It had been sixteen days since the last time he saw her.
Not that Ren was counting. Not deliberately, at least.
But it was easy to keep track when you had nothing else to anchor the days—when the summer break stretched long and strange in the absence of the one person who made things feel less like drowning and more like floating just beneath the surface.
He didn't know where Aika had gone.
She hadn't said goodbye. Hadn't mentioned anything specific in the days leading up to the end of term. No clues. No signs. Just that one offhand comment in the courtyard after she handed him his glasses back: "Don't just stand there next time." It was the kind of thing someone said when they planned on being around. When they thought they'd see you again.
But then came the last day of school. Her seat was already empty before homeroom. She didn't come to their usual lunch spot. She wasn't outside after the bell rang.
And the locker—the one where he'd slipped his letter—remained untouched.
At first, he thought maybe she was sick. Maybe she had family out of town. Maybe she'd gone to stay with relatives. She didn't talk much about her home life. He knew her mother worked two jobs. He'd never heard her mention a father. But assumptions weren't answers.
All he knew was that he missed her.
Missed the way she walked into a room like gravity bent toward her. Missed the way her fists made chaos, and her silences made space for people like him. Missed how she made him feel not invisible but seen—even if she never looked at him like he wanted her to.
Summer was supposed to feel like freedom. But it didn't.
He still woke up early out of habit. Still packed a quiet lunch. Still went to the library on Tuesdays even though it was mostly closed for maintenance. Still found himself sketching in the margins of his notebook—half-formed figures with untied shoelaces and bruised knuckles and eyes that dared the world to try harder.
He didn't draw Aika's face.
Not exactly.
But he always ended up drawing someone who moved like her.
And every time, he flipped past the last page where his earlier sketch had been taped—the one of her crouching beside him, offering his glasses. The page where the letter had once been taped, now empty. It had felt important back then. Like he had to leave something behind in case she disappeared.
And now that she had… he didn't know if it had mattered at all.
Sometimes, he imagined her reading it.
Maybe she'd recognize the handwriting. Maybe she'd know it was him, even without a name. Maybe she'd smile, just a little. Maybe she'd fold it and keep it in her pocket.
Or maybe she never saw it.
Maybe it was swept away with forgotten papers and wrappers and junk during locker cleanout. Maybe she moved before she ever noticed it. Maybe it was never enough.
The not-knowing sat like a stone in his stomach.
He thought about asking the front office. But what would he even say? Hi, has the girl who saves me from bullies without ever asking my name withdrawn from school permanently?
Instead, he waited.
Summer break blurred forward. He wheeled himself through familiar streets. Spent afternoons helping out at his uncle's bookstore, sorting donated books and cataloguing old inventory into an ancient computer system that barely worked. No one asked why he looked at the door every time it opened.
He didn't know how to reach her.
She'd never given him a phone number. Her home address was a mystery. And even if he had those things, what would he say?
Hi. I miss you. I think I'm in love with you. I don't even know if you remember my name.
So he said nothing.
He waited.
Until the first day back.
September sunlight hit the hallway tiles with that same too-bright glare. Students moved through the corridors in clusters, buzzing with stories of vacations and video games and nothing that mattered to him.
Ren moved quietly to his homeroom—glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, his sketchbook balanced in his lap. A thin hope still lingered. Maybe she'd be there. Maybe it had all been a misunderstanding.
Then the teacher walked in and called for attention.
"Before we begin," she said, shuffling papers. "A quick announcement. As some of you may have heard, Aika Tanaka has transferred schools. Her family relocated over the summer. We wish her well in her new environment."
That was it.
No fanfare. No explanation. Just a name spoken, then erased.
Ren sat still in his seat, his lungs tight.
Transferred. Gone.
The classroom noise resumed around him, but it sounded distant—like someone had submerged his head underwater and left the world spinning on the surface.
He didn't cry.
Not then.
But something inside him folded inward. Quietly. Permanently.
Later that afternoon, he went to the courtyard.
The fountain still gurgled softly.
He rolled to the same bench where he'd sat that day. The stone was warm beneath his hand.
He opened his sketchbook and flipped through the pages. Past the drawings of shapes and storm clouds. Past the outlines of fists and fearless eyes. Past the invisible thread he couldn't name.
And then he found the page where the letter had once been.
The tape marks were still there.
The letter was gone.
He didn't know if that meant she had taken it.
But he let himself believe it.
Just for a moment.
Because believing she read it was the only thing left that still made his chest feel warm instead of hollow.
He rested his hand on the sketch, closed his eyes, and whispered to no one—
"Goodbye, Aika."
Even if she never heard it, it felt like the storm had finally passed.
But he didn't know then—
The storm was only beginning.
She was gone. And yet, every part of him was still waiting. What would it take to move forward when the storm never really left?
And then the tears he's been trying to hold fell…