There's a kind of silence that feels personal.
Like the space between me and Tsukihara Ren.
It's not just that he ignores me — plenty of people do that without meaning anything. But Ren's silence is sharper. Intentional. It feels like he's choosing it, specifically for me. Like every second he refuses to speak is a message he knows I'll hear.
And I do.
I hear it loud and clear: Stay away.
But my body doesn't listen.
I keep glancing when I shouldn't. Hoping he might glance back.
Sometimes, I catch him staring out the window in class, fingers tapping silent rhythms on the desk — like he's listening to a song only he can hear. Other times, his jaw clenches when someone laughs too loud near him.
But when I'm near?
Nothing.
It's like I don't exist — and somehow, that makes it feel even more personal.
One morning, I rush in late and see him by the shoe lockers.
Alone. Still.
His eyes are fixed on something small in his hand — a photo, maybe. I can't see it clearly, but the way his fingers tremble before folding it into his pocket…
Then he looks up.
And this time — for the first time — he doesn't look away.
Our eyes meet.
And my heart stumbles.
There's no rage. No irritation. Just…
Recognition.
Like he's remembering something. Or maybe he already has — and he's waiting for me to catch up.
But I don't remember him.
I swear I don't.
Still, my voice is quieter than I meant when I ask, "You okay?"
He stares, those pale-gray eyes unreadable.
Then he says, "You always ask that."
I blink. "What?"
He walks past me, shoulder brushing mine.
And just like that, the moment is over.
But I felt it.
That ache in his voice.
That strange weight in my chest.
Like I've heard those words before — in another time, another life.
I don't know him.
But my soul keeps insisting I did.