The rustle of pages was the only sound in the library that afternoon.
It was supposed to be quiet, of course. But this was the kind of silence that pressed against your ears, that made every breath feel too loud, every heartbeat feel suspiciously thunderous.
Izumi sat two tables away, framed by the soft golden light filtering through the library's tall windows. Her uniform blazer had been folded neatly beside her, her sleeves rolled to the elbows as she jotted notes in a neat, deliberate script. Her hair was tied back today—a rare sight—but a few stubborn strands still framed her face, catching the light like thread spun from dusk.
I wasn't supposed to be watching her.
I was supposed to be finishing the report on safety protocols for the festival stage. The one she had asked me to handle.
But my pen hadn't moved in ten minutes.
Instead, my eyes kept drifting to her.
And worse, my thoughts kept drifting too.
Ever since the moment in the supply room—the way she touched my chest, the way her voice trembled when she whispered "You really don't remember"—something inside me had refused to settle. My chest ached with something I couldn't name. Longing? Guilt? Hope?
Whatever it was, it was hers. All of it.
She glanced up once, and our eyes met. Only for a second. But it was enough to set the inside of my stomach into a slow, confusing spin.
She looked away first. But not with annoyance. Not even embarrassment.
Just… hesitation.
That small shift gave me the courage to finally stand.
I approached her table slowly, holding my notebook like a shield.
"Do you mind if I… sit?"
She looked up at me, her expression unreadable.
"There are thirty-six empty seats in this room," she replied.
I nodded. "Yeah. But none of them are next to you."
She sighed but didn't object. I took that as a win.
I slid into the chair across from her and waited. Waited for her to dismiss me, tease me, question my motives.
Instead, she turned the page in her notebook and spoke without looking at me.
"Do you remember the school library back then?"
I blinked. "Back when?"
She tilted her head slightly. "When we were kids."
"…No. Should I?"
She paused for a long time. Then, still not looking at me, she said:
"You used to hate reading. Said books gave you headaches."
I smiled. "Sounds about right."
"But I loved them. So every time you skipped practice or ran off, the teacher would find you in here, waiting for me."
I stared at her, trying to summon the memory. All I saw was dust motes and wooden shelves. But no voices. No laughter.
No her.
"I'm sorry," I said quietly.
Her pen stopped moving.
"I want to remember," I added. "But it's like trying to hold water in my hands. Everything slips."
She finally looked at me.
"It's okay," she said softly. "Maybe what matters isn't remembering the past."
"What then?"
"Making new memories," she whispered.
And that—just that—set something fluttering in my chest.
We didn't speak much after that. Just shared a quiet table, the soft scratch of pens and the warmth of late afternoon sun washing over us.
But even in silence, something had shifted.
We were no longer strangers standing on a bridge of forgotten memories.
We were building something again.
Slowly.
Tentatively.
Together.
---
Later that week, I found a folded note in my locker. No name, just my name scribbled in precise handwriting.
> Saturday. 4 PM. Rooftop.
Don't be late.
I didn't need to guess who it was from.
When Saturday came, I climbed the stairs two at a time, heart pounding in rhythm with the fluttering in my stomach.
Izumi was already there.
She stood near the edge, facing the sun as it dipped low behind the school. The orange light bathed her in soft hues, turning her silhouette almost translucent.
"You came," she said without turning.
"Of course."
She held up a small thermos. "You still like lemon tea?"
"I… I don't remember. But I'll try it."
She poured a cup and handed it to me. Our fingers brushed, and I felt my breath catch.
We sat on the wooden bench beneath the rooftop garden's trellis, the vines around us swaying in the breeze.
"I wanted to come here because it's where I used to wait," she said.
"Wait?"
"For you."
I looked at her, startled.
She gave a small, bitter smile. "Back when we were in primary school, I'd come up here after club activities. You always promised to walk me home. And every time, you were late."
"That… sounds like me."
"But you always came," she added softly.
I sipped the tea. It was warm, citrusy, slightly too sweet.
Just like the girl beside me.
"I'm sorry I forgot," I said again. "Not just you. But everything. It's like my memories stopped before they should've mattered."
"They did matter," she replied. "To me, at least."
Her voice cracked a little. "You were the first person who ever told me it was okay to cry."
I turned to her fully now. "Did I say that?"
"You did. Under this same sky."
She blinked rapidly, then smiled like she was embarrassed for being so honest.
"I'm not trying to make you feel bad, Ryou. I just… sometimes wonder if that boy is still inside you. Even if you can't remember him."
I looked down at my hands. "I think he is. He just needs time to come back."
She didn't respond immediately.
Then—suddenly—she shifted closer. Her shoulder brushed mine. And when I turned, she was looking up at me.
"I've waited a long time," she whispered.
There was no sarcasm in her voice. No teasing. No barriers.
Just Izumi.
Vulnerable.
Beautiful.
Real.
And for the first time, I reached out first.
My hand found hers on the bench.
She froze.
Then—slowly—her fingers curled around mine.
And just like that, the rooftop didn't feel so cold anymore.
---
That evening, as we walked down the hill from school together, she kept our hands linked.
At one point, she suddenly said, "You know… I lied."
"About what?"
"The lemon tea. You didn't like it as a kid. You said it tasted like warm sadness."
I laughed. "Why give it to me then?"
She smirked. "I wanted to see if you'd still say it."
"And?"
"You didn't," she said. "So maybe you've changed."
"Maybe."
I stopped walking and turned to face her.
"But maybe not in all the ways that matter."
Her expression softened. Her grip on my hand tightened just a little.
"I'm starting to think," she murmured, "that this version of you… is someone I could fall in love with, too."
My breath caught.
The words hung in the air like the first raindrop before a storm.
And before I could respond—
She let go of my hand.
"I'll see you Monday," she said quickly, walking ahead with brisk steps, leaving me blinking beneath the fading sky.
She didn't look back.
But I did.
I watched her all the way down the hill.
And smiled.
Because she had said too.
And that meant there was still a chance.
Still a spark.
Still us.
Whatever we were becoming—whatever we used to be—it was something worth chasing.
Even if I had to remember it one heartbeat at a time.
AUTHOR — CrimsonBorN / Step
Twitter / X account: ANC_CrimsonBorN