By the third week, things started settling into a rhythm. Morning greetings, afternoon yawns, club announcements—it was all becoming familiar. But what I looked forward to the most was lunch. Not because of the food, but because of Miyu.
We had formed a habit. Instead of staying in the noisy classroom, we walked out to the small bench under the cherry tree behind the science building. It wasn't officially allowed, but no one seemed to mind. The spot was quiet, with sunlight filtering through the last pink blossoms. It felt like our secret place.
Miyu's lunches were always neat, organized, and colorful. Her mom made them, but sometimes she added her own little touches—like heart-shaped pickled radish or tiny flags stuck into the rice.
"Yours looks… very brown," she said one day, eyeing my convenience store tonkatsu sandwich.
"I like brown," I replied, biting in proudly.
She laughed. "I'll make you something next time. Something with color."
"Like rainbow curry?" I teased.
"Only if you help me cook it."
We talked about everything and nothing—TV dramas, test scores, even which teachers were secretly dating (we were 99% sure about the chemistry and gym teachers).
I found myself watching her more than I should. The way her nose crinkled when she smiled, how she used her chopsticks with perfect grace, even how she folded her napkin after eating. It was silly. But it made me happy.
Once, as we packed up, a petal fell into her lap. She picked it up and pressed it between her fingers.
"It'll be gone soon," she said.
"What will?" I asked.
"The blossoms. They never stay long."
I nodded slowly, not really sure what to say. But in my heart, I hoped she'd keep coming to that bench long after the petals stopped falling.
Because I knew I would.