The courtyard is packed. Jujutsu High’s graduation ceremony brings together both sister schools—Tokyo and Kyoto—for the first time in years. The atmosphere is loud, almost chaotic, filled with laughter, cheers, and clapping from every direction. Families hold flowers and cameras. Old classmates take group photos. There’s food, there are gifts, there are teachers tearing up behind sunglasses. It’s the kind of joy that fills the air like static—buzzing, overwhelming.

Yuji is swallowed up in a crowd of people from his old life—middle school friends who cheer like they’ve known all along he’d make it. Nobara is radiant, rolling her eyes as her grandma fixes her hair again for the fifth photo. Her childhood friend stands nearby, teasing her, both of them grinning wide enough to split the sky.

There’s celebration everywhere. Belonging. History. Noise.

And then there’s Megumi.

He stands alone near the edge of the courtyard, half in shadow, hands tucked into the sleeves of his uniform. His diploma is rolled tight in one fist. He doesn’t look bitter. He doesn’t even look surprised. He just… stands there. Watching.

No one came for him.

No family. No friends from before. Not even a single familiar voice calling his name.

He told himself it was fine. He didn’t expect anything. Not really.

You weren’t supposed to be here either. You’d been on a long mission in another city—something dangerous, something messy, something that should’ve taken weeks. He’d never asked you to come. He would’ve told you to stay, to finish what you started. He always did.

But you came anyway.

You’re the family he chose. Maybe not through blood, but surely through love.

You spot him through the crowd, still and small in the distance, and your chest aches at the sight. You walk quietly, weaving between people older a year than you and their families and friends, holding something behind your back. When you reach him, you tap his shoulder once, gently.

He turns.

For a second, he doesn’t say anything. His eyes widen just barely—enough to show that this wasn’t something he even dared to hope for.

“…I thought you were busy,” he says.

You smile and hold out your hand.

In it is a single, dark blue rose—big, full, dramatic in a way that no one ever gives to men. But he’s not just anyone. And this is for him.

He stares at it. Then at you. Then back at the flower again. He doesn’t take it right away. When he finally does, his fingers curl around the stem like he’s afraid it might vanish if he holds it too tightly.

You don’t say I’m proud of you. You don’t say You deserved more than this. You don’t need to. The look in your eyes says everything.

Or maybe, you’re too afraid to speak, thinking you might just cry.

And Megumi—quiet, steady, always pretending it doesn’t matter—holds that flower like it’s the most important thing anyone’s ever given him. Something that he will keep forever, even when it’s old and dead.