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”

It echoed through the halls like something from a dream — distant, hollow, already a memory. Around her, students clapped, shouted, cried. Teachers smiled in that careful way that said good luck and goodbye at the same time.

Aika just stood by the window of Class 2-B, hands tucked into the sleeves of her cardigan, watching the wind scatter petals across the courtyard.

Cherry blossoms like snow, like secrets, like time trying to slow down for just a second.

Ren was waiting by the shoe lockers.

He wasn't wearing his uniform jacket. Just the white shirt, sleeves rolled, ink stains on the cuffs. His bag slung low, his sketchbook poking from the top.

She didn't say anything at first. Neither did he.

They just looked at each other like maybe they were the only two people the world hadn't let go of yet.

"You done crying?" he asked, teasing just enough to make her smile.

He laughed — soft, surprised, like it snuck out of him without asking permission.

She stepped closer. The noise of the school behind them blurred, faded, like the final scene of a movie that didn't want to end.

"Do you remember the first time we talked?" she asked.

"Yeah. You nearly turned around and bolted."

She looked down at the space between them. It wasn't wide anymore. It hadn't been for a long time.

Ren pulled something from his pocket.

A small pressed flower — the hydrangea.

"You already gave me the past," he said. "So… I'll give you the future."

He opened his sketchbook and handed it to her.

On the inside cover, he'd written in messy black ink:

> One day, we'll read this and laugh.

And maybe we'll still be choosing each other.

She just stepped forward, into him, arms wrapping tight around his waist like the world might try to pull them apart and she wasn't going to let it.

He hugged her back — not too tight. Just enough to say I'm still here.

When she pulled away, she whispered, "Promise me?"

They walked home together one last time — past the same roads, same vending machines, same broken fence with the rusted gate.

Like they weren't walking away from something.

That night, Aika sat at her desk, fingers hovering over a blank page.

But something tells me the story isn't ending.

And for the first time in my life...

The Last Day of School