The next day, we went through the day as usual.
As if last night—the heavy rain and the tears—was only a bad dream that slowly faded away with the morning sunlight.
"Morning, Takamine!" Haruto greeted as he entered the class.
I looked at him, smiling. "Morning too, Takahiro."
There was something different about his smile that day.
Still faint, but I could feel—for the first time in a long while—that smile looked… alive.
We talked as usual: about lessons, noisy classmates, even small things like the weather and cafeteria food. Everything felt light. And in the middle of that simple conversation, suddenly an idea crossed my mind.
"Hey, Takahiro," I said spontaneously.
He turned. "Hmm?"
"How about… we make a manga together?"
He blinked, looking surprised. "Manga? Seriously?"
I nodded firmly. "You know I love writing stories. But I can't draw well. And you…"
I looked at him, then smiled softly. "You're good at drawing. I saw your sketches in your notebook that time."
His face turned a bit red. "You saw that? That was just doodles when I was bored."
"But they're good," I replied quickly. "Seriously, you have a strong drawing style. There's emotion in every line."
He went silent, staring at me for a while—then finally chuckled softly. "You're really serious, huh?"
"Of course. Why not?"
I leaned forward a little. "We could make a story about two people who… help each other heal. Who find their light together."
He seemed to think for a moment, then his smile softened. "Sounds… interesting."
---
We started planning the manga idea in the library, where everything began.
The bookshelves, the old wooden table near the window, and the afternoon light shining on the blank sheet of paper before us—all of it felt like the beginning of something important.
"What's the title?" Haruto asked while twirling his pencil.
I looked at the sky outside the window. "Hmm… maybe 'A Few Precious Days.'"
He repeated it softly, as if tasting the words. "A few precious days…"
"Yeah," I said quietly. "About two people who know they can't be together forever, but still choose to stay by each other's side. Because every day they have… is precious."
Haruto fell silent. I could see his eyes tremble slightly, maybe because those words felt too close to our reality.
"Takamine," he finally said, "that story… sounds like us."
I looked at him, smiling faintly. "Maybe."
He lowered his head, writing something on the paper. His pencil moved quickly, sketching two silhouettes sitting on a park bench. I stared at his strokes.
Every line was soft yet full of emotion, as if each one was a fragment of his own heart.
"Look," he said, handing me the paper. "They look peaceful, right?"
I nodded. "Peaceful… but also fragile."
He smiled faintly. "Like us."
---
Days passed, and our manga slowly took shape.
We wrote, drew, erased, laughed, argued—everything felt alive.
Every time I came to the library, Haruto was already sitting there, waiting with a can of tea and a pile of papers.
"I already drew the first page," he said one afternoon.
I sat beside him, curious. "What's it about?"
He pointed at the picture. Two characters standing in the rain, holding hands.
Just like us that night.
I bit my lip, holding back a smile and a strange feeling in my chest. "You… still remember the details."
"How could I forget?" he said quietly. "That night, I realized I was still alive."
I looked at him, but he turned his gaze toward the window.
That afternoon, the sky was colored in golden orange, like a sheet of warm nostalgia pressing against the heart.
"Takahiro," I said finally, "I'm glad you can draw again."
He looked surprised. "What do you mean?"
"I once read a theory," I said softly. "If someone can pour their thoughts into art, it means they're starting to heal."
He went quiet for a moment, then smiled gently. "Then maybe I'm starting to heal because of you."
I felt my cheeks warm. "I only helped a little."
"A little, huh?" he teased. "But you're the only reason I still want to wake up in the morning."
"Is that what they call hope?"
I laughed softly, but behind that laugh, there was fear.
Because I knew—when someone fragile starts depending their life on another person, it can become a bond… or a noose that slowly tightens.
---
A few weeks later, our manga was almost finished.
We planned to submit it for the school's art contest.
The cover was simple—a drawing of two silhouettes under a tree with Haruto's handwriting: A Few Precious Days.
As I read it again, suddenly I realized:
The story we wrote… was actually a piece of our own reality.
The female character in the manga had the habit of reading alone, living in an empty house, and fearing to lose someone.
While the male character… always smiled to hide the pain and kept a photo of his mother in his notebook.
I looked at Haruto. "Do you realize that our characters are actually us?"
He stayed silent for a long time, then said softly, "Maybe… I just wanted to make sure our story has a happy ending, even if only on paper."
I held his hand. "Then make sure we have a happy ending in the real world too."
He looked at me for a long moment, then nodded. "I'll try."
---
We tried submitting our manga for a contest.
The announcement day arrived.
We didn't win. But somehow, I didn't feel disappointed at all.
Because for us, that manga wasn't just a work of art. It was a mirror—a place where we saw ourselves, accepted our wounds, and learned to make peace with them.
That evening, we sat in the park again, under the big tree where everything always began and ended.
"You know," Haruto said while staring at the sky, "if life were a manga, I'd want the last panel to just be us sitting like this. No grand ending, just peace."
I smiled. "And under that last panel, it says To Be Continued."
He chuckled softly. "Because as long as we're still alive, the story isn't over."
I looked at his face, bathed in the light of the setting sun—warm, honest, and finally at peace.
And in my heart, I knew:
Our love wasn't a perfect story, not one without scars. But a love that endured between lines of ink and reality.
A love that didn't heal wounds with magic, but with the courage to keep drawing… even when the hands sometimes trembled.
---
- To be continued