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”

That's how long it had been since the last bell. Since cherry blossoms fell around goodbye, and Ren whispered "I'll stay" like it was a vow.

Aika Misora's name was printed on the cover of the book in her lap.

"The Rooftop Where Flowers Bloom" — her debut.

It was slim. Simple. A children's story with watercolor illustrations and barely 400 words.

But those 400 words were everything.

They were the rain. The rooftop. The boy who gave her silence that healed.

She waited outside the publisher's office, coffee going cold in her hand, the early spring sun warming her cheeks as Tokyo buzzed around her like it always had — fast, disinterested, alive.

She didn't look up until she felt someone stop in front of her.

Still wore black like it was armor. Still had that slow, tired way of smiling — like it took effort, but it was always worth it.

But his hair was a little longer now. His jaw sharper. And when he looked at her, he didn't look away.

She stood. "Took you long enough."

"You changed the café spot last minute."

"You should've known I'd do that."

Then: "You look like a main character."

"You look like you haven't slept in three days."

"I haven't," he said. "Deadlines."

And for the first time in years, the air between them didn't feel like waiting.

The café was quiet. Third floor. Window seats. Rain in the distance. Just like old times, except this wasn't high school. This wasn't a rooftop.

This was two adults trying to navigate the version of each other they had become.

Ren pulled out the test prints from his bag.

She scanned the pages, heart thudding like it was five years ago again.

"You gave the girl my hands," she whispered.

Ren didn't look up. "I always did."

He turned to her then, his fingers brushing the edge of her cup.

She hesitated. Then reached into her satchel and pulled out a thin, battered notebook.

"I kept it," she said. "All these years. Even when we barely talked."

Ren looked at it like a ghost had touched the table.

"I'm sorry I didn't stay better," he said. "I tried. But the distance—"

"You stayed enough," she said. "You stayed in the ways that mattered."

Tears threatened the edges of her vision.

"I wrote that book," she whispered, "because I didn't know how else to say I still loved you."

Ren reached across the table, took her hand, and for a long, quiet moment, they just held on.

Like something built from everything that had come before.

That night, Aika opened a blank page in her current journal and wrote:

> Five years later, we're still pages in the same book. We changed fonts. Changed tone. Grew margins. But we kept the same spine.

He's not just my past. He's the future I get to draw with both hands.

Chapter 11 – Five Years Later