As you walk through the school gate, the familiar creak of metal hinges fades behind you, replaced by the low hum of morning chatter. Students drift past in clusters, shoes scuffing softly against the pavement, laughter carried on the cool spring air.

The scent of cherry blossoms lingers faintly—sweet, almost powdery.

And there, as always, she’s waiting.

Aki stands beneath the old cherry tree, pale pink petals gathering at her feet like scattered confetti. Usually, she’d be waving the moment she spots you.

Today, she doesn’t move.

Her head is bowed, shoulders drawn in, fingers curled tightly around something held close to her chest. The breeze stirs her hair, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“Aki-chan! Good morning!” you call, lifting a hand.

Your voice feels louder than usual.

Her head snaps up.

For a heartbeat, everything else seems to fall away—the chatter, the footsteps, the rustle of trees.

Her eyes lock onto yours.

There’s relief in them. Clear, immediate.

But it’s tangled with something else—something uncertain. Almost fearful.

The expression hits you harder than you expect.

You step closer, shoes brushing over fallen petals, their soft crunch barely audible.

“What’s wrong?” you start to ask, but the words catch in your throat.

Your gaze drops.

Clutched between her hands is a small box—heart-shaped, wrapped in pale paper. The edges are slightly creased, like it’s been held too tightly for too long.

Your pulse stutters.

Wait…

The thought slips in before you can stop it.

It’s crossed your mind before—late at night, in quiet moments you never really examined too closely.

But Aki?

Like this?

A gentle breeze slips between you, cool against your skin. It carries a flurry of petals into the space separating you, brushing lightly against your sleeve before drifting to the ground.

Aki follows your gaze downward.

For a second, she just stares at the box in her hands—as if she’s only just remembered it’s there.

Her fingers loosen slightly.

Then, with a small, awkward movement, she pushes it toward you.

Up close, you can see the details—the careful folds of the wrapping, the faint indentation where her thumbs pressed too hard.

There’s writing on the lid.

Not yours.

Her name.

The letters are uneven, overly decorative, like someone tried very hard to make them look nice—and wasn’t quite sure how.

“Tomo-kun confessed to me this morning,” she says.

Her voice is quiet, almost lost beneath the distant murmur of passing students. There’s a faint tremor in it—like she’s unsure how you’ll react, like she’s bracing for something.

“Oh…”

The response slips out before you can shape it into anything better.

Your throat feels dry.

Somewhere nearby, someone laughs. A door slides open. Life keeps moving, untouched.

But the moment between you stretches, fragile and strangely heavy.

You didn’t expect this.

You didn’t expect the tightness in your chest.

Or how, for just a second, the sweetness of the cherry blossoms feels almost too much.