"Some secrets don't need to be shared to matter. But when someone finds them anyway… everything shifts."
It had rained lightly the night before.
Not enough to soak the ground — just enough to soften it.The air smelled of earth and paper.Of things waiting to be opened.
Hana arrived early.
Earlier than usual.
She needed quiet.
There was something about the way the sky looked that morning — pale, brushed with gray, still waking — that made her chest feel tight. Not heavy. Just full.
She stopped at the old bench near the back entrance of the school courtyard — the one no one really used anymore.
It was tucked behind a camellia bush, where fallen petals made the ground look like someone had spilled color on purpose.
She sat.
Looked at the folded paper in her hands.
Just her words. Her handwriting.No name. No envelope.
She hadn't meant to bring it with her.But somehow, it was in her bag.
Maybe part of her wanted to leave it somewhere.Maybe that part had been louder than she thought.
She unfolded it once more.
"You don't know who I am.But sometimes, I wonder if you feel me watching.Not in the way people watch each other.More like… how you notice the wind is there, even if you can't see it.I notice you like that."
"When you look down before smiling,when you hesitate before you speak,when you pause after someone leaves —that's when I think I see the most of you."
"I'm not brave enough to give this to you.But writing it helps me remember I exist."
Hana stared at the lines a long time.
Then she folded the page again — neatly.No crease out of place.
She stood up.Glanced around.
And quietly slid the paper between the wooden slats of the bench.
Hidden.
Not abandoned.
Just… left behind.
Later that morning, the school moved as usual — voices, bags, hallway laughter.
No one noticed the girl who passed that same bench hours later, walking slower than usual.
Sayaka.
She wasn't planning to go that way.
But her shoe had come loose. And she'd stepped aside to fix it.
That's when she saw it.
A small, folded paper — white, dry, undisturbed — pressed against the wood like a thought too shy to be loud.
She almost didn't touch it.
She wasn't nosy.
But something about the way it sat there, folded so carefully, made her pause.
She picked it up.
Unfolded it.
Read.
Slowly.
And then she held it in both hands. Lightly.As if afraid her fingers might crush the words.
The writing wasn't Ren's.She knew that much.
She'd seen his notebook before. His lines were tighter. More angular.
This was softer.Gentler.
It was a girl's hand.
Delicate, but not unsure.
She read it again.
And the second time, it hit differently.
"...that's when I think I see the most of you."
She lowered the paper.
Her eyes wandered toward the upper classroom windows —where Ren usually sat by the far wall.
A thought pressed gently against her chest.
"Was this about him?"
And then, just as quickly:"Whose voice is this?"
She didn't show it to anyone.
She folded the note again, the same way it had been.Perfectly.
And tucked it into her planner.Not to steal it.Just to hold it a little longer.
That afternoon, Sayaka walked past the courtyard steps where Ren sat.
He was drawing again — pencil tracing something she couldn't see.
She didn't stop.Didn't wave.
But she walked a little slower.
And for the first time in days, she looked at him — really looked —and wondered what he would do if he knew.
If he knew someone had written him that way.Seen him that clearly.
And hadn't said a word.
Far above, in the library window, Hana saw the moment.
Saw Sayaka's head tilt.Ren's glance upward.
And suddenly, the space between them all felt sharp — like a page about to tear.
She pressed her hand to her chest.
The bench was empty now.
And she knew — somehow — the letter was gone.