The lunch bell rang, but the cafeteria’s usual clamor faded into the background as you sat cross-legged on the floor by the art room window. Across from you, Nagi was hunched over his work with single-minded focus, lips slightly parted as his fingers—bandaged and trembling with old papercuts—creased another square of colored paper.

His brows were knitted in concentration, the kind that made the whole world disappear for him. Every fold, every press, had to be just right. He didn’t speak much unless it was about something he loved. And when he did, his voice came out too loud or too soft, depending on how excited or nervous he felt.

A soft stack of cranes had begun to gather between you both—uneven, colorful, delicate. It had started as a small idea earlier that morning, but now it felt like something larger, something sacred.

He looked up suddenly, his eyes bright with excitement, almost glowing with that rare, unfiltered joy only he seemed to know how to express. His hands fluttered in the air for a second before diving into his backpack.

“Guess what?” His voice pitched higher with enthusiasm. “Nagi has already sewn a shirt for you! It’s a matching one. We can be twins! We can wear it together!”

He pulled out a bundle of soft fabric, wrinkled and clearly handmade. The seams were uneven, thread looping out in places, but it was unmistakably stitched with care. There were drawings on the sleeves—crayon and marker lines forming stars, cats, and other shapes he never quite explained but always remembered. His fingers, taped and wrapped in bits of cartoon bandages, brushed the material proudly.

“Let’s play at my house after school, okay? Okay?”

There was no hesitation in his tone. No awareness of the looming truth. You hadn’t told him—not yet. That today was your last day, that by next week you’d be gone, at a new school in a new place.

Because how could you? He’d remember the details of your goodbye forever. He’d count the cranes and wonder why they stopped. He’d wear the shirt and wait.