The first true heatwave of summer swept through the city like a whisper that grew into a shout. Classrooms became mini greenhouses, fans buzzed constantly in the background, and students became increasingly sluggish, their shirts sticking to their backs, their attention drifting as easily as the clouds outside. But for Izumi Ichikawa, summer wasn't a season of discomfort—it had become a gentle echo of memory.
It had been over a month since Ayato left.
He had stopped counting the days.
Not because he had forgotten her, but because he no longer needed numbers to remind him of her presence. She lived in the quiet spaces of his routines—in the way he paused under their old sakura tree on the way home, in the simple lunches he packed, now paired with tiny doodles in the corner of his bento box. Every time he walked into the anime clubroom, he felt a sense of calm belonging, as if he had always been part of that world but just hadn't opened the door until she pushed it open for him.
Today, though, something was different.
When Izumi walked into class, a small cluster of students had gathered near the window row, buzzing with excitement. Their voices were hushed but urgent—something about a new transfer, a girl from another district, and how she was supposedly "pretty serious-looking" and "maybe from a private academy."
He didn't pay it much attention.
Transfers weren't that unusual. And besides, he didn't think anything—or anyone—could really shift his world the way Ayato had. That kind of miracle only struck once, didn't it?
Still, when the teacher entered with someone following quietly behind, even Izumi looked up.
The new girl stepped in slowly. Her uniform was crisply pressed, her dark brown hair tied back in a neat braid, her posture straight and formal. There was something about her—poised but closed off, like a book no one had opened yet.
Her name was Mizuki Hoshino.
Her voice, when she introduced herself, was soft but clear, with a calm composure that felt strangely familiar.
The teacher gestured toward the seating chart, scanning the room. And then, to Izumi's quiet surprise, pointed to the empty seat beside him—the one Ayato used to take whenever she visited from the other class.
"Please take the seat next to Ichikawa."
Mizuki nodded and made her way over. She didn't say anything as she sat, just offered him a polite glance and a slight bow.
Izumi nodded back.
For a long while, that was all.
The day passed with the rhythm of typical lessons, the heat thick in the air, chalk squeaking against the blackboard, students fanning themselves with notebooks. Izumi kept to himself, as he always had—at least on the surface. But from the corner of his eye, he occasionally caught glimpses of Mizuki. The way she copied down notes with mechanical precision. The quiet way she seemed to draw a small invisible boundary around herself. He recognized that silence. Not the comfortable silence of Ayato, who had filled the air with her light-hearted chatter, but the defensive kind. The kind he had worn like armor for years.
During lunch, the anime club had gathered in their usual spot beneath the side tree in the courtyard. Takano waved at Izumi as he passed, but he shook his head. Today, he needed a moment alone to think.
He walked up to the rooftop, the place that had become a quiet sanctuary, and sat down near the edge, unwrapping his lunch. The city sprawled out below him, the school rooftops glittering faintly with heat shimmer.
He pulled out his sketchpad and opened to a blank page.
Today, he didn't draw memories.
He drew the new girl.
Not in detail—just the way she sat, slightly hunched, as if trying to disappear. The tension in her shoulders. The way her eyes didn't meet anyone's.
And as he shaded the sketch, he realized something strange.
He wanted to know her story.
Not out of curiosity, but out of something deeper—recognition.
He had once been like her. And someone had reached out.
Maybe now, it was his turn.
Later that day, after class, he stayed behind to gather his things slowly. Mizuki remained too, organizing her stationery with almost robotic care. The room emptied out, leaving just the two of them in an awkward stillness.
Izumi glanced at her.
"You're good at notes," he said quietly.
She looked up, startled. "Oh. Thank you."
"You transferred from far?"
She hesitated, then nodded. "From Nagoya."
"Must be tough… adjusting."
She blinked. "Yes."
A pause.
"I was new once, too," he said. "Didn't talk much. Still don't, I guess."
Mizuki tilted her head slightly, curiosity flickering behind her neutral gaze.
Izumi stood up and picked up his bag.
"If you ever need help catching up, I sit here every day."
And with that, he left.
He didn't look back.
He didn't need to.
Because maybe, just maybe, something had shifted again.
Something small.
But meaningful.
The next few days unfolded with quiet rhythm. Mizuki Hoshino remained distant but not unfriendly. She greeted Izumi with a polite nod every morning and focused sharply during class, never raising her hand, never falling behind. Most of their classmates had stopped trying to talk to her. They labeled her "cool" or "too serious," the same way they had once labeled Izumi.
But Izumi saw past it.
He saw the subtle signs—the way Mizuki lingered a moment longer than necessary by the window, as if looking for something beyond the schoolyard. The way her hands sometimes tightened around her pencil when a group laughed too loudly nearby. She wasn't cold. She was cautious. And Izumi understood that caution like a mirror.
One afternoon, during lunch break, he brought two juice boxes with him to the rooftop. The sky was brighter than usual, the clouds thinner and more scattered like the thoughts in his head. He sat in his usual spot and waited.
Sure enough, he heard the door creak open minutes later. Mizuki stepped through, her shoes soft against the concrete. She looked surprised to see him—but didn't turn away.
"I thought no one came up here," she said, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
"Not many do. Just me," he replied, then held out one of the juice boxes. "Apple. I guessed."
There was a pause. Then, with the smallest of nods, Mizuki took the juice and sat a short distance from him.
The wind passed between them like a third presence.
For a while, they didn't speak. But it wasn't uncomfortable.
Izumi broke the silence first. "I used to come up here with someone."
Mizuki didn't ask who. She simply sipped her juice and waited.
"She moved away last month. Her name was Ayato. She was… loud. Kind. She changed a lot of things for me."
Mizuki turned to him then, her eyes softer. "You must miss her."
"I do," he said honestly. "But… I'm glad I met her. Even if it hurts a little now."
Another quiet settled over them. Then Mizuki spoke, her voice lower. "My father's job moved us here. Third time in five years."
Izumi looked at her, surprised.
"I stopped making close friends," she continued. "I got tired of saying goodbye."
He nodded slowly. "It's easier to stay quiet. Feels safer."
"Yes," she agreed.
"But eventually," he added, "someone will break that silence. And maybe… it's worth it."
Mizuki looked at him for a long moment. Then, very faintly, she smiled.
It wasn't wide. It wasn't bold.
But it was real.
Over the next week, things changed subtly. Mizuki began to ask Izumi questions during class. Not just about lessons, but small things—when assignments were due, what the teacher meant, how he organized his notes. It started as practical curiosity, but it grew.
One afternoon, she asked if he liked art. He nodded. The next day, she left a tiny eraser on his desk shaped like a pencil. "For your sketches," she said, not waiting for a thank-you.
Another day, she brought him a small pack of cookies. "Too many," she said. "Take some."
He offered her part of his lunch in return.
That's how it began.
A silent rhythm of exchanges.
No confessions. No labels.
Just small kindnesses stitched together like invisible thread.
One day after class, as the sky turned golden behind the windows, Izumi packed his things and turned to Mizuki.
"I go to the park sometimes. Near the riverside. There's a bench under a big tree."
She looked at him. "What do you do there?"
"Sketch. Think. Remember."
She hesitated, then asked, "Can I come?"
He nodded.
They walked together, not speaking much.
When they arrived at the park, the breeze was soft, the air tinged with the scent of hydrangeas. They sat together under the tree—one that had once stood as a backdrop to his quiet grief.
Izumi took out his sketchpad and began drawing the horizon. Mizuki watched, fascinated by the movement of his hand. The wind carried the faint sound of laughter from a nearby couple, and somewhere a cicada began its slow summer song.
Izumi looked at her.
"You know," he said, "I don't think Ayato would've wanted me to stay stuck in the past."
Mizuki looked up.
"She always pushed me to speak, to live. And now… I think I can do that."
There was no reply, just a slow understanding in her eyes.
"Thank you for sitting beside me," he added.
She smiled again, wider this time.
"Maybe," she said, "we both needed someone to sit with."
That night, Izumi placed a new sketch on his wall. It was of the riverside bench. Two figures sat beneath the tree—one with braided hair, the other with a pencil in hand.
Not replacing a memory.
But adding to it.
Because life didn't pause when someone left. It bent. Shifted. Grew.
And sometimes, it brought new people to sit beside you in the silence.