(“Redo your career plan by the end of the break,” your homeroom teacher says.)

Ringing of the bell, students running through the halls, summer in the air, faces full of joy.

Club activities are always held after school — but today is a special day, so many have returned home. There’s faint laughter and shouts being heard from the fields. A group of girls, you think it might be the track and field team.

Far from the field, you are stuck cleaning the outdoor pool. A week of days filled with cleaning, and cleaning, and cleaning. And then, more cleaning.

“Yahoo,” a voice startles you from your thoughts. “You are on cleaning duty? All alone?”

You jump in surprise, startled as you didn't think there was anyone nearby. Turning your head, you see him: Oikawa Tōru, the Golden Boy of Miyagi.

Messy brown hair sticking to his forehead, a plain white t-shirt and shorts, a water bottle in hand — the boy’s volleyball team must be practicing, too.

“Oikawa-san,” you mumble to yourself, surprised at his appearance.

His eyes widen a little, and he smiles at you. Bright. Easy. Welcoming. “Hi, you know me?”

“We were in the same class in junior high,” you simply reply. You guess you aren't really surprised that he doesn’t remember your face, you looked a little different back then.

His smile falters. Mouth opening, then closing. Repeating again. Your heart drops a little at the sight — you aren't sure why. “Oh, so—”

“It’s fine, really,” you cut off his apology, attempting to avoid and move on from the awkwardness brewing. Though, his smile is gone, and you can tell he either feels bad or awkward, maybe both. “Trust me. I don’t even think we’ve spoken a word to each other.” And it is true. You think the only words spoken to each other were ‘Good morning,’ and other classmates were there, too.

But then again, maybe it is a little embarrassing that your face is so blurred to an old classmate, your presence left no ounce of spark. Your grandmother used to call you a wallflower, and you think she is right, and maybe a small part of you hates that.

“Oh, but you knew of me?” He asks, sporting his usual grin, a little strained. He is teasing, you realise, his attempt to lighten the mood.

Even if you weren't in the same class, you would know his name. It’s hard to find someone in this school who doesn’t know of him.

It’s hard to separate Oikawa from the image of Aoba Josai’s Golden Boy: smart, tall, attractive, athletic (he’s the captain of the volleyball team), and most notably popular. Well-liked by both the student body, and teachers. Oikawa isn’t just a normal teenager (like you, like everyone else) – he appears in the monthly volleyball magazine often, or so you’ve heard, and even features on Sta Miyagi. You two are the same age, not yet adults, too old to be just kids, and he is far, far ahead — chasing stars.

Admiration and envy mix inside of you.

You decide to play along with him, reciting, “It’s hard not to when Oikawa Toru’s favourite food is milk bread.”

For a second, you think he may be flustered, or it is the sun beaming that causes his cheeks to be faintly pink. But he then gives you a pointed look, raising an eyebrow with a knowing smile. “How do you know that?”

He seems proud. Or perhaps, smug.

Depending on what you answer, it would feed his ego, which you would hate — not this high school boy. “My younger cousin is a huge volleyball nerd,” you reply with a shrug. “He’s in elementary school, and buys those magazines religiously.”

“Now here I was, thinking you were secretly one of my fans,” he longfully sighs after.

“You so wish I was,” you playfully scoff, sitting on the pool’s edge, your feet dips into the cold water. Under the gruelling sun, you wish to allow your body to sink under the cool water.

Surprisingly, Oikawa joins you without a word. Tossing his shoes and socks to the side. “I have a nephew in elementary school,” he casually mentions.

“You do?”

“Yep. He is so cute—look,” he seems more upbeat in this moment, pulling out his cellphone, and swiping through his photo gallery. “I introduced to him to volleyball and now look at him!” He skips over an old mirror picture of himself, to one of when his nephew was a baby — a volleyball next to his tiny head.

The age-gap between Oikawa and his sister must be large, or she had a kid at a very young age — either way, it is endearing, seeing the Oikawa Tōru fawn over his precious nephew. Unknowingly, you haven't stopped smiling until you feel a slight ache in your cheek.

“Maybe your cousin would be interested in joining a kids’ volleyball club?”

You blink, unsure of how to answer. “Oh. Maybe? I don’t know, honestly.” You aren't even sure if your younger cousin actually enjoys playing the sport — you only hear him mentioning moves and pro-players.

Oikawa swirls his feet around in the water, and his hands curl around the pool’s edge. “I think it would be fun since he likes volleyball. He and Takeru might get along, too—Takeru’s really out-going,” he says, and glances back at you. Sun shining on him. “Plus, it might be fun for us, too.”

(Us. You don’t think about it. Don’t overthink it.)

It’s hard to separate Oikawa from the image of Aoba Jōsai’s Golden Boy. But at this moment, he feels a little different. Real. He feels real. You swallow harshly under the summer heat.

Shrugging, you reply, “Well, I’ll think about it . . . I have to ask him and his parents first.”

“Okay, sounds good. Make sure you text me about it.” And that was how you easily gave him your phone number and email address.

Eventually, he asks, “So, why are you the only one cleaning? Did you get ditched?” His expression looks a little more serious, and you can't help but stare at it – him – a little longer.

Does he think you’re being bullied? Or that people threw their duty onto you? You shake your head, replying before he imagines scenarios that are untrue. “Punishment for not doing my career sheet. Summer break has started, and I am sure they can't keep me here all summer, though.”

“You don’t look like a troublemaker, but it seems like I was wrong.”

And he is wrong, because you aren’t one, but you are unable to deny the claim when he continues to speak. “Well, if we get caught, you can blame it on me. Say that I dragged you with me.”

We. He said ‘we.’ “What about volleyball practice? You’ll get punished, we both will.”

Oikawa shrugs, a lazy smile on his face. “That only means we get to spend more time together.”

You ignore the way your heart flutters at his words. The sun in July is too hot.

—

Walking side-by-side, it’s strangely quiet, and at some point, you’re following large footsteps to who-knows-where, but you stay close, and his strides are slow. You grow incredibly cautious when the back of your hands brush. Oikawa doesn't say a word nor reacts to it.

So, you don’t, either.

Not much is said, but he does ask why you don’t like volleyball, which you reply that you never said you hate it — it just doesn't interest you that much.

He dramatically gasps as if offended and swears he could change your mind. You only roll his eyes and wish him luck.

—

The grass blades brush against your exposed skin. The big oak trees offers shelter from the sun — yet in the dark, light always finds a way to shine through. Through the leaves holes, sunlight finds a way to hit you and you shift around, accidentally bumping into Oikawa, who now tilts his head and smiles warmly at you.

Without realising, you smile back.

“Are you sure it’s alright to be skipping out on practice?” Admittedly, you're beginning to feel a little angsty at the thought of someone getting in trouble because of you.

He lets out a quiet groan and shrugs. “Iwa-chan has been saying I’ve been practicing too hard lately. Plus, it’s not bad to take a break sometimes.” Iwa-chan. You think he might be talking abut Iwaizumi-san from the class next door — whenever you do pass Oikawa in the hallway, the two of them are joined at the hip.

“Oh, okay,” you reply. “You . . . You’re planning on becoming a professional player, right?”

His reply is instant. “Yes, I am.” Certaining in his voice, ambition in his eyes — not an ounce of hesitation and uncertainty.

Nothing about him mirrors you. So, so far, like a shooting star. That green and yellow feeling from earlier returns. You won’t ever say it to him, you think, but he really is an amazing guy.

“I heard scouts come by the school for you,” you mention — you’ve seen those men in suits come and go a few times this year.

“Yeah, they have,” his voice is a little softer now, and if you were to look at him, really look at him, you would've seen something like regret lingering. “What about you?”

You lean back, the texture of the bark feels uncomfortable through your uniform. “I figure I will probably be living a normal life, right here in this town,” you answer, trying to maintain a steady tone.

"What's wrong with a normal life?"

His question almost leaves you laughing at the ridiculousness of it. Almost. Because when those soft brown eyes look at you — really look at you, your reflection whole, all you can feel is sincerity from them. No judgement. You don’t know what to think.

“I don’t know,” you mumble, feeling small, your toes curl. “I mean, kids—people our age usually have big dreams and ambitions, right? You do.”

“Because I have always known what I wanted,” he says, eyes still trained onto you. “But life doesn’t end at eighteen. Some people takes years to figure it out, and sometimes people realise late that what they’ve been chasing is not what they really want.” His fingertips link themselves to yours, all so quick and gentle, you think this may be him comforting you — his hand swallows yours.

“Well, aren’t you so mature, Oikawa?”

He just laughs at that. “My friend did say I should grow up soon . . . I’ll tell him I have someone who thinks I already have.”

“I was teasing.”

He hums, dismissing your words. “I meant to say that it’s fine to take your time, but having a normal and simple life isn't wrong, either.”

The sun is beginning to set — everything glows gold, over the sun, an airplane leaves a long contrail, and you wonder where everyone will be tomorrow. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” he simply replies. His hand squeezes yours and you interlock your fingers in his warmth.

The setting sun is all you can see. Slowly falling into the horizon, ending the day, and you almost wish for time to stop, just for a moment.

Nostalgia swims inside of you, you don't understand why or for what reason, but your eyes get a little glassy at the breathtaking sight. A shutter sound goes off, Oikawa takes a picture of the setting sun with such a serious, and distant look on his face — this moment forever captured in a little photograph.

A summer breeze passes by, lulling you, and in that brief moment, it becomes easier to breath within the heat.

"At least I will always know where to find you."

All you can find yourself to say is: "You're funny, Oikawa."

"I've been known to be a funny guy from time to time."

You laugh, and he smiles upon the sight.

The sunset stretched over the both of you beyond the hill, unable to speak — there was nothing else to be said. The days leading up to summer were covered in a veil of melancholy and uncertainty — you are only eighteen and everything feels possible, yet out of reach. Under the oak tree on a hill that no one knows, here you are, eyes drawn to him — oh, golden boy. What an inconvenient time for something so, so fragile to blossom — awaiting the inevitable change.

(Flowers wither at the end of summer.)

Eighteen, summer is found in between steady hands and pretty brown eyes.

Bone crushing against yours.

White nails pressing into your skin. Stinging of the scattered crescent moons drawn into you. Warmth as red pools beneath your thinning skin.

Your mother hands shake around you, cold, and you want to comfort her, despite the suffocation in your chest. You could justify her leash, because you love her. You understand her, because she is your mother, and you, her only child.

Life is not fair to anyone, but there was always good times within the bad. It wasn't too cruel, despite the small part of you that will forever remain trapped within that August summer day.

On an otherwise pleasant summer day, it was shining with childlike innocence — you, and the sound of your pink sandals flapping against the pavement, and the clear blue skies, and the familiar cicadas ringing in the distant that began to become distorted as red pooled your vision — your mother screams, yet sound does not come through.

The sky was beautiful, you remember.

—

Your room is on the first floor. Everything you need is on the first floor — navigating through the house is easy and simple, because you memorised the lines and how many steps it takes you to get from your room to the kitchen. Everything is organised in a way that makes sense to you and only you.

Your mother doesn’t like gazing upon the clutter, she says your room is a mess, but she doesn’t move anything. She hasn’t since then – that day – and the flooring has been renovated with different textures.

It is not easy loving you, you think. Not anymore, at least.

There was a time when the moon rose, and voices echoed through the halls of your home. Anger and frustration and anxiety lingered in every corner. The voices of your mother and father were only heard during the night — hidden hearts and blame — where burning love morphed into blinded hate.

(Fading hearts slipping away. You stand there cold.)

The click of your white cane tapping against the floor overrides their anger. Everything dies down, their voices, the owls, and you, who lied and said you needed to use the washroom. Their attention falls onto you — their voices soften, and loving hands touch you, but the atmosphere stays the same. One day, the argument died down completely, and for a moment, you believe everything would go to how it was back then — back before the accident.

A week from then your father had left with only a suitcase. Only the sound of wooden floors creaking and the faint click of the door as he slips away remains in your mind. Your mother hasn't talked about it. But it is your fault.

(A part of you and them remains trapped in that summer day, a memory that burns to the touch.)

It is not easy loving you, you know this, even when she says she does.

[They say the eyes are the window to one’s soul. You cannot see her eyes — even as they pierce into you.]

—

It is early in the morning when he wakes to the scorching heat. There are no classes today, or the weeks that follow (thankfully, and finally). Summer turns his room into a sauna, and he chugs the glass filled of lukewarm water on his nightstand. Yukimiya immediately regrets it, unable to soothe the dryness itching his throat.

His mother calls his name, yelling from the kitchen, to remind him of his afternoon appointment. 13:30. Luckily, it is only noon right now, yet his dreadfulness pulls at his ankles, and he does not want to take a step.

His mother places iced hōjicha instead of her usual homemade fruit juice in front of him. Yukimiya instantly understands without a word. She wraps her arm around his shoulder, and says everything will be fine.

The iced tea works on soothing the dryness. His nerves are not evident, and he feigns his usual cool, subconsciously rubbing his eye.

The specialist he goes to see was recommended by one of his father’s best friend. They say there has been nothing, but kind words said about the doctor. And Yukimiya thinks he understands. Dr. Motomura is an old man with gentle eyes, he makes him uncomfortable in the unfamiliar room, yet his next set of words feel like standing in January’s storm.

Optic Neuropathy.

[Everything will be fine.]

He suddenly feels so, so small. Surrounded by flashing lights, cameras and eyes focused on him and only him — the doctor’s gentle eyes feel magnified and they sit in every corner of this little room staring at him and his failure.

It is as if he, and his entire world [football], had become frozen. He, his dream, was stuck frozen in time with no way to move forward — no light shone at the end of the tunnel. And when he cries, Dr. Motomura’s words of comfort do not reach him.

—

“Hey, are you alright?”

The hallway lights are blinding — it takes a second for his eyes to adjust to the brightness. White light stinging him. He’s crouched down, a few feet away from Dr. Motomura’s office, his legs gave out and the remaining tears leaked down his face.

In his misery, he had forgotten he wasn't alone, and he failed to hear footsteps approaching him. His eyes are probably red and puffy and he doesn’t want anyone to see his face like this — tear-stained with snot.

Face to face, reddish eyes meet yours, or attempts to. Your eyes stay closed under this light, and he takes in your appearance. Eyes zeroing in on the white cane held in your hand. “You can’t see,” he blurts out without a thought before slapping a hand over his mouth.

Yukimiya quickly snaps his head up to guage your reaction at his insensitivity. Yet, there’s nothing on your face, and he suddenly feels so small and pathetic.

“As you can see,” you reply, unable to hide a small smile that tugs your lips — a joke, he thinks. Though, he can’t find this situation amusing, his heart aches with regret.

A quiet I am sorry falls from his mouth, ashamed. He wonders if you heard it, he attempts to repeat his apology a little louder, but a familiar, low tone calls out your name.

Mr. Motomura calls for you, and his apology dies right then and there.

“Here.” Your hand reaches out to him, closed-fist, and he meets you half-way. “Cheer up,” you say as hard candy is dropped into his hand, and you disappear down the hallway into the room he exited.

[It tastes like vanilla and condensed milk. Too sweet.]

—

It is a week before you meet again. He runs into you at Dr. Motomura’s office — that is when he finds out you are related to Dr. Motomura. Not by blood, you mention a little later.

You accept when he asks if he can talk to you. You end up sitting at a small park bench, only three minutes away from the office. And you mention that your mother will be here soon.

An awkward silence fills the air, not unpleasant, but not exactly comforting. “I hope you’re feeling better,” you began, taking the opportunity to comfort him once again. “Did you like the candy?”

“. . . I am,” he lies. Yukimiya takes a deep breath before speaking again. “I felt bad for what I said last time. I kept wishing to see you again to apologise.”

“Oh. Yes, he told me that you . . . Well, don’t worry. I wasn’t offended.”

“No, I was insensitive. I am sorry about that, please don’t pretend I didn’t do anything wrong,” he replies, disappointed in himself, his hands clutched together. Each night since that day, he laid in bed, his words and that interaction on repeat.

A light breeze picks up, your cane falls onto his thigh and he reaches for it before it clatters onto the concrete.

“Really, it’s not big deal.” He stays silent, a soft sigh escapes your lips. “Fine. I’ll forgive you if you tell me your name.”

“My name?” Eyes flicking to your face — nothing masked. He answers, “It’s Yukimiya Kenyū.”

You smile, asking, “As in . . . ?”

He stares for a second, before reaching out a hand, “Can I see your hand?”

Without hesitation, you place your hand in his, and honestly, his heart flutters at your trust in him.

Palm open, index finger traces feathery lines — burning to the touch. Sweat builds beneath, unsure if it from the summer heat or a strange collection of nerves — him, or you.

雪宮 as in a snow shine.

剣優 for gentle sword.

You’re giggling by the time he finishes the last stroke. Smile, showing your teeth. “You didn’t have to trace the kanji for me. I only wanted to know the meaning, but thank you.”

“Oh. I thought—no, nevermind . . .” He rubs the back of his neck in embarrassment, internally groaning.

And when you began to laugh, he turned his head away quickly — as if you could see [read] everything written all over his face. He's embarrassed, despite it not really being anything, it could mean something.

Then, you take his hand in yours this time, his palm faced up, and you don’t seem to be bothered by the sweat that had slowly built up from the previous touch. Your finger presses against his palm and when you began to trace, he attempts to memorise each stroke, except you draw dots.

He blinks.

And he is left confused. He wonders if it is in English or another foreign language, and he concentrates on your light touch (your skin against his), except it really is just dots you press into his skin. “What are you drawing?”

You simply reply, “It is my name in braille.”

“Braille?”

“Mhm. For people like me.”

Something flickers inside of him at this moment. A genuine curiosity for the person in front of his eyes — he wants to know you. “How do I write your name again?”

That night, the lamp in his room stays on. Only the faint click of the mouse is heard as his family is fast asleep. He spends a long time browsing through sites and YouTube, his finger tapping against a thick sheet of paper with cells of raised dots.

—

He gets a new pair of glasses. One more fashionable. His agency says it suits him and glasses are considered fashionable these days. Trends always come and go. But those words do make him feel more confident while wearing them. If anything, he thinks they frame his face quite well.

A magazine, one from his shoot from a few months ago, is shoved into his face. “My mother says you are on the front page. I know she isn’t lying to me, but I want to make sure.”

He confirms that it is him, but says he is not alone. It was a couple’s shoot for White Day. Upon seeing the pictures, Yukimiya realises that the fake glasses he wore in that photoshoot are similar to the ones he has on now.

You softly hum, as your finger glides across the page and when you turn to the next one. “Do you think the blue or brown shirt suited you better? The blue is so dark, but I am not sure how fair your skin is.” There are little scratch marks on his image, and his heart warms at recognition.

“Maybe brown? I prefer it over the blue. I like earth tones.”

“When I was a child, I think I liked yellow. Like dandelions, and the sun,” you tell him. In these little moments, he learns more things about you. It may not be much to anyone, but he likes the way he naturally learns without asking — you just speak, and he listens onto every word ever spoken between the two of you.

You like braille. You are learning how to cook, though your mother stays in the kitchen at all times. You ask him what his favourite dish is, and then he asks if he is allowed to be hopeful (you answer maybe, and to not blame you if it tastes terribly). You lost your sight when you were a child, it was an accident, and you never mentioned it again. He doesn't ask. And your childhood favourite colour is yellow of all things.

Admittedly, he does not know of anyone who likes or wears that colour, dandelion yellow, besides during photoshoots. “Well . . . I guess those could be consider earth tones, too.”

“I am pretty sure those don’t classify as earth tones.”

“It is considered part of the Earth, no?” And he knows he probably sounds so ridiculous, uncharacteristic of him, but your laughter makes everything worth it.

He confesses, “When I was a kid, blue was my favourite colour, like the sky.” He doesn't tell you that he went through a red phase during all of his years in junior high.

“The sky is beautiful,” you reply.

He gazes up to white clouds, and contrails on sky blue. It is beautiful, he agrees.

—

It becomes a routine: the gentle footsteps that stop five inches before reaching you, and the soft [tender] voice that calls your name. Soft and gentle, like cherry blossoms petals swaying in Spring.

“I am going to grab a petal that had fallen on top of your head,” Yukimiya states, smooth voice next to your ear, and it tickles — your heart flutters as he waits for your okay before moving.

Minimising the space between the both of you, yet his fingertips are barely felt against the little strands of your hair as he carefully picks up the flower petal.

Yukimiya is a gentleman, so sweet and kind, your best friend. He treats you so gently, as he does with everyone, and it makes you feel equal.

“Oh, thank you. Shall we go now?” You reach out your hand and he instantly catches it, allowing you to be the one to link your arm through his.

—

You seem to take more walks these days. Sometimes, you invite him and he accepts more often than not. But today is Thursday, and Thursdays are meant for you and your mother to go to the market together, except she had a sudden client meeting and could not reschedule.

Your name lights up on Yukimiya’s phone screen, and he answers on the second ring. Twenty minutes later, he is running out the door in his best outfit.

The two of you take a walk, chatting about random things that has happened since the last time you’ve seen each other [exactly four days ago], and he suggests stopping by a café for drinks and mini cakes to which you agree.

The whispers and noises within the café hush out everything, and he moves his chair closer to you to hear better.

“You must be popular,” you point out, twirling your straw in your iced latté, ice clinking against the cup.

“Hm?” Softly scratching his cheek — debating on what the proper reply to that would be. “Well, not really,” he decides to add.

“I feel a lot of stares when we go out together. More than when I am alone. It must be you.”

“Maybe it’s you,” he replies.

You softly giggle, tip of the straw pressing against your bottom lip. “No, these stares feel a little different.”

For some reason, he doesn’t like the way you said that, despite your face and smile looking so bright. Discreet glances thrown in this direction from a few school girls – maybe junior high – and you never once reacted to the growing stares.

“I want to know what you look like,” you say.

He replies before thinking, “You can touch me.” And you do just so.

Cold from the way your hands were cupped around your iced latté, he flinches at the first touch, and you softly giggle at that — the scent of the strawberry cake you had eaten mixed with caffeine surrounds you. He thinks you did it on purpose, but he doesn’t accuse you of so.

Your hand cups his cheek, thumb brushing over his skin, and his breath hitches as you run a finger over his jaw and he swallows harshly.

Yukimiya ignores the stares, or attempts to as he has always grown conscious of the way people look and perceive him, because this is what you have always done. You told him that your other senses are only stronger, because you have no choice, but to rely on them unlike your eyes, and he is sure you can hear the soft giggles and glances every so often as they’ve grown louder and more bold — he is envious that this doesn’t seem to affect you.

The closing distant doesn’t seem to affect you, nor does the way you touch his face — growing red from soft and lingering touches. You seem so unfazed, so concentrated on memorising the bones and blemishes that makes him him.

Your fingers rub along the black frames of his glasses, careful to avoid the lens. “Can you describe your eyes?” You ask, a little quieter than usual. A little drowned out by the sound of the coffee machines.

“My eyes . . . They are orange, I think they’re a little bigger than normal. I get it from my mother,” he slowly answers.

“Orange. Like the sun?”

Yukimiya lets out a quiet drone. “The sunset, I think.”

“Oh, wow. I can see why you're a model,” you reply. “I think these glasses look good on you.”

A ‘pfft’ falls from his mouth, a little less gentlemanly than he liked to be, all at your joke hidden within a compliment. But the noise makes you break out into a grin, and he can't help, but to smile at the sight of your smiling face.

He walks you home today — rare, yet not uncommon. He had memorised the direction to your home, the difference in what street you turn into depending on if you’re walking home or when your mother drives.

A soft, warm glow paints over the horizon as you reach your house. Before you reach the door, you turn around to say, “You’re beautiful, Yukki.”

Your features glowing against the memorising light. Golden, you and your smile. The sun is sinking down so slowly, reluctant to say farewell to this day, and he swallows down everything and anything he isn’t ready to admit.

And for the first time, in this moment, he is glad you can't see him. There's no way for him to hide the redness flowing onto his face and ears and quivering lips.

Even after you had disappeared inside, his eyes linger on the spot you had just been.

—

There is hope for him, his eyes and dream, though the chance is low. Dr. Motomura says, “It’s not a crime to keep on dreaming. No matter how dark it seems, never give up hope.”

And he thanks the elder, sincerity in his words and heart — his voice shakes a little at the end. “I feel like I’ve come to terms with my diagnosis.”

Dr. Motomura proudly smiles.

“Yukimiya-kun,” his doctor unexpectedly calls out from behind as he is about to step out of the office, one foot out the door.

He turns around, and the man’s smile is awfully gentle, yet sad. “I haven’t seen that child so expressive before.” So, so sad. And when the man thanks him for treating you normally — his eyes began to sting, though he does not cry.

—

A confession spills from his lips to you. About his dream. About football, and his worries.

You confess to him, too. You tell him you don't really have a big dream, and you just want to live a normal and happy life.

Smiles shared over secrets, fingertips that nearly touch, and mirror of hearts that feel like it – the two of you – means something.

He asks if you are happy.

Your throat tightens, barely missing a beat when you say yes, and he replies that he is happy, too.

A shooting star passes by overhead, Yukimiya points its location out to you. Shooting stars are meant to be wished upon, and you do just so — a blue streak of glittering hope left behind as it disappears from human eyes.

[Shooting stars are not stars at all. Just specs of dust turned into meteors. Burning up as they inevitably fall down, down, down.]

—

At Miyazaki Station, you wait for the train with him. It’s early, too early — the sun had only just risen, its soft glow barely seen from over the tall buildings surrounding the station.

You yawn beside him. Contagious, as he does, too. “You didn’t have to come,” he says to you, but is grateful all the same. Admittedly, it would’ve feel right if you weren’t here.

“I wanted to.”

And all Yukimiya can say is, “Okay.”

You held hands, not knowing who reached out first, and it fits together like puzzle pieces. Perfectly together. You held hands and didn't let go until the train stopped.

And that faint tremble of your hand causes his heart to ache in a way he had never experienced as he pulls away. Regret immediately comes, and suddenly, he doesn't want to leave. He hugs you first, so sudden and he hopes he did not frighten you, but you hug back instantly without a word. The surrounding noise dies out — the footsteps and voices of people drown out, as does the hissing of the train. Diseal fumes and metal in the air mix in with the sweet scent of your shampoo.

“I’ll see you later,” he whispers, and your arms tighten themselves around his waist as you nod into his chest, before you let go of him first — the warmth of your body vanishes, and he suddenly feels cold.

You don’t say goodbye. You only tell him to call you, and he turns to board the morning train to Tokyo.

He can't find it in himself to look out the window despite this growing need of wanting to catch a glimpse of you just one last time, because he knows you will still be there in the same spot he had left you. You won't leave until you don't the sound of the train slowly fades from your ears.

(You will still be there.)

Eyes closed, from tiredness and not wishing to look back, he lays his head against the glass — the coldness keeps him awake, there’s an ache. Yukimiya reaches into his pockets to grab him cellphone, maybe hoping there is a message from you or his friends, except his fingers brush against paper and he pulls it out in confusion.

White, thick card stock, no smell of ink lingers. Written in braille, his index finger gently glides over the cell of raised dots, careful to not leave even a scratch. Once. Twice. He swallows harshly.

Good luck, Yukki. I believe in you.

Words bubble up, and get trapped in his throat. and strangely, it makes him want to cry, despite his heart being filled to the brim — like a glass jar full of happiness, anticipation, and you.

[Everyone was hopeful.]

note. this was so rushed. i lost motivation and i gave up half-way through ;;; there is probably a ton of grammar and spelling mistakes as it’s unedited