The school bell echoed across the courtyard, its shrill note cutting through the golden afternoon haze. Students spilled from classrooms like scattered marbles—laughing, shoving, alive.
Among them, two figures always walked the same path home. Not side by side. Not together. But always in parallel.
He was always six paces ahead.
She was always six paces behind.
They never spoke. Not once. But the universe between them felt threaded by a silence loud enough to drown out every word they could've ever said.
He would glance back sometimes. Not a full turn—just enough. Just a flicker of recognition, a pulse of awareness.
She'd smile, barely. The kind of smile that was more of a confession than any words could be.
It began in spring, when the sakura trees coughed petals into the wind like nature itself had allergies. He walked with a sketchbook tucked under his arm. She carried an old camera, the strap fraying at the edges.
They noticed each other not because they wanted to… but because they couldn't help it. His pencil paused when she aimed her lens. Her finger froze on the shutter every time he sat by the fountain to draw.
Time passed in fragments—test papers, rain-soaked uniforms, stolen glances in reflection on windows.
One afternoon, in the art room, she saw it.
Her. In pencil. Captured under soft lines, her eyes half-lidded in thought, her camera hanging from her neck like a charm. The sketch was unfinished. The paper curled at the edges, but her breath curled tighter in her lungs.
Later that week, she left a photo on his desk.
A shot of him staring out the library window, a leaf stuck in his hair. Framed perfectly. Tenderly. Too perfect to be coincidence.
The next day, he started waiting. Not six paces ahead.
He stood by the school gates. Silent. Unmoving. Until she caught up.
Their walk home was different that day. Still no words. Still no contact. But their footsteps began to fall in sync.
The space between them closed.
On the last day of school, when uniforms gave way to memories, he handed her the sketchbook.
She gave him the final roll of film.
Neither opened their gift in front of the other. They didn't need to.
When he got home, he flipped through the pages. All of them were of her. Different angles, different seasons, one constant subject. Her eyes. Her smile. Her silhouette against the evening sky.
She developed the film the next morning.
Every photo was of him.
Laughing with friends. Sleeping in class. Waiting at the gate.
There was one photo taken from behind, of her shadow falling beside his.
And one final shot:
His hand extended slightly toward hers.
Hers reaching back.
Not touching yet. But close.
A confession in ink. A confession in film.
A romance made of everything unspoken.
And nothing left unsaid.