The final bell rang through Kaisei High School, a sharp, echoing chime that cut through the lingering hum of voices and rustling papers. It was the usual signal: freedom. For most students, it marked the start of after-school clubs, cram sessions, or a mad dash to catch the bus before the evening chill settled in.
But for Haruki Tenma and Miyako Hanabira, it marked something else entirely the strange, tentative beginning of their not-so-real married life.
Haruki stood by the front gate, backpack slung over one shoulder, the fading sunlight catching in the tousled strands of his black hair. He leaned against a metal post, eyes scanning the waves of departing students. The air smelled faintly of chalk dust, sakura leaves, and fried bread from the cafeteria.
And then, like a brush of color in a dull crowd, Miyako emerged.
Her blonde hair bounced with every step, her vibrant pink backpack a flashing banner of personality. She waved without slowing down, nearly tripping over her own feet before skidding to a stop beside him.
"Ready?" Haruki asked, lips curling in a half-smile.
Miyako bent down, tying her shoelaces with unnecessary flair. "Ready for what?" she said, glancing up. "The start of our 'married life'?"
Haruki winced, the words sounding far too real spoken aloud.
The clerk at the city hall had been clear: while the "youth marriage program" was a symbolic educational initiative, their registration was valid technically legal until graduation.
To complicate things, Miyako's apartment was undergoing renovations after a surprise plumbing disaster. The universe, it seemed, had a twisted sense of humor.
Haruki had offered her the spare room in his house, a simple but warm home nestled just outside the city's center, surrounded by cedar trees and steep hills.
Neither of them were thrilled by the arrangement.
But neither of them had said no.
As they stepped through the front gate, the house greeted them with a stillness that only existed between evening and night. Haruki unlocked the door and pushed it open, letting Miyako step in first. The familiar scent of cedarwood drifted through the air, mingling with faint traces of his mother's floral incense.
"Make yourself at home," he said, trying to sound more confident than he felt.
Miyako toed off her sneakers and stepped inside, her eyes darting curiously around the entryway, then the hallway, then the room he'd cleaned meticulously that morning.
The room was modest neat, with a folded futon in the corner, a narrow desk pushed against the wall, and his favorite camera resting beside a clutter of photo prints taped above. The bookshelf held a strange mixture of classic novels, fantasy manga, and photography guides.
She sat on the futon with a bounce and raised an eyebrow. "Not bad for a guy's room. Kind of cozy. I was expecting gym socks and old pizza boxes."
Haruki rolled his eyes. "Wow. Thanks."
She smiled, clearly pleased with herself.
They slipped into a rhythm that was anything but natural.
Mornings began in awkward silence, the quiet clink of utensils filling the space between bites of toast and sips of miso soup. Afternoons blurred past in classes and club activities, where they did their best to avoid eye contact in the hallways. Evenings saw them sharing the living room he with a textbook or camera manual, she sprawled out sketching cosplay designs or fiddling with her phone.
The "no couple stuff" rule loomed like an invisible wall between them, turning every brush of shoulders or casual glance into a moment heavy with unspoken rules.
"Don't lean on me," Miyako warned one afternoon during a study session, sliding her math notebook a little farther away.
"I'm not leaning," Haruki said, adjusting his chair a safe inch back.
"But if you do… I'm not responsible for what happens."
He looked at her sideways. "What's going to happen?"
"Nothing." She shrugged. "I'll just throw you across the room or something."
Haruki smirked. "Noted."
As the days passed, Miyako's presence began to leave invisible fingerprints on the house.
She brought energy to the space like a rogue beam of sunlight that made everything brighter but harder to ignore. She filled the bathroom with unfamiliar floral shampoo. She left hair ties on the dining table. She played music while brushing her teeth. She experimented with different hairstyles in front of the mirror and tried on lipstick shades like she was preparing for a photoshoot.
Haruki caught himself watching sometimes quietly, curiously as if seeing something beautiful through the lens of his camera.
She talked about fashion trends and cosplay with so much excitement it made the walls feel less gray.
She wasn't just a noisy roommate anymore.
She was a spark.
One evening, after a long practice under the dim gym lights, Haruki came home sore and half-drenched from a surprise drizzle. As he stepped into the hallway, he found Miyako on the floor, surrounded by a chaotic pile of fabric, ribbons, thread, and buttons.
"Are you making a costume?" he asked, tossing his wet towel over his shoulder.
"Yup." She didn't look up, holding a piece of red satin to the light. "For the cultural festival. Couples cosplay contest. Remember?"
Haruki blinked. "You're actually going through with that?"
She finally glanced up, eyes twinkling. "We're married, aren't we? Might as well look the part."
Haruki exhaled through his nose. Great.
That night, as moonlight spilled through the curtains, Haruki lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling fan as it spun slowly above. On his desk, his camera sat untouched beside a freshly printed photo Miyako, mid-laugh, fabric draped over her head like a cloak.
He hadn't even realized he'd taken the shot.
This is dangerous, he thought.
Because she wasn't just the loud girl from his class anymore.
She was his… wife.
And thinking of her that way, smiling, glowing under warm light it made his chest feel too full.
Weeks passed in the rhythm of their hidden life.
At school, they were just classmates. Occasionally bickering. Occasionally brushing past each other like strangers.
At home, they were something… undefined.
But on a cold, rainy afternoon, something shifted.
They were walking home, puddles blooming across the sidewalk like ink blots, when Miyako's foot caught the slick edge of a manhole cover. She slipped.
Without thinking, Haruki dropped his umbrella and caught her.
Her hands clutched at his sleeve, heartbeat echoing against his chest.
"Careful," he said softly, steadying her.
She scowled at the pavement, breath quick. "Stupid rain."
But she didn't move away right away. Her weight rested against him, just for a second longer than necessary.
And in that second, something passed between them.
A moment quiet and electric.
For the first time, Haruki realized that maybe being "married" wasn't just about paperwork or proximity.
Maybe it was about showing up.
Catching someone when they fall.
And maybe just maybe it meant learning how to hold on.