"Sometimes, the loudest feelings pass through glances we pretend not to see."
The week unfolded like a photograph left out in the sun — softening, fading at the edges.
No new letters.
No new drawings.
But something had changed.
Not visible. Not spoken.
Just… present.
Ren sat beneath the tree, as always. Sketchbook closed on his lap.
He didn't draw that day.
His pencil hovered, paused, retreated.
Across the courtyard, Hana sat by the low stone wall that edged the garden.Close enough to watch.Far enough to pretend she wasn't.
She didn't read today.She didn't write either.
But her eyes drifted toward him.Just for a second.Then away again.
He noticed.
But he didn't look back.
Not yet.
Sayaka walked slower past the garden now.Sometimes her steps hesitated — barely.A stutter in rhythm.
She didn't look directly at Ren.
But she felt when he turned his head.
Felt it like a whisper behind her ear.
And that was enough.
For now.
In class, Hana glanced sideways once.
Ren was looking out the window.
His hand resting on the corner of his desk, still.
Not sketching.
Not writing.
Just... still.
She opened her notebook, pretending to take notes.
But her mind was somewhere between the branches outside, and the letter she still hadn't mentioned.
Sayaka, two rows behind, noticed.
She didn't watch them.She wasn't watching anyone.
But she felt the room shift.
Something unspoken was unfolding in that silence.
Not a triangle.
A circle with no center.
Later, when the final bell rang, Ren walked slower than usual.He waited near the gates, sketchbook pressed under his arm.
Sayaka passed by first.She gave the faintest nod.
He returned it — just barely.
A heartbeat of acknowledgment.
A shared thread neither would name yet.
Then Hana approached — her steps measured.
She didn't pause.Didn't speak.
But as she walked past him, her hand brushed lightly — almost accidentally — against the edge of his book.
It was enough to say:
"I see you."
Even if she couldn't say more than that.
Ren stood still long after both girls were gone.
The air was cooling.
The wind carried cherry petals down the path like pale confessions.
And in his chest, something stirred that had no name.
Yet.