aside fallen petals. Izumi hesitated, then joined her. Their shoulders touched, but neither pulled away.
"I'll miss this," she said. "This bench. This river. These walks."
"I'll miss them too."
There was a silence then—not awkward, not heavy—just full of things unsaid.
Ayato broke it. "Can I ask you something personal?"
"Sure."
"Why did you never tell me how you felt? Back when I confessed, I thought maybe… maybe you didn't feel the same."
Izumi stared at the river, watching the way the current bent the reflection of the sky.
"I didn't know how to say it," he admitted. "I've always been the kind of person who keeps things inside. Not because I want to. Just because… it feels safer."
She nodded slowly.
"But when I'm with you," he continued, "it's different. You make me want to say things. Do things. Be someone who isn't just hiding in his own head."
Ayato looked at him, eyes wide.
"I liked you even before I realized it," he added quietly. "Maybe even from the first walk."
Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them back and smiled.
"Thank you," she whispered. "That means more to me than you know."
They sat for a while, watching the world move around them.
A pair of children ran past, laughing as they chased each other with wooden swords. A cat darted between the fence rails, vanishing into someone's backyard. The sky slowly shifted from gold to lavender.
Ayato stood up, brushing her skirt. "Come on. I'll walk you the rest of the way today."
Izumi raised an eyebrow. "You're walking me?"
"It's your turn to be the one sent off," she said with a wink.
They walked the rest of the way in quiet comfort, not needing to fill the space with words. When they reached Izumi's house, they stood by the gate for a moment, not wanting to break the moment.
"Good night," Ayato said.
"See you tomorrow?"
"Always," she said, echoing his promise from the rooftop.
Izumi hesitated, then said, "Hey… Ayato?"
She turned.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small folded paper.
"It's nothing big. Just… something I wanted to give you."
She took it carefully and unfolded it.
Inside was a simple drawing of two figures—her and him—sitting under a cherry tree.
"You drew this?"
The following days blurred together like a watercolor painting left out in the rain—soft, beautiful, and slightly fragile.
Each morning, Ayato greeted Izumi at the school gate. Each lunch, they ate together—sometimes on the rooftop, sometimes in the quiet corner of the library. Each afternoon, they walked home beside each other, conversations drifting between shared memories and their usual teasing banter. Every moment felt heavy with a strange urgency, like they were trying to trap time in a bottle.
But no matter how tightly Izumi clutched those moments in his chest, the days kept passing.
Now it was Friday. The last school day Ayato would ever spend here.
As usual, she waited for him at the gate. But today, she didn't smile. Not right away.
"You're late," she said.
"I brought something," he replied, holding up a convenience store bag. "Thought we could eat together one last time. Under the sakura."
Her eyes brightened. "You're full of surprises this week."
They skipped the usual lunch spot and headed toward the quiet garden behind the school. It was mostly unused—a place where third-years sometimes came to nap or couples whispered secrets under the wisteria.
They settled under a cherry tree in full bloom, petals falling like snow onto their lap.
Izumi pulled out the contents of the bag: two onigiri, a bottle of tea, and a tiny slice of strawberry cake.
"It's not much, but…"
"It's perfect," she said, already reaching for a rice ball.
They ate slowly, not because of the food, but because they were both delaying the inevitable. The moment the bell rang after lunch, Ayato would have to go home early. Her mother had arranged a farewell dinner. And tomorrow, she would move.
"I always thought," Ayato began, breaking the silence, "that high school would be a blur. Just something I had to survive."
Izumi looked at her. She stared straight ahead, at the pond shimmering in the sun.
"But I met you," she continued. "And suddenly, every day felt worth remembering."
Izumi lowered his tea bottle, heart tightening.
"I never thanked you," she said. "For listening. For laughing. For just… being there."
"You don't have to," he replied.
"I want to."
She turned to him, eyes glistening.
"You changed me, Izumi."
He felt his throat go dry.
"I wasn't trying to," he murmured.
"That's why it mattered."
There was a long pause.
Finally, Ayato reached into her bag and pulled out a small envelope. She handed it to him.
"A letter?"
"I wrote it two weeks ago. I was scared. I didn't know if I'd have the courage to say things out loud. But now… I want you to read it after I leave. Not before."
He took it gently, his hands trembling just slightly.
She stood up and brushed her skirt, the wind tugging at her white hair. "We should head back."
Izumi stood too, the letter still clutched in his hand.
As they walked back to the building, Ayato suddenly stopped. "Wait."
He turned.
"I want to remember your face."
She stared at him for a long second, then stepped closer.
Her hand reached out and touched his cheek—lightly, softly. As if memorizing it.
"I'll miss you," she whispered.
And then, she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.
Izumi froze, his heart hammering.
When he opened his eyes, Ayato was already walking ahead, her voice teasing, "Come on, introvert-kun. We'll be late."
He followed, hand still to his cheek, the warmth lingering like sunlight.
When the final bell rang that day, Ayato was already gone. Her locker was empty. Her desk, too.
Izumi walked home alone for the first time in weeks. The cherry blossoms still danced in the wind, but now they seemed quieter, lonelier.
That night, in the silence of his room, Izumi opened the envelope.
Inside was a letter written in Ayato's looping handwriting:
> "Izumi,
I'm not good at goodbyes, so I'll just say thank you. You were the calm in my storm, the quiet voice that told me it was okay to be myself. You taught me that even the quietest people have the loudest hearts.
I know life will move on. We'll make new friends, face new fears. But in some corner of my mind—some sacred, safe place—you'll always be sitting beside me, under cherry blossoms, with awkward silences and anime debates.
Maybe one day, our paths will cross again. Maybe you'll be braver. Maybe I will be, too.
Until then, don't change too much. I like the Izumi I met. The Izumi I love.
Always, Ayato."
Izumi stared at the paper for a long time, the weight of each word sinking into him like rain into soil.
He folded the letter, placed it carefully in a drawer, and whispered into the quiet—
"I love you too."
He nodded. "I'm not great, but… I wanted you to have something to remember."
Ayato's hands trembled slightly as she held the drawing.
"I love it," she said. "Thank you."
And then, with one last glance, she turned and walked away, the picture pressed close to her chest.
Izumi watched until she disappeared around the corner.
The wind picked up again, scattering the petals in her wake.