Aoi's POV
The morning bell's echo still lingers in my ears as I press myself against the hallway tile.
Thirty-seven steps to classroom 2-A. Thirty-seven steps past the whispers that follow me
like shadows.
"That's her...the one who..."
"...quit tennis after..."
"...they say she just froze..."
I adjust my headphones until the music drowns them out. The sketchbook in my arms
bears the imprint of my fingernails. Today's drawing - another failed attempt at
capturing the exact angle of Mirai's smile when she'd nail an impossible shot. The eraser
marks look like scars.
The east courtyard stretches to my left. Even without looking, I know the exact number
of steps to the tennis courts. Twenty-eight. Twenty-eight steps to where the chain-link
fence rattles like it's trying to speak. I used to count them every morning, back when my
shoes were court shoes instead of these silent loafers that leave no mark.
A sudden burst of laughter from the courts. My shoulders lock.
Not her laugh. Never her laugh.
Mirai's laugh was like sunlight breaking through clouds - sudden, bright, impossible to
ignore. The way she'd throw her head back, pigtails flying, hands slapping her knees
when something really got her -
"Whoa, careful!"
I jerk sideways as a volleyball team barrels past. Their uniforms are the wrong shade of
blue. Mirai's had a tiny strawberry stain near the hem that never quite washed out -
"Excuse me? Earth to Sketchbook Girl?"
I blink. The classroom door looms in front of me. How long have I been standing here?
Inside, the usual whispers rise and fall as I take my seat. Third row by the window. The
desk to my left - her desk - sits empty as always. Some unspoken rule keeps everyone
away, like it's been enshrined. Even now, four years later, no one dares -
The door slams open.
"Yo! This 2-A?"
Every head whips around. The boy in the doorway grins like he's just served an ace.
Chestnut hair sticks up in chaotic spikes, his uniform jacket hanging open to reveal a
faded band shirt. An earring glints - a tiny silver tennis racket that makes my stomach
drop.
Whispers erupt like brushfire:
"Who's that?"
"Transfer student?"
"Check out his shoes - are those tennis..."
He scans the room, eyes landing on me. On her empty desk. Then he's moving, cutting
through the classroom like he owns it, dropping into her seat like it was waiting for him.
"You're Aoi, right?" He leans in, close enough that I catch the scent of citrus and leather
grip tape. His knee bounces with restless energy. "The Aoi Minami? The tennis -"
My pencil snaps.
The classroom holds its breath. Even the usual background chatter dies as Sensei sighs
from the front. "Haru Tachibana, everyone. Try not to scare him off before lunch."
Haru winks at a giggling group of girls. Their whispers take on a new tone:
"So confident!"
"Is he a player?"
"Why's he talking to her?"
But his attention snaps back to me. To my sketchbook, where Mirai's half-formed face
stares up from the page. His expression does something complicated - recognition?
Sadness?
No. No one gets to look at her like that.
I slam the book shut. The sound echoes like a gunshot.
Haru just grins, sharp and challenging. "Guess I hit a nerve."
My chest burns. Four years of carefully built walls, and this stranger strolls through them
like they're nothing. Like he has the right.
The broken pencil digs into my palm. I used to know how to handle cocky opponents.
Mirai would -
No.
I turn to the window where the cherry blossoms drift past like forgotten tennis balls.
Don't think about her.
Don't remember.
Don't -
Haru's voice drops low, just for me: "She'd hate seeing you like this, you know."
The world tilts.
Because that's the thing - he doesn't say "Mirai." Doesn't have to. The way he says she,
like her name is a secret between us -
The bell rings.
I don't realize I'm shaking until my sketchbook hits the floor, pages splaying open to
reveal a hundred unfinished Mirais watching us with graphite eyes.