I learned two things quickly.
First: Tsukihara Ren didn't talk much.
Second: when he did, it never felt like it was really meant for me.
Every time our eyes met, something flickered behind his lashes—faint recognition? Bitterness? Whatever it was, it twisted my stomach like a knot pulled too tight.
It felt like something old — like a thread pulling tight, even if I didn't remember where it began.
"Did you hear?" Kei leaned in during break, a rice cracker half sticking out of his mouth. "The new guy turned down like… three girls already. Even Mika from Class 2. She's, like, Mika."
I blinked, staring at the streak of chalk dust on the board. "Okay? Maybe he's just not interested."
Kei grinned. "Or he's secretly dating someone."
"Or he's just not into it," I muttered.
But in truth, I'd been watching Ren more than I should've. Not because of the rumors. There was something about the way he carried himself—as if he was searching for something and pretending not to be. His gaze lingered too long on the sky. He never laughed. He always walked with his hands in his pockets, like he was holding onto something.
Like he was waiting for someone to recognize him first.
After school, I finally worked up the courage to talk to him again.
"Hey, Tsukihara," I called, jogging up beside him.
He didn't stop walking.
"I, uh… forgot to return that pencil you lent me."
He glanced at me. "I didn't lend you a pencil."
Right. That must've been some dream. Or memory.
I scratched the back of my neck. "Right. I—my bad."
Silence again.
"Do you hate me or something?" I blurted before I could stop myself.
He stopped walking.
I froze.
Then, finally, he turned toward me. "No," he said quietly. "But you should stop trying so hard. Some things are better left buried."
And with that, he walked off, his shoulders stiff. As he passed, I noticed his hand rub the back of his thumb—a small, strange habit—and something about it made my throat tighten.
He left me standing in the late afternoon light, the sound of cicadas buzzing like static in my ears.
That night, I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking of his voice—Some things are better left buried.
Like what? A grudge? A memory? A person?
And why did it feel like whatever he was trying to forget... was us?