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The sound of the school bell echoed down the hallway as students spilled out in waves of noise and laughter.
Kōsei Arima stayed a little behind, fingers loosely gripping the strap of his bag. Music sheets peeked out from inside—creases from overuse, pencil marks everywhere. He still hadn’t decided if he wanted to practice today.
“Oi, you’re spacing out again.”
He turned.
Tsubaki Sawabe was there, half annoyed, half familiar. Gym bag over her shoulder, hair slightly messy from practice.
“You’re going to miss your train at this rate,” she said.
“I’ll make it,” he replied quietly.
She stared at him for a second longer than necessary, like she always did when she was trying to figure out if he was actually okay or just pretending.
“…You didn’t eat lunch, did you?”
“I wasn’t hungry.”
“Liar.”
Before he could respond, she grabbed his wrist. Not rough—just firm enough that he couldn’t ignore her.
“Come on. Convenience store.”
He blinked. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” she cut in immediately. “I want to.”
That shut him up faster than anything else could.
⸻
They walked like that a lot lately.
Not together. Not officially anything.
Just… not apart.
Tsubaki talked about volleyball practice, complaining about her coach. Kōsei listened more than he spoke. Sometimes he answered. Sometimes he didn’t. It didn’t seem to matter to her either way.
At the store, she shoved a rice ball into his hand.
“Eat.”
“I said I’m fine—”
“You always say that,” she muttered, then softer, almost quieter: “and you’re never fine.”
That made him stop.
He looked at her properly then—really looked.
Not the loud, loud Tsubaki he grew up with.
The one who stayed.
Always stayed.
“…Why do you care so much?” he asked.
She froze for half a second.
Then laughed it off too quickly. “Because you’re annoying, obviously.”
But she didn’t let go of the plastic bag in his hand until he took a bite.
⸻
Later, they sat on the steps outside the station.
Sunlight dipped low, warm and orange.
Kōsei finally spoke again.
“You don’t have to keep doing this.”
Tsubaki didn’t look at him. “Doing what?”
“Watching me.”
Silence.
Then she leaned back on her hands.
“I’m not watching you,” she said. “I’m just here.”
He frowned slightly. “That’s the same thing.”
“No,” she said, finally looking at him. “It’s not.”
A pause.
Then, quieter:
“I don’t know how to leave you alone.”
That landed heavier than either of them expected.
Kōsei’s fingers tightened slightly around the empty rice ball wrapper.
For once, he didn’t look away.
“…Then don’t,” he said.
Tsubaki blinked.
He didn’t repeat it. He didn’t need to.
It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t perfect.
But it was the first time he didn’t feel like someone was about to disappear.
A few weeks had passed, but nothing about their routine really changed.
Kōsei Arima still walked a little behind the noise of everyone else. Still carried his music like it weighed more than it should. Still hesitated before saying anything that mattered.
And Tsubaki Sawabe still showed up anyway.
Always.
⸻
It was late afternoon when they ended up at the riverbank.
Not planned. It never was.
Tsubaki dropped her bag beside her and stretched her arms up. “I’m tired…”
“You always say that after practice,” Kōsei replied, sitting down carefully beside her.
“Because I am tired,” she said, bumping his shoulder lightly.
That small contact lingered a second longer than it needed to.
Then silence settled in.
Not awkward. Just… full.
The wind moved across the water, soft ripples catching the light.
Kōsei looked down at his hands.
“I think I understand something now,” he said quietly.
Tsubaki tilted her head. “That sounds dangerous.”
A faint, almost-smile crossed his face. “Maybe.”
He hesitated.
That was normal for him. But this felt different.
“I used to think… if someone stayed around long enough, I’d just realize what I felt.”
Tsubaki didn’t interrupt.
“But it doesn’t work like that,” he continued. “Not with me.”
His fingers tightened slightly.
“You’ve always been there,” he said. “Even when I wasn’t… really here.”
Tsubaki’s expression shifted—but she still stayed quiet.
“And I think I was so focused on everything I lost… I didn’t notice what I kept.”
A pause.
Then he turned toward her.
Not fully confident. Not dramatic.
Just honest.
“…You.”
Tsubaki blinked.
Once.
Twice.
“Don’t say it like that,” she muttered quickly, looking away. “You’re going to make it sound weird.”
“It is weird,” he admitted.
That got a small, shaky laugh out of her.
But her hands were gripping her knees now.
“…Kōsei,” she said softly, not teasing this time.
“Yeah?”
Another pause.
This one heavier.
“I don’t need you to say anything perfect,” she said. “Just… don’t say things you don’t mean.”
He shook his head immediately.
“I mean it.”
Silence again.
Longer this time.
Tsubaki looked at him properly now. Really properly.
Like she was trying to see if this was real—or just another moment she’d have to survive later.
Then she exhaled slowly.
“…Idiot,” she said.
But her voice cracked a little on it.
“You can’t just figure that out now.”
Kōsei didn’t argue.
Because she was right.
But he also didn’t take it back.
That was new.
Tsubaki looked away toward the water again.
“I’ve liked you for a long time,” she said, quieter than anything she’d said before. “That’s not news.”
His breath caught slightly.
“But I didn’t want it to feel like I was waiting for you to catch up,” she continued. “That would’ve been pathetic.”
She smiled faintly—but it wasn’t really happy.
“So I kept pretending I was just… your annoying childhood friend.”
A pause.
Then, softer:
“Turns out I was just bad at lying.”
Kōsei looked at her for a long moment.
Then, carefully, like he was afraid of breaking something fragile:
“I don’t think you were ever just that.”
Tsubaki let out a small breath—almost a laugh, almost not.
“…You’re really unfair, you know that?”
He blinked. “How?”
“Because you say things like that,” she said, nudging his arm lightly again. “Like it’s normal.”
He didn’t respond.
But this time, he didn’t look away either.
⸻
The sun dipped lower.
They didn’t rush anything.
They didn’t define it.
They didn’t need to.
For once, it was enough that neither of them was leaving.