Chapter 3 - Echoes in the Silence
The weekend passed like a soft, flickering dream. Nanami Murakawa spent most of it in her room, as she usually did, curled up beside a small stack of books and her favorite sketchpad. But something had changed.
Yoshiro Takahashi lingered in her thoughts.
Every time her pencil touched paper, his face crept into her lines—his warm smile, his attentive gaze, even the slightly messy strands of hair that never quite stayed down.
She found herself sketching him from memory, surprised at how clearly he lived in her mind after only two days.
And she didn't hate it.
But with that realization came another: the unease of growing closer to someone. She had built her world so carefully—quiet, isolated, safe. Letting someone in meant risking everything she had preserved.
Still, Monday arrived, and with it, a sense of anticipation she hadn't felt in years.
Tensei High was already buzzing when Nanami arrived early. The courtyard was bathed in pale morning sunlight, and a soft breeze danced across the leaves of the tall camphor tree near the school gates.
She walked the halls quietly, head slightly down, books pressed to her chest. When she reached her classroom, it was nearly empty. She settled into her seat and opened a book, but her eyes skimmed the same line four times without absorbing a word.
She didn't know what she was waiting for until she heard his voice.
"Morning, Nanami."
Her heart jumped.
She looked up slowly. Yoshiro stood in the doorway, casually slinging his bag onto one shoulder. His smile was gentle, like always.
"…Good morning, Takahashi-kun."
He walked past his friends—ignoring the calls and jokes tossed his way—and stopped by her desk. "Can I sit?"
Nanami blinked. "Here?"
"Just for a minute."
She nodded, and he pulled a chair close.
"You look tired," he said.
She hesitated, brushing her hair behind one ear. "I didn't sleep much."
"Thinking about me?"
Her eyes widened. Her hand froze mid-movement.
He laughed softly. "Sorry. That was dumb. Just joking."
"…Maybe a little," she murmured.
Yoshiro blinked.
She didn't meet his eyes, cheeks turning red. "I… thought about what you said. About not disappearing."
He leaned his arms on the desk, studying her. "And?"
"I don't know if I'm ready to be seen."
"You already are."
That answer struck something deep. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The buzz of the classroom growing louder around them only made their quiet corner feel more intimate.
Before the bell rang, he stood. "Let's have lunch again. Same spot?"
Nanami nodded.
He smiled. "See you then."
As he returned to his seat, a few students whispered. She felt the weight of their stares, but somehow, it didn't crush her this time. Maybe because she knew—when she turned the page to lunchtime, he'd be waiting.
...
At the library, the window light glowed a little softer, and the silence felt almost sacred. Nanami sat waiting, her bento beside her, sketchbook open to a new page.
Her hand trembled slightly as she added lines to a drawing of Yoshiro kicking a soccer ball, motion captured mid-air.
"Wow, is that me?"
She jumped.
Yoshiro peeked over her shoulder.
She slammed the book shut, face flushed. "D-Don't look!"
"Sorry! I just—wow, you're good. That looked like a real action shot."
She looked away, unsure whether to be embarrassed or proud.
He sat across from her and opened his bento, digging in like nothing had happened. "You should show people your work."
"No one's interested."
"I am."
Nanami looked at him from beneath her lashes. His eyes were fixed on his food, but his tone had held no hesitation.
"…Maybe one day."
They ate quietly after that. As usual, Yoshiro didn't press. And in that silence, Nanami felt something new blossom—a fragile sort of comfort.
Later that afternoon, the homeroom teacher made an announcement.
"Class, don't forget: next week is the Culture Festival. Each class will host an event or booth. We'll vote on ideas tomorrow, so come prepared."
Nanami stiffened.
The Culture Festival. Crowds. Noise. Attention.
She already felt the nausea rising.
"Maybe we could do a haunted house," one boy said.
"No way. Let's do a café again!"
"Can we dress up?" a girl asked, giggling.
Nanami kept her eyes on her notebook, retreating inward. But even in the safety of ink and paper, her thoughts refused to settle.
She hated these things. She'd always found a way to volunteer for setup or cleaning—jobs that didn't require interaction.
Yoshiro glanced her way.
After class, he caught up with her.
"You okay?"
"…Culture Festival," she muttered.
"You don't like them?"
She shook her head. "Too many people. Too loud."
He walked beside her down the hallway. "If we work together, maybe we can make it better. What if we helped with something behind the scenes?"
"You'd do that?"
"I'd do a lot of things," he said, "if it means you'll be there."
That was dangerous. The way he said it—like it was simple truth—unraveled her carefully built defenses.
When they reached the school gates, she turned to him. "You'll really help?"
"Promise."
She looked away, unsure how to process someone like him. But then she whispered, "Thank you."
And Yoshiro, always knowing just when to speak and when to stay quiet, only smiled.
That night, Nanami sat at her desk, staring at her sketch of him.
She turned the page and began a new drawing—this time of two silhouettes walking side by side under a camphor tree.
And for once, she didn't feel alone in the quiet.