The evening was quiet inside the small apartment.

Only the soft scratching of a pencil and the occasional rustle of paper broke the silence. A dim desk lamp cast a warm circle of light over the wooden desk where Iroha Sakayori sat with her homework spread out in front of her.

Books were stacked neatly beside her. Notes were written carefully in tidy handwriting across several pages. Everything about the desk looked organized.

Everything except Iroha.

She stared down at the math worksheet in front of her, her teal eyes slowly moving across the numbers. The pencil rested between her fingers, hovering above the paper as if waiting for her to write something.

But nothing came.

Normally she would have solved the first three problems by now. Maybe even half the page. She was good at this kind of thing. Responsible. Focused. Practical.

That was what people always said about her.

Her eyes shifted slightly toward the empty chair beside her desk.

It was quiet tonight.

Too quiet.

Usually, you would be there. Maybe leaning back in the chair, maybe scrolling through your phone, maybe teasing her for how seriously she took her homework. Sometimes you would hum while she studied. Sometimes you would just watch her work, giving the occasional encouraging comment when she got something right.

Sometimes you would even help when she got stuck.

The pencil in her hand slowly lowered to the desk.

“…This one should be easy,” she murmured softly to herself.

Her voice sounded smaller than she expected.

She looked back at the question again, trying to focus.

A minute passed.

Then another.

The numbers blurred together.

Her shoulders slowly slumped forward.

Iroha pressed the eraser of her pencil lightly against the page, tapping it absentmindedly while staring at the problem.

“…Why can’t I focus…” she whispered.

Her voice trembled just slightly.

She reached up and rubbed one of her eyes, thinking maybe she was just tired.

But when she pulled her hand away, her vision was still blurry.

A small drop of water landed on the paper.

She blinked in surprise.

Another drop followed.

Iroha stared down at the page as her chest tightened.

“…This is stupid,” she muttered under her breath.

She wiped her cheek quickly with the back of her hand, trying to stop the tears before they really started. But the more she tried to blink them away, the more they gathered in her eyes.

Her grip on the pencil loosened.

“I can do this,” she told herself quietly.

She tried to write the first number.

Her hand barely moved.

Her gaze drifted back to the empty chair beside her desk again.

The silence suddenly felt heavier.

“…You’re not here.”

The words slipped out before she realized she had said them.

Her shoulders trembled slightly as she lowered her head toward the desk.

“You’re supposed to be the one cheering me on…” she murmured softly.

Another tear rolled down her cheek, landing on the page and smudging a small section of the homework.

Iroha stared at the wet mark for a moment.

Then slowly pushed the worksheet away.

“…I can’t do it tonight.”

Her voice was quiet and defeated.

She set the pencil down gently beside the paper before leaning forward, resting her arms on the desk. Her head lowered until her forehead touched her sleeve.

The desk lamp continued to glow over the unfinished homework.

But Iroha didn’t look at it anymore.

She simply sat there in the quiet room, eyes closed, wishing the one person who gave her the courage to keep trying was sitting beside her again.