Lunch was louder than usual.
Maybe because the weather had shifted again, warm and windless. Maybe because half the school was still buzzing from a test or drama Aira had no energy for. But the table felt too full, too tight, too close.
Rina was talking fast, waving her chopsticks around. Tsubasa and Haru were bickering in the background about something dumb, and Miyo was laughing hard enough to draw looks from the next table.
Aira sat between Kaito and Yuki. Again.
It hadn't been on purpose. Not hers, anyway.
Kaito had claimed the seat beside her like it was habit. And then Yuki sat down, quietly sliding his tray between two backpacks and settling in beside her without a word.
It shouldn't have felt like a choice. But it did.
Every move she made suddenly mattered.
Like when she leaned slightly toward Kaito to hear what he said about their math assignment, and she caught Yuki going still beside her.
Like when her sleeve brushed Yuki's as she reached for her drink, and Kaito's knee bounced once under the table.
It was small stuff. Tiny, invisible things. But Aira felt all of it.
And maybe they did too.
After lunch, as everyone dispersed, Kaito caught her by the lockers.
He leaned against the cool metal, arms crossed, eyes lowered. "Do you want me to back off?"
The question hit her like a splash of cold water.
"Kaito—"
"I'm serious," he said, looking up. "I don't want to crowd you. I'm trying not to. But if seeing me around him makes it harder—"
"It's not that," she said quickly. "I'm just… not ready."
Kaito gave a quiet, almost tired smile. "It's okay. I told you I'd wait. But that doesn't mean it's not hard."
Aira's heart thudded.
"I'm still hoping," he added. "But it feels like maybe I'm the only one."
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
He didn't wait for her to find the words. He just gave a soft nod and walked off.
Later that afternoon, the wind had picked up, and a bunch of them stayed behind to study in the library.
Aira was at a table with Yuki. Just the two of them.
Kaito had said he needed to "clear his head" and vanished before the bell rang.
Aira was trying to focus on her notes, but her pen hovered over the same line for minutes.
"You're distracted," Yuki said.
She glanced up. His voice was quiet but steady.
"Yeah," she admitted.
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes darker than usual in the lamplight. "Is it me?"
She bit her lip. "It's everything."
"Do you regret it?" he asked.
"What?"
"That I said something."
She stared at him. "No."
He looked down at his book. "You're being careful."
"Shouldn't I be?"
"I just want to know," he said softly, "if I should stop hoping, too."
The words hung in the air between them, brittle and impossible to ignore.
She swallowed. Her throat felt dry. "I don't want you to stop."
He looked up at her then—really looked—and something in his expression cracked.
Slowly, carefully, he reached across the table and brushed his fingers against hers. Barely a touch.
But it sent sparks down her spine.
They both froze.
He didn't move closer. Neither did she. The space between them stayed wide and sharp.
But the almost was deafening.
When she got home that night, Aira collapsed on her bed and stared at the ceiling. Her heart ached in her chest, too full and too quiet.
She cared for both of them.
She wasn't ready to choose.
But something had shifted. She felt it. Something was coming—close, and impossible to ignore.
The next moment could change everything.