Chapter 30: The Unspoken Ache and a Corridor's Chasm

The image of Katya, silently crying into her worn Bryusov anthology, lingered in Alex's mind for the rest of that torturous week. It wasn't just a memory—it was a wound, raw and persistent, reminding him of the hurt he'd caused. A sharp contrast to the joyful, delicate bond they'd shared mere days ago. Now, every step into Seiwa International Academy felt like crossing a battlefield of his own making, littered with the wreckage of trust, laughter, and a once-effortless closeness he now missed with an ache that felt almost physical.

He honored his promise, keeping the distance she had asked for. The space between them stretched like a chasm of wordless apologies and buried longing. He avoided her usual routes, picked alternate lunch spots, and even caught himself holding his breath as he passed her locker, as if the very air around it carried her sadness.

The silence between them had grown into something almost sentient—dense and suffocating. It hung in the places their glances used to meet, in the quiet where her soft Russian used to pull him closer, offering glimpses of the world behind her eyes. Now, when he overheard her speak—often to Aoi Nakamura, her expression shuttered—it was in weary tones that twisted something inside him.

"Я всё ещё не могу… я не могу это всё уложить в голове, Аой-тян," ("I still can't… I can't get my head around all of this, Aoi-chan,") he once heard Katya murmur, her voice thin, brittle. "Он сказал, что любит меня… но как можно любить кого-то, зная все его самые глупые, самые тайные мысли? Это… это кажется неправильным. И всё же…" ("He said he loves me… but how can you love someone knowing all their silliest, most secret thoughts? It… it feels wrong. And yet…") Her words faded, but that unresolved "and yet" echoed in Alex's mind, cruel in its ambiguity.

He noticed the toll it was taking on her. The circles under her eyes deepened, and her usual meticulousness with her appearance began to slip—subtle, but telling. She still excelled in class; her brilliance was undiminished. But the spark—the quiet intensity he had grown to love—was dulled. And he had done that. The guilt clung to him like a shadow.

His own grades, usually effortless, now required a herculean focus. His once-disciplined mind was overrun with fragments of their last conversation, her tear-streaked face, the crushing silence since. He would find himself staring at a page, reading the same line over and over, lost in the maze of regret and yearning.

Kenji, in his charmingly blunt way, refused to let it slide. "Dude, it's been a week," he said after Friday's calculus class, cornering Alex with a look of exasperated sympathy. "The Arctic tundra between you and Volkov-san is giving me frostbite. Are you seriously not gonna talk about it? I could mediate, you know. I'm surprisingly good at conflict resolution, especially if snacks are involved."

Alex mustered a faint smile. "Thanks, Kenji. But this is… something we have to figure out on our own." Or rather, something he had to wait for Katya to figure out. And hope—somehow, impossibly—that she still wanted him in her answer.

"If you say so," Kenji said, unconvinced. "But it's painful watching you two sulk around. It's like the sun and moon broke up, and now the whole sky's just gray." He clapped Alex's shoulder. "Don't let it drag on forever, man. Life's too short for this much angst. Even for brainiacs."

Life's too short. The words echoed. Each silent day felt like a door closing, another inch added to the emotional wall between them. He had thought about writing her—letters he drafted a dozen times in his head. Not more apologies. Not pleas. Just something to say he was still there, still feeling it all. But every time, he held back. She'd asked for space. Pushing, even gently, felt like another trespass.

That Friday afternoon, as the final bell released the weary tide of students into the weekend, Alex wandered the corridor toward the exit. His backpack felt heavier than usual, the air thicker with a week's worth of missed chances and swallowed words. So lost in thought, he almost didn't notice her.

Katya stood near the bulletin board by the main entrance, staring blankly at a poster for an inter-school debate. Her posture was tense, gaze distant—looking, but not really seeing. She seemed smaller than usual. Fragile. Alone.

Their paths were about to cross. He could have turned. Walked a different route. Continued the carefully maintained silence. But something about the slope of her shoulders, the faint tremble in her stillness—it pulled at him. A gravitational force stronger than guilt.

She looked up as he neared. Her eyes widened, just barely, before her usual guarded expression took over. She straightened, clutching her bag's strap, steeling herself. Expecting him to walk by. To keep their uneasy truce.

But Alex stopped. He had to. Seeing her this close, and doing nothing, felt unbearable.

"Katya," he said softly, voice rough from disuse in her presence.

She flinched at the sound of her name. Her eyes darted to his, then away, fixing somewhere over his shoulder. "Он… он заговорил со мной," she whispered under her breath, almost like she didn't believe it. ("He… he spoke to me.")

"I… I just wanted to say…" he started, then faltered. What could he possibly say that hadn't already made things worse? That he was sorry? Done. That he loved her? Also done—and it had only deepened her confusion. That he missed her? That he missed everything? The words felt hollow next to the depth of what he felt.

So he settled for something honest. Simple. "I hope you have a restful weekend, Katya."

It wasn't grand. It wasn't even brave. But it was real. A small gesture, a brittle olive branch extended across the gulf that still yawned between them. He didn't expect a reply. Not really. He was ready for silence. For her to turn away. For another quiet rejection.

But she didn't move. Her gaze remained averted, her fingers still twisted in her bag strap. The silence held, taut with everything unspoken.

Then, so faintly he almost missed it, she whispered, "И тебе… Алексей-кун." ("And you too… Alexey-kun.") Her voice was quiet, tired—but it was something. Not a dismissal. Not a wall slammed shut. Just… two words. And you too.

Not forgiveness. Not an invitation. But not the end, either. A flicker. A breath.

Still without looking at him, she turned and slipped into the crowd of students flowing toward the exit, her figure swallowed by the motion of the afternoon rush.

Alex remained rooted, his heart beating faster. A whole week of silence, and now—this. Two words. Almost nothing. But to him, it felt like the axis of the earth had shifted by a single, crucial degree.

He knew the road ahead would be long, the repair slow and uncertain. Trust wasn't rebuilt overnight. Not after what he'd done. But as he turned to follow the tide of students toward the school gate, the crushing weight on his chest felt a little lighter.

The silence still hung between them. The ache still lingered. But for the first time in days, Alex allowed himself to feel it—hope. Quiet, trembling, almost afraid to exist. But there.

Maybe the world hadn't tilted beyond repair. Maybe, just maybe, the sun and moon hadn't set for good. And he would wait, no matter how long it took, for them to rise again—together.