It was the little things Yui noticed first.
The way Kaito's pencil always hovered for half a second before writing anything down, as if the weight of every word mattered. How he took the seat in the back corner, the one facing the window, as if he needed the sky more than the blackboard. Most of all, how he moved—quiet, controlled, never drawing attention. Like a ghost still trying to figure out if he belonged among the living.
Yui Amagawa didn't usually pay attention to transfer students. But Kaito Fujiwara was different.
She first saw him at lunch, sitting alone under the clocktower in the courtyard. The breeze was gentle that day, brushing through the cherry trees like it had somewhere to be but didn't mind lingering a little. He wasn't eating—just sipping from a vending machine can of black coffee, staring out at the hills.
Sketchbook in hand, Yui approached without fully understanding why. She'd been trying to capture the light across the windows for her club project, but something about Kaito's silhouette held more truth than any architectural line. She hesitated a few steps away.
"...Do you mind if I sit here?" she asked.
He looked up, slightly startled—not rudely, just surprised that someone noticed him.
"Go ahead," he said, voice low and even.
For five minutes, they sat in silence. The only sound was the wind and the faint click of Yui's pencil against the page. Kaito didn't ask what she was drawing. She didn't ask why he looked like he hadn't slept properly in weeks. Something unspoken passed between them, and that was enough for now.
---
After school, Kaito didn't head home.
His world wasn't inside the school gates. It was carved into the asphalt of Mt. Myogi's forgotten back roads.
The garage his late father once owned had become his sanctuary. Dust clung to old tools like memories refusing to be wiped clean. His AE86, aged but alive, rested under a tarp like a sleeping beast. When Kaito pulled it off, he always whispered, "We're not done yet."
By 10 p.m., the mountain pass was empty. He tightened his gloves and rolled down the windows. The cold air bit his cheeks, but he didn't care. The engine roared to life with the confidence of something wild and proud, and Kaito shifted into first gear.
The roads blurred. His thoughts didn't.
Each corner felt like breathing. Every downshift like a heartbeat syncing to the rhythm of the mountain. This was the only place he didn't feel like a stranger to himself.
He hit the last hairpin and coasted into a quiet straightaway, the city lights faint below like stars that had forgotten how to shine.
Kaito stopped the car and sat in the silence.
Why do I keep doing this?
He didn't have an answer. Not yet.
---
The next morning, Yui brought a paper plane to class.
It wasn't a grand gesture—just something she folded during homeroom. But when she passed by Kaito's desk, she slipped it into his open notebook without a word. He blinked, caught off guard.
Unfolding it, he found a simple sketch of the mountain skyline—Mt. Myogi at dusk, drawn in pencil with careful shading.
There was a note at the bottom:
"Sometimes you don't have to say everything. Just show it." —Y.A.
He looked over his shoulder at Yui, who was already pretending to copy from the board.
Kaito didn't smile. But for the first time, he felt like maybe—just maybe—someone saw him.