The days passed gently after the rain.
Himari and Haruki walked to school together most mornings now. They didn't always talk—sometimes they just shared silence, listening to the wind brushing past blooming sakura trees.
And after school, they sat in the art room, sketching the same world with different hands.
Everything felt peaceful.
But even in peace, shadows linger quietly.
---
It happened on a Tuesday.
The sky was too blue, almost painfully bright. The kind of day that made everything look more cheerful than it really was.
Himari was walking past the teachers' office when she heard the name—Haruki Aizawa.
She froze.
"Still refusing the scholarship interviews?" one teacher sighed. "That boy's too quiet for his own good."
"His father's been calling again. Wants to know why Haruki isn't taking the Tokyo Academy exam."
"Art doesn't pay, he says. Wants him in architecture or law."
Himari's heart dropped.
She stepped away before they could see her.
---
That afternoon, Haruki didn't show up to the art room.
She waited. Five minutes. Ten. Twenty.
Finally, she found him on the rooftop.
He was sitting by the old storage shed, sketchbook untouched, gaze fixed on the clouds.
She sat beside him without a word.
"I'm sorry," he said after a while. "Didn't mean to disappear."
"It's okay," she said. "But… why didn't you tell me?"
He flinched. "You heard."
She nodded.
He sighed, eyes on the sky. "My dad doesn't believe in art. He thinks it's a hobby at best, a waste at worst. He wanted me to follow his path—business, law, something 'real.' Something with a paycheck."
"Is that why you started writing letters instead of speaking?"
Haruki gave a soft laugh—bitter. "Maybe. I think I've been hiding in my own world for years. Drawing what I couldn't say. Writing what I couldn't ask for."
Himari looked down, hands clenched. "You don't have to hide from me."
"I'm not good at asking for help," he said quietly.
"Well, too bad," she whispered. "Because I'm already helping."
She took out her sketchbook. Opened it. And handed it to him.
He blinked. On the page was a drawing—a boy sitting alone on the rooftop, with clouds above his head.
She had drawn him.
"I wanted to tell you that I see you," she said. "Even when you don't say a word."
His throat tightened.
And then, he did something he hadn't done in front of anyone in years.
He cried.
Not loudly, not messily. Just quiet tears, sliding down his face while she sat beside him, holding his hand, not letting go.
No words.
Just presence.
Just truth.
---
The next morning, a letter appeared on Himari's desk.
> Dear Himari,
Thank you for finding the parts of me I was too afraid to share.
Thank you for staying.
I don't know what the future holds. But I know this:
If I ever build a world with my hands—whether in art or anything else—I want it to be one where you can live and smile.
I want to create with you.
—Haruki