By Wednesday, Kaito had made a decision he hated the moment he made it.
He started pulling away.
Not all at once—not enough to cause a scene—but in small, careful ways. No more lingering glances. No more quiet lunches together. No more late-night texts he never actually sent.
He needed space.
That's what he told himself.
Because liking Ren was one thing. But wanting him? That was different. Wanting him meant risk. Meant rejection. Meant the chance of ruining the one connection that had made school feel less like a cage and more like a place he could breathe.
So he shut the door before it could open any further.
"Hey," Ren said the next morning as Kaito slipped into class.
Kaito nodded. Didn't smile.
When Ren asked if he wanted to go to the roof at lunch, Kaito said, "I've got homework."
When Ren brushed his hand accidentally in chemistry, Kaito flinched like he'd touched fire.
By Thursday, the space between them wasn't seventeen inches anymore.
It felt like seventeen miles.
Ren noticed.
Of course he did.
He wasn't loud or dramatic about it. He didn't confront Kaito in front of the class or send a stream of desperate texts. That wasn't him.
But he watched.
When Kaito started spending lunch behind the library, Ren passed by once—just once—and saw him sitting there with his back to the wall, eyes closed like he was trying not to feel anything at all.
Ren didn't say anything.
Not then.
But in class, he stopped trying to make small talk. He stopped offering extra snacks. He even stopped bringing his earbuds—because Kaito wasn't there to ask about the song anymore.
Kaito told himself it was better this way.
That this silence would keep things safe.
But it didn't feel safe.
It felt like loss.
On Friday afternoon, Kaito left school late. He waited for the others to clear out, lingered in the art room under the excuse of sketching, even though his pencil didn't move.
He thought the hallways would be empty when he finally left.
But as he turned the corner near the stairwell, Ren was there—leaning against the wall like he'd been waiting.
Kaito froze.
Ren looked up, his expression unreadable. "You avoiding me?"
Kaito's throat tightened. "I've been busy."
"Right," Ren said, voice flat. "With all your imaginary homework."
Kaito looked away. "I didn't ask you to follow me."
"I didn't follow you," Ren said. "I noticed you. There's a difference."
The words cut clean.
Kaito swallowed hard, unsure what to say. How to undo what he'd broken without confessing everything he was too afraid to name.
Ren stepped forward once. Not close, but closer.
"You don't have to feel the same way," Ren said quietly. "But don't treat me like I don't exist."
Kaito's eyes snapped up.
Ren's voice was soft, steady—but his hands were curled into fists at his sides.
"I liked being near you," he said. "Even when you didn't say much. Even when it was just lunch and silence and books you never recommended."
He took a breath. "But I'm not going to keep chasing someone who's running from me."
The silence stretched like a wire between them.
Then Ren turned—and walked away.
Kaito didn't stop him.
Couldn't.
But the ache in his chest told him exactly what he'd just lost.
And what he wasn't ready to admit.
Not yet.