Monday afternoon hung heavy like an untold secret. The classroom had returned to its usual rhythm — chalk scratching against the board, the soft hum of ceiling fans, and the shuffle of notebooks — but beneath it all, something in the air had shifted. It wasn't the same class 2A that everyone knew.
Akio sat by the window, staring outside, his expression unreadable. The light slanted across his face, soft but cold. He barely said a word since the first bell rang. Not to me. Not to Hinata. Not even to Asahi.
Hinata, on the other hand, looked… calmer than she had in days. The way she smiled at Asahi as they exchanged quiet whispers by the window — it was almost peaceful. She still carried the remnants of tension in her shoulders, but there was warmth returning to her eyes.
I noticed it all. Every stolen glance. Every half-smile. Every time Akio's gaze flickered in Hinata's direction, only for him to quickly look away. I could feel the air vibrating between them, invisible but powerful — like an unspoken argument that none of them could bring themselves to voice.
Minato leaned closer to my seat, whispering softly.
Minato: You okay?
I turned and managed a smile — a genuine one this time.
Kiyomi: Yeah (I whispered back). Just… thinking.
He chuckled under his breath.
Minato: You're always thinking.
I looked at him and realized — his face wasn't pale anymore. His usual softness had returned. The dark circles under his eyes had faded, replaced by a light I hadn't seen in a while. He looked… alive again.
And for the first time in days, I felt comfort settle in my chest. The love between us had grown quietly — not through grand gestures, but through every shared look, every wordless understanding.
When Mr. Nakahara walked in for English class, the whole room straightened up, but the tension didn't fade. It only changed shape — now masked under quiet obedience.
Mr. Nakahara: Alright, class (He began, placing his notebook on the desk). Today, we'll be discussing themes of silence and conflict in literature. Turn to page—
Akio's pen dropped. The sound was small, but everyone turned toward it. He didn't apologize. He didn't even look up. His jaw tightened, and his fingers drummed once against the table before going still.
Hinata's eyes lingered on him for a moment — and then shifted back to Asahi, who subtly placed his hand near hers on the desk, not touching but close enough that she felt it.
And in that small distance between them, something stirred — something both fragile and forbidden.
I saw it too. My gaze flicked between them, then to Akio.
The pain in his eyes wasn't loud.
It was quiet, buried deep beneath his usual calm. But I could see it — that flicker of jealousy, of loss, of something he couldn't admit.
When the bell finally rang, it was like the air exhaled.
Asahi and Hinata left together, their conversation hushed but bright. Minato and I followed, our hands brushing as we walked down the hallway — fingers nearly touching, hearts moving in sync.
Akio stayed behind. Alone.
He stared at our empty seats. The laughter echoing down the hall sounded far away — almost like it belonged to another world entirely.
He leaned back, closing his eyes. His heart beat softly, painfully slow, like it was caught between remembering and forgetting.
The distance between heartbeats had never felt so real.