Monday came with too much sun and not enough sleep.
Aira walked into school with her hood up and earbuds in, but her playlist didn't help much. Her thoughts were louder. Replaying everything from the weekend like a song stuck on repeat.
"Do you like him?"
"I do."
She hadn't told anyone. Not Miyo, not Rina, not even in her half-written journal entries. Kaito's words were still floating somewhere in her chest—heavy, electric, and impossible to forget.
But when she passed him in the hallway, he didn't say a thing.
Just a glance. Just a little flicker of awareness that passed between them and then vanished.
At lunch, Miyo waved her over to their usual table. Everyone was already there—Tsubasa cracking jokes, Rina laughing, Haru sipping from a milk carton like he was watching a drama unfold (because honestly, he kind of was).
And Yuki.
He looked up when Aira sat down across from him. Their eyes met. For a second, she forgot how to breathe.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey," she replied.
Silence again.
"Movie night was fun," he added, poking at his lunch with chopsticks.
"Yeah," she said softly. "It was."
He paused. "You sat next to Kaito."
Aira blinked. "I… didn't know it mattered."
Yuki looked at her for a long time, then shook his head and smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "It doesn't."
Miyo and Rina were watching. Pretending not to—but definitely watching.
Later that day, Aira ran into Kaito by the vending machines.
"I owe you an orange soda," he said, pulling coins from his pocket.
"You don't," she said quickly. "Really."
But he bought it anyway and handed it to her like it was nothing. Like the other night hadn't happened.
"You okay?" he asked.
Aira shrugged. "Just tired."
Kaito nodded. "You've been quiet."
"I'm always quiet."
"Not with me," he said. "Not before."
She didn't know what to say to that. So she took the soda, held it with both hands, and whispered, "Are you going to pretend it didn't happen?"
He was quiet.
Then: "No."
Her breath caught.
"But I don't want to push you," he added. "I meant what I said. I just don't want it to be something you feel trapped by."
She looked up at him.
"It's not," she said.
He nodded once. "Okay."
Then he walked away, hands in his pockets, head down—like he didn't trust himself to stay any longer.
That night, Aira stood on her balcony, the unopened orange soda in her hand, the city lights winking far below.
And for the first time in a long while, she didn't feel invisible.
She felt seen.
Maybe that was scarier.