It had been a month since they started walking home together.
Mao, still quiet, still serious, had become a fixture in Hana's daily life. They didn't talk much—never needed to. A glance, a nod, a shared silence said enough.
But something had shifted. Mao felt it in the way his chest tightened when she laughed at someone else's joke. The way he started noticing how her eyes lit up during literature class. The way he found himself replaying her words after she was gone.
So, on a cold Tuesday afternoon, under the plum tree near the school gates, Mao said it.
"I like you."
It wasn't dramatic. No build-up. No speeches. Just those three words, spoken with the same careful calm that had defined him since the beginning.
Hana froze, her fingers tightening around the strap of her backpack.
"Mao…" she began, gently. "You're… important to me. Really. But I don't feel that way."
Silence.
Mao blinked once. Then twice.
"I see," he said simply.
She looked pained. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to hurt you."
"You didn't," he lied.
He gave a small bow, like he always did when leaving early, and walked away—hands in his pockets, head down, a bit too quiet even for him.
The next day, he wasn't at his seat.
The one by the window.
And for the first time since arriving at Cresthill, Hana found herself watching the door, hoping he'd walk in.