"If I write something, will I be part of the story too?"
Sayaka sat at her desk, the window half open.The wind moved through her room like a ghost, lifting pages, making the curtains sigh.
She had her phone in her hand. Then put it down.Picked it up again. Then set it aside for good.
Words on a screen wouldn't be enough.
Not this time.
She opened her drawer and pulled out a notebook she hadn't touched in months. The one with the faded blue cover and the creased corner where she used to write song lyrics she never sang.
Tonight, she didn't want to write a song.
She wanted to write a letter.
Not to Ren. Not directly.
She wasn't sure who it was for, not exactly.
But she imagined it landing in someone's hands — maybe Hana's.Maybe no one's.
Still, the words came.
"I've been watching you."
She paused. Crossed it out.
Too direct.
She tried again.
"Sometimes, people don't know they're being seen.But that doesn't mean no one is watching."
Better.
Her pen moved slowly, but surely.The ink felt heavier than usual. Or maybe it was just her chest.
"You're quiet. Both of you. Like you're living in a world the rest of us can't quite reach.And maybe that's why I notice.Because I'm just outside of it."
Sayaka tapped her fingers on the edge of the paper.
She didn't want to sound bitter.She wasn't sure she even was.
But there was something inside her —a knot, a question, an ache —that wouldn't untangle unless she let it out.
"Maybe I'm not part of your story.But I still feel its weight when I walk by."
She stopped writing.
Looked at the last line. Underlined the word "still."
Then folded the page.
The next morning, she walked to school earlier than usual.
The courtyard was empty. Birds chirped lazily in the branches above. The petals on the ground were wet with dew.
She stood in front of the mailbox.
For a second, she considered tearing the note in half.
She almost did.
But then — her fingers moved on their own.
She slipped the folded page inside. No name. No signature.
Just a piece of herself.
And then she left.
Later that day, Ren found the letter.
He read it twice. Slowly.
Then tucked it into his sketchbook without a word.
He didn't know who wrote it.
But somehow… it made sense.
Hana never saw him read it.
But that afternoon, when she sat down under the tree, she looked at him longer than usual.
And he looked back.
Both of them wondering — silently — if someone else had just stepped into their story.