Diya_Tejal

The first time Ren saw Aoi, he was crouched beside the old vending machine outside the corner bookstore, sketching something into a tattered notebook. His blue hair shimmered faintly in the spring sun, like the sea had gifted him a crown.
Ren almost walked past him. But the breeze carried a whisper of graphite on paper, the soft rustle of pages turning, and something made him stop.
“You’re drawing?” Ren asked, unsure why he even said it.
Aoi looked up, blinking once like he was waking from a dream. His eyes were a startling grey, like rain on glass.
“…Yeah,” he said quietly. “You’re blocking my light.”
Ren awkwardly stepped aside. “Sorry.”
For a moment, they stared at each other. Then Aoi returned to his sketch, and Ren left, but something about that moment stayed with him — like a bookmark placed in a chapter he hadn't meant to read.

Ren had moved to the seaside town of Hoshinawa after his mother passed away. He lived with his aunt above a quaint little flower shop, spent afternoons helping arrange lilies and writing poems he never let anyone read.
The town was quiet, and Ren liked it that way — until he started seeing Aoi everywhere.
At the bookstore. Near the cliffs. At the library where he sat in silence, scribbling in his notebook, always alone.
They spoke rarely, but when they did, Aoi’s words were careful, like he measured every sentence before letting it out. He didn’t smile much — but when he did, it was faint, fragile, like a star peeking through a cloudy sky.
One day, Ren found a sketch slipped into his poetry book at the library. It was a pencil drawing of the cherry tree that bloomed outside his flower shop — and beneath it, a figure that looked suspiciously like him.
The next time he saw Aoi, he waited until they were both at the vending machine again.
“You left this?” Ren asked, holding up the drawing.
Aoi flushed, eyes darting. “Maybe.”
Ren smiled. “I write poems about that tree.”
“I know,” Aoi murmured. “I’ve read them. You leave the scraps behind.”
A silence stretched between them — but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt… intimate.
“I think,” Aoi said slowly, “your poems make me feel less alone.”
Ren’s chest ached, soft and sudden.
“I think your sketches do the same,” he whispered.
And that was how it started.

Over the weeks, they met more often. Exchanged words, drawings, half-written poems. They didn't need grand declarations. Their closeness grew in the quiet spaces — the brush of hands as they reached for the same book, the shared silence watching the sea, the way their shadows leaned into each other as the sun set.
One day, under the blooming cherry tree, Ren turned to Aoi and said, “You make me want to write again.”
Aoi looked at him, eyes gentler than ever. “Then write me something I can keep.”
Ren leaned in, nervous but certain, and kissed him — soft, slow, like poetry in motion.
And in that moment, the world wasn’t loud or broken.
It was just them — beneath the cherry sky, finding something beautiful in each other.

Beneath the Cherry Sky

The cherry tree outside Mizu Hana had started to bloom.

Pale pink petals drifted down like quiet wishes, gathering on the shop's awning, on the windowsill, on the collar of Ren's jacket as he sat outside with his notebook.

But today, the words wouldn't come.

He'd written Aoi into nearly every poem lately — not always by name, but in sketches of grey eyes, lines about boys who spoke more in silence than sound, and metaphors that always circled back to the sea.

It scared him, how natural it felt.

How deeply Aoi had settled into his days.

They met again that Friday, by the vending machine as always. But something about Aoi felt different — quieter than usual, gaze far away even when Ren stood beside him.

Ren leaned against the rusted metal. "You okay?"

Aoi nodded, then shook his head. "I just… I don't always know how to be around people."

Ren smiled gently. "You don't have to try with me."

Aoi looked at him for a long time. "That's the problem, Ren. I think I stopped trying the moment you sat down beside me. And that scares me."

The words landed like rain on still water — ripples spreading slowly, endlessly.

Ren swallowed. "Why does it scare you?"

Aoi's voice dropped. "Because people leave."

He wanted to say, "I won't."

But promises were delicate things. Especially when made to someone who'd already built walls against them.

Later, at the harbor, they sat in silence again. But this time it felt heavier.

Ren fidgeted with the zipper on his sleeve. "Do you want me to stop coming around?"

Aoi turned sharply. "No. God, no. I just… don't know what to do with all of this."

"You." A pause. "The way you look at me like I matter."

Aoi shut his eyes. "Then don't make me hope. Don't make me want more."

Ren wanted to reach out, to take his hand, to say, I'm not going anywhere. But he didn't. Not yet. Instead, he said:

"I'm not asking for anything more than what you can give. I just want to be here. With you. That's enough."

Aoi exhaled, long and trembling. "Okay."

And just like that, the silence softened again. Not completely, but enough.

Enough for the waves to keep lapping.

Enough for petals to drift into the sea.

Enough for Aoi to finally lean his shoulder against Ren's — just briefly, but like it meant everything.

Chapter 5 Closer Than Silence