Hiyori had always believed that some people entered your life and stayed there forever.
Asahi was one of them.
They had met in kindergarten, two children left lingering by the classroom door after everyone else had gone home. He had offered her half his apple juice without a word, and she had accepted it as if it were the most natural thing in the world. From that moment on, he became constant—walking her home, sitting beside her in class, listening when she spoke like her thoughts mattered.
For a long time, he was the only one who truly understood her.
Hiyori fell in love with him at fifteen, on an ordinary summer evening filled with cicadas and fading sunlight. Asahi had been talking about something trivial, laughing softly, and she had watched him and realised that this feeling—warm, frightening, and irreversible—had already taken root.
She never told him.
Some loves, she decided, were meant to be carried quietly.
By the time she was twenty and in university, life had grown busier. She lived away from home, balanced lectures and deadlines, and learned how to be independent. Yet whenever she returned, some things never changed.
Asahi was still there.
So was Hinako—her twin sister, identical in appearance but brighter in spirit. Hinako laughed easily, spoke freely, and drew people towards her without effort. Where Hiyori observed, Hinako shone.
Hiyori noticed the shift before anyone else did.
The way Asahi lingered when Hinako spoke. The way his eyes softened when she smiled. The way his laughter came more easily around her.
It didn’t hurt immediately. It felt more like understanding.
The truth settled fully one afternoon in a small café near campus. Hinako was animatedly recounting a story, hands moving, eyes alight. Asahi watched her as though nothing else existed, like the world had narrowed to that moment alone.
Hiyori stirred her untouched drink and smiled to herself.
She loved him—but she loved him enough to let him be happy.
When Asahi finally spoke to her about it, his voice was hesitant, careful.
“I think I like Hinako,” he said, eyes searching hers, unsure.
Hiyori didn’t hesitate. “She’s wonderful,” she replied gently. “Anyone would be lucky to love her.”
Relief washed over his face. “You really think so?”
“I do,” she said, and meant it completely. “You have my blessing.”
There was no bitterness in her words. No hidden resentment. Loving him had never been about possession.
Hinako, blissfully unaware, later chatted to her about Asahi with sparkling eyes—about how kind he was, how comfortable he made her feel.
Hiyori listened. She laughed. She encouraged her.
And she was sincere.
That night, alone in her room, she allowed herself a moment of quiet sadness—but it wasn’t despair. It was acceptance. First love didn’t need to be tragic to be real.
As time passed, the ache softened. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the feeling faded—not erased, but transformed. Asahi remained what he had always been: her best friend. Someone she trusted. Someone who would stand beside her for the rest of her life.
If he became more, she thought with a small smile, then he would simply become her brother-in-law.
That felt right too.
One day, she knew, she would meet someone who saw her the way Asahi saw Hinako. Someone who understood her silences, who chose her without hesitation. Someone who felt like home.
Just as Hinako had found Asahi.
And when that day came, Hiyori would look back on her first love not with regret—but with gratitude.
Because letting go had not broken her.
It had made space for something new.
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