Days turned into weeks.
College felt the same — lectures, projects, laughter in corridors —
but for Aiyumi, everything sounded muted, like hearing the world through glass.
She and Ren still walked together sometimes —
never planned, never said aloud,
just quietly falling into step like old habits that refused to die.
They didn't talk much.
Yet those silences spoke in a language only they understood.
One evening, the campus was glowing orange with sunset.
Aiyumi sat on the stone bench near the library, sketching absentmindedly.
Ren passed by, headphones in, pretending not to see.
But then he noticed her sketchbook —
a half-finished drawing of two silhouettes on a bridge under falling leaves.
Without a word, he sat beside her.
Aiyumi froze, her pencil trembling slightly.
Ren took a deep breath.
"You still draw bridges, huh?" he murmured,
his voice softer than usual, almost wistful.
She smiled faintly.
"They connect things that break apart… even if it's just in drawings."
He looked away, jaw tight.
"I didn't mean to—" he started, then stopped.
Words always failed him when it came to her.
Aiyumi closed the book gently.
"I know," she whispered. "And… I didn't mean to hurt you either."
For a moment, everything felt still.
The evening breeze carried faint laughter from the basketball court,
but neither of them moved.
Then, without meeting her eyes, Ren said quietly,
"Let's just… not lose what's left, okay?"
Aiyumi's eyes shimmered with unspoken relief.
She nodded.
No dramatic apologies, no promises —
just a quiet understanding that some bonds didn't need words to heal.
That night, she texted him for the first time in months:
"Thank you… for not giving up completely."
He saw the message at midnight.
He didn't reply.
But he saved it.