Ren stopped coming to the river.
The next day, and the day after that, he didn't show up. No messages. No jokes. Just silence—thick and uncomfortable, like air before a storm.
Mio noticed first.
"He always comes," she said, sitting beside me on the familiar steps. "Even when he's upset."
I nodded. "He doesn't know what to do with his feelings."
She smiled faintly. "Neither do we."
We found Ren that evening at the basketball court behind the school. The net was torn, the paint on the ground faded, but he was there—shooting over and over, missing more than usual.
He didn't look at us when we approached.
"You're going to hurt yourself," Mio said gently.
"I don't care."
The ball hit the rim and bounced away. Ren finally stopped, hands on his knees, breathing hard.
"She's leaving," he said. "Just like that."
Mio stepped closer. "She didn't say when."
"That's the same thing."
I watched his shoulders shake. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to notice.
"She didn't even give me time," Ren continued. "To think. To say anything."
"You still can," Mio said.
He laughed bitterly. "Say what? 'Please stay'? That's selfish."
"Or honest," I said.
Ren looked at me then, really looked at me.
"You ever been scared of saying something because it might change everything?"
I swallowed. "Every day."
He exhaled, long and tired. "Then you get it."
The sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the court.
"I like her," Ren said suddenly. "I always have."
Mio's breath caught.
"But if I say it now," he continued, voice breaking, "it'll sound like I'm trying to trap her. Like I'm asking her to choose me over her life."
"That doesn't make your feelings wrong," Mio said softly.
Ren shook his head. "It makes them useless."
We walked home together after that. Slower than usual.
At the intersection, Mio stopped. "Aoi… can I walk with you for a bit?"
Ren nodded. "I'll head this way."
As he left, his shoulders slumped, like he was carrying something too heavy for summer.
The street was quiet.
"Mio," I said, "you don't always have to be strong for everyone."
She smiled sadly. "If I'm not, who will be?"
I hesitated, then said, "You can lean on me."
She looked surprised. Then relieved.
"Thank you," she whispered.
That night, I didn't write much.
Just one line.
Some words stay trapped not because they're weak—but because they're too heavy.
And somewhere in the distance, cicadas cried like they understood.