The house felt quieter than usual.
Too quiet.
Maybe it was the walls. Or the spaces between them.
Or maybe it was just Aoi.
Ever since that night, we'd been orbiting each other like twin moons.. close, visible, but never touching. She avoided my eyes in the hall. I lingered in doorways, unsure if I should speak. Meals turned into rehearsed performances. Conversations shortened to single words. Smiles that didn't reach our eyes.
And yet...
I still noticed her.
The way her fingers trembled slightly when she handed me the miso soup. The way she kept her head down, hair curtaining her face, as if it could shield her from everything left unsaid. The way she smiled at Mom and Dad with just enough warmth to keep them from asking questions.
She was unraveling.
Quietly. Gracefully. Tragically.
And I hated it.
Not her.
Just the weight of not knowing what to do.
That night, I escaped early to my room, exhausted from pretending I didn't feel everything I did. I collapsed onto the bed face first, the mattress cold, the silence louder than anything.
Then I felt it.
A slip of paper.. crisp, deliberate.. tucked beneath my pillow like a secret waiting to breathe.
I sat up slowly and pulled it out. Cream-colored stationery. No perfume. Just her handwriting. Soft. Careful. Familiar.
Riku.
My name. Nothing else. And somehow, that single word felt heavier than anything she'd ever said.
I didn't open it.
Not because I didn't want to.
But because I already knew what it said.
I didn't need to see the ink to feel what she had poured into it.
Love.
But not the kind you speak of around dinner tables. Not the kind you introduce with nervous laughter to your friends. Not the kind that is allowed.
The kind that sits in your chest like a fire you're not supposed to feed.
My fingers curled around the letter. It felt warm. Too warm. I could almost feel her heartbeat through the paper.
Why didn't she say it to my face?
Why now?
Why like this?
I stood, then sat again. Breath caught somewhere between lungs and throat. My chest felt like it had been lined with glass.
After a long minute, I slid the letter back under the pillow, like it had never been found.
I lay down again. Eyes wide. Blank. Unblinking.
I couldn't sleep.
Not with that letter beneath my head.
Not with her feelings echoing in the quiet.
Not with the guilt turning itself over, again and again, like a blade with no end.