Haruma woke one morning and didn’t speak.
Not to the doctors.
Not to the nurses.
Not even to their parents.
His eyes opened, dark and unfocused, and when strangers came too close, his body trembled violently, breath hitching as if he were drowning in air. Alarms were raised more than once — not because his heart failed, but because fear had taken hold of him so completely that his body forgot how to calm itself.
The first time Yuma saw Haruma, he didn’t recognise him.
His brother lay on the hospital bed, swallowed by white sheets and tangled wires, his small body impossibly still. Tubes ran from his arms, his nose, his mouth — machines surrounding him hummed and beeped, their steady rhythm the only proof that Haruma was still alive.
Yuma’s breath caught in his throat.
Haruma was supposed to be waiting by the school gate.
Shuuji checked his watch for the third time, irritation prickling beneath his skin. Parents were already pulling away, children waving as cars disappeared down the road. The afternoon bell had rung nearly fifteen minutes ago.
Still no Haruma.
Hi, it’s Aika Miaka here.
First of all, I’d like to officially call it a wrap on Short Story 7: Where Love Learns to Let Go.
I don’t usually write love stories, mainly because I’ve never been quite sure how to approach them. This one, however, was inspired by a drama I watched — a familiar story of a childhood friend who harbours a long-time crush but can never be with the person she loves, simply because she is the second female lead. That sense of suppressed emotion, followed by heartbreak, reminded me how unforgettable a first love can be.
Hiyori introduced Ren on a quiet Saturday afternoon.
They met at the café Hinako had recently opened a small corner for weekend visitors. The sun slanted softly through the windows, making everything feel calm and familiar.
Asahi was the first to smile, extending a hand without hesitation.
“So you’re the one,” he said, eyes twinkling.
A month passed.
Life continued in its familiar rhythm—long hours, tired evenings, and meals eaten too late. Hiyori thought of him sometimes, but without longing. Just curiosity, faint and unforced.
They met again by coincidence.
It was nearly midnight at a convenience store, fluorescent lights buzzing softly overhead. Hiyori stood in front of the shelves, staring blankly at instant noodles, too exhausted to decide. Overtime had drained her completely.
Four years was a long time.
Long enough for first love to settle into memory, no longer sharp at the edges. Long enough for Hiyori to look back without pain, only a quiet fondness—like revisiting a place she once lived in, grateful for what it had been.
Asahi and Hinako had been together for four years now.
