KREEZO

Aika Misora never planned to fall in love. Not with the boy who sat alone on rooftops, or the one who pressed flowers instead of speaking his pain. But some stories don’t wait to be written — they bloom in silence, in shared glances, in the weight of unsaid things.

After her mother’s quiet abandonment, Aika survives high school by keeping her heart zipped shut. Her world is routine: library lunches, hushed notebooks, and pretending everything’s fine. Until she meets Ren Hayashi, the quiet sketch-artist with rumors on his name and bruises in his smile.

He doesn’t talk much. But his silence says everything.

Drawn together by chance — and maybe fate — the two begin to orbit each other in secret places: the abandoned rooftop, the library’s back corner, the flower shop that smells like lost time. As seasons shift, so do they. Slowly. Tenderly. Terrifyingly.

But love, even the gentle kind, brings buried pain to the surface. And when a long-unopened letter from Aika’s mother resurfaces, the wounds between them deepen — not enough to break, but enough to test whether two broken hearts can really hold each other.

A soft, grief-tinged coming-of-age romance about first love, second chances, and what it means to stay — even when everything else leaves.

“I’ll Still Love You When We’re Old”

The cultural festival came with too much noise.

Streamers tangled from windows, paper lanterns swayed on strings like forgotten prayers, and laughter spilled down hallways like sunlight you couldn't avoid. Aika liked festivals, usually. The way the school transformed for a day — like it was pretending to be somewhere else, someone else.

She found Ren by the back courtyard, behind the first-year haunted house booth. He wasn't working a stall or laughing with classmates. Just leaning against the wall, sipping warm tea from a paper cup like he was somewhere else in his head.

She walked over. No words. Just her shadow brushing into his.

He glanced at her, soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Didn't think you'd come," he said.

"I didn't think you'd show up either."

She noticed the edge of his sketchbook peeking from his coat pocket.

"I was," he said. "Until the noise got louder than the page."

They walked. Not toward anything. Just… with each other. Past stalls of caramel-drenched apples and yakisoba. Past a makeshift stage where a girl in a bunny hoodie sang off-key. Past a row of third-years doing fake fortune-telling with tarot cards they clearly just Googled.

"Want to disappear for a bit?" he asked.

She nodded before he finished the sentence.

The art room was empty. Dim light, faint smell of paint thinner and pencil shavings. Ren moved to the window, pushed it open just a crack.

"You okay?" he asked, not looking at her.

Aika leaned against a table. "Yeah. Just… overstimulated."

He pulled the sketchbook out of his coat. Held it in both hands. Looked at it like it weighed more than it should.

He nodded. Flipped to the page. Handed it over.

It was a drawing of her. Not perfectly realistic, not flawless — but soft. Honest. Her hair tucked behind her ear. Her hands holding a flower she didn't recognize. Her eyes half-closed, like she was listening to something far away.

"Is that… how you see me?" she asked, breath thinner than she meant it to be.

"It's how I feel you," he corrected quietly.

She stared at the sketch. Something pressed in her chest — tight, hot, and tender all at once.

"Aika," he said, and her name sounded different this time.

"I…" he started, voice barely a thread, "I think I—"

She cut him off. Not with words. Not even on purpose.

Like the thing between them had shattered without sound.

She didn't know why she did it. Why her body moved like it was scared of the thing she wanted most. Maybe it was habit. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was the part of her that still hadn't opened that letter.

He shook his head, looked away. "It's okay. I wasn't—I mean, it's stupid anyway."

She handed the sketchbook back carefully, like it might crumble.

"I should… probably go help my class. The café's short on people."

And when she left, the door clicked shut behind her like a secret someone chose not to keep.

That night, Aika sat in her room with her phone off, the festival glow still clinging to her skin like dust. She didn't open her journal.

She just looked at the sketch he drew.

> "Why am I always scared of the things that feel safe?"

The Almost Confession