The following weeks felt strangely calm for Ren.
He had a girlfriend now — Miyu. She was older, confident, and nothing like the girls in his class. Dating her made him feel more mature somehow, like he was stepping into a new version of himself.
They often met after school near the art room, where she'd stay to finish her sketches. She'd talk about her plans for college, her part-time job, the things she wanted to do after graduation. Ren would listen, nodding along, sometimes laughing at her dry humor.
It was easy being with her.
Too easy, maybe.
But somewhere in that ease, there was also emptiness.
Miyu didn't ask too many questions, and Ren didn't offer too many answers. It was peaceful — maybe too peaceful — like two people floating through something that looked like love but didn't feel like it all the way through.
He liked her. He really did. But every time her hand brushed his, he couldn't help but think about the warmth of another hand — smaller, clumsier, familiar.
He hated himself for it.
---
Aoi, meanwhile, tried her best to be happy.
Kaito was kind — almost too kind. He always texted good morning, waited for her after class, carried her bag when she looked tired.
He treated her like she was something fragile, something to be protected.
And at first, it was nice. Comforting, even.
But after a while, she began to notice little things — how his laughter didn't make her heart race the way Ren's quiet glances used to. How every compliment felt like a bandage, not a cure.
One afternoon, Kaito surprised her with a small gift — a cat keychain, because he remembered her love for animals.
Aoi smiled, accepted it, and thanked him sincerely. But as soon as she got home, she placed it beside the small notebook where she'd once written all her thoughts about Ren — the one she'd sworn she wouldn't open again.
That night, she opened it.
Her handwriting was uneven, the words messy.
"I think I like him."
"He never looks at me the way I want him to."
"Maybe I'm not enough."
She closed it quickly and pressed her face into her pillow.
She had Kaito now.
She should be happy.
So why did it still hurt so much?
---
At school, things between the three of them turned quiet.
Ren and Aoi barely spoke anymore. Not out of anger, but because every word between them now carried weight. The kind that could crack something if they weren't careful.
Kaito, oblivious to the silent storm brewing, would sometimes wave at Ren in the hallway, chatting happily about Aoi — about how he thought she was opening up, how cute she looked when she smiled.
Ren always smiled back. "That's good, man."
Every time he said it, it felt like swallowing glass.
Miyu noticed, of course.
"You're distracted again," she said one evening as they sat outside the convenience store, sharing canned coffee.
Ren looked up. "Sorry, just tired."
"Hmm." She took a sip and studied him for a moment. "You don't talk much about your friends."
"There's not much to say."
"That's a lie," she said softly, not unkindly.
Ren looked at her, unsure what to say.
Miyu smiled faintly. "It's okay. You don't have to explain. Just… don't pretend with me, alright?"
He nodded, though part of him knew he already was.
---
One Friday afternoon, Aoi and Kaito joined Ren and Miyu for lunch — something Kaito insisted on, claiming it would be "fun to double date."
The air was painfully awkward.
Kaito did most of the talking, laughing about random things, while Miyu responded politely, sipping her drink. Aoi barely said a word.
At one point, Ren caught Aoi looking at him — not for long, just a passing glance. But there was something in her eyes that froze him completely.
Regret?
Sadness?
Longing?
He didn't know.
He just knew he couldn't look back at her without his heart feeling too heavy.
When the lunch ended, Miyu looped her arm around Ren's. "You okay?" she asked quietly.
"Yeah," he said. "Just tired."
But she knew he wasn't.
---
A week later, everything began to unravel.
Kaito had a soccer match that weekend, and Aoi promised she'd come watch. But on the morning of the match, her grandmother fell sick, and she couldn't make it.
She texted him an apology, but Kaito didn't reply until that night.
"It's fine," he wrote.
But when they met the next day, he was distant — not angry, just quiet.
Aoi tried to talk to him, but he brushed it off, saying he was just tired from practice. Still, the air between them felt wrong.
For the first time, she realized how fragile their relationship really was — built more on comfort than connection.
That night, she took a long walk alone through the empty streets. The air was cool, the sky full of quiet stars. She didn't know why, but her feet led her toward the small convenience store near Ren's part-time job.
Through the glass, she saw him — sitting by the window, notebook open, his face lit faintly by the streetlight outside. He looked calm, but also tired in a way she hadn't seen before.
Before she could think twice, she went inside.
---
The bell above the door chimed.
Ren looked up, surprised.
"Aoi?"
"Hey," she said quietly, brushing her hair behind her ear. "You're still working?"
"Yeah. Just closing up."
She nodded, glancing around. "You… mind if I sit for a bit?"
"Sure." He gestured to the seat across from him.
For a while, neither of them said anything. The silence wasn't awkward — just heavy, like both were afraid of saying the wrong thing.
Finally, Aoi spoke.
"Kaito and I… we had a small fight."
Ren looked up. "You okay?"
"Yeah," she said. "It's nothing big. Just… made me think."
He nodded slowly. "About what?"
"About how people change," she said softly. "How feelings change."
Ren didn't reply, but she continued anyway.
"I thought I'd be happy by now," she said with a small, sad smile. "I thought moving on would make everything easier. But it's like… no matter how far I go, something keeps pulling me back."
Ren's hand tightened around his pen. "Aoi—"
She shook her head. "Don't. I'm not trying to make things complicated again. I just… needed to say it out loud."
She looked at him, her eyes glistening under the faint store light.
"You look happy, Ren. I'm glad."
He wanted to say he wasn't. That every time he smiled with Miyu, a part of him still thought about Aoi — about what they could've been if he'd made different choices.
But he didn't.
Instead, he said, "You'll be fine. You always figure things out."
Aoi laughed quietly. "You still say that like you know me better than I do."
"Maybe I do."
Their eyes met then — for a second, for a heartbeat too long.
And in that silence, everything they'd tried to bury came rushing back — the warmth, the regret, the unspoken what-ifs.
When Aoi finally stood to leave, she smiled faintly.
"Goodnight, Ren."
"Night," he said softly.
As the door closed behind her, Ren sat there, staring at the empty seat across from him, realizing something terrifying —
He had never really let her go.