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”

Monday came like a ghost that didn't know it wasn't welcome.

The halls buzzed with post-festival energy — tired laughter, leftover decorations half-dangling from doorframes, and stories being retold louder than they actually happened. Aika kept her head down.

She hadn't seen Ren since she left him in the art room.

She found him during lunch. Back on the rooftop. Alone.

He was sitting against the railing, hoodie up, sketchbook closed beside him. He didn't look up when she stepped through the door.

Aika hesitated. Her fingers curled around the strap of her bag like it might anchor her to something solid.

Ren didn't answer right away. Then: "Hey."

It wasn't cold. But it wasn't warm either.

She sat a few feet away. The gap between them felt wider than it looked.

"I'm sorry about the other day," she said softly. "I didn't mean to—"

"You don't have to explain," he cut in, still not looking at her. "I get it."

His head turned, slowly. His eyes finally met hers — tired, flat, unreadable.

"No," she snapped. "Of feeling something and not knowing what to do with it."

Ren laughed — dry, quiet, bitter. "Yeah. Welcome to my whole life."

"Neither is falling for someone who won't let you in."

Aika stood. "You think I don't want to let you in?"

"I don't know what you want, Aika. One minute you're looking at me like I matter, the next you vanish like I never did."

His voice wasn't loud. That's what made it worse. It cracked not because he shouted, but because he didn't.

"I'm trying," she said, voice cracking too. "I'm trying so hard to be brave. But I don't know how to trust someone not to leave."

"I'm not your mom. I'm not going to write you letters from far away and pretend it's love."

"That's not what this is about—"

"Yes, it is. Everything comes back to her. You're still waiting for people to leave just so you can say 'I knew it.'"

Her throat closed. Her hands trembled.

"You don't get to say that," she whispered. "You don't get to act like I'm the only one afraid. You think I don't notice how you pull away too? How you hide behind your sketchbook and sarcasm like it's safer than being seen?"

Then Ren stood. Slid his sketchbook into his bag.

"I thought you understood me," he said.

"Then why does it feel like I'm the only one bleeding for it?"

And just like that — he walked past her, not fast, not dramatic.

That night, she didn't write in her journal.

She stared at the page for an hour.

And I don't know how to fix either.

The Fight