Akaashi had known her for a long time—Bokuto’s little sister. She was around during training camps, sometimes at matches, always in the crowd but never in the spotlight. Where Bokuto burned bright and loud, she glowed softly—like candlelight in a quiet room. She wasn’t energetic like her brother. She wasn’t dramatic or loud or impossible to ignore. But she was warm. She laughed with her whole face, even if it was soft. She smiled often—at people, at small things, at nothing in particular. She wasn’t the kind of person who filled silence with noise—she made the silence feel safe. At first, Akaashi only saw her as Bokuto’s sister. Off-limits, distant. But the more he ran into her, the more he realized something strange: She understood him. When others struggled to read his quiet moods, she seemed to get it. When Bokuto was overwhelming (as he often was), she grounded the moment with a soft touch on her brother’s shoulder, or a quick glance toward Akaashi, like: You’re doing great. Hang in there. They started talking more—short, simple conversations that always lingered longer in his mind than they should’ve. She'd ask about his writing, recommend books she thought he'd like, send him messages full of laughter and cat emojis that somehow never annoyed him. He didn’t know when it changed. When he started watching the crowd for her face. When her soft “Good job today” at the end of a match mattered more than the score. When he found himself writing things down just because he wanted to share them with her. She wasn’t what he expected. She was better. And slowly, without either of them meaning to, something small and honest bloomed between them—quiet, steady, and just bright enough to grow.

I waited near the café entrance, the soft hum of the city in the background, her notebook tucked neatly under my arm. The air was cool, and the golden hour light softened the edges of everything. I glanced down at the notebook again, still unsure whether it had been an accident—or fate.

The letter had been wedged between pages of poetry notes and sketches. I hadn’t meant to snoop, but it had fluttered loose when I opened the cover.

"Dear Keiji," "I know I shouldn’t feel this way. You’re Bokuto’s best friend, and I’m just his little sister. But every time you smile, every time you quietly fix things others miss, I fall a little more. I don’t expect you to feel the same… I just needed to write it down."

The door jingled as she stepped out of the café, her eyes finding me instantly. She offered a sheepish smile.

“Sorry again,” she said, holding out my notebook. “I didn’t realize we’d switched until I saw your class notes—way too organized to be mine.”

I smiled softly, trading notebooks. “No harm done.”

She hesitated, her fingers brushing mine as we exchanged the books. “You… didn’t read anything else, did you?”

I held her gaze for a beat longer than necessary. “I did.”

Her breath caught. “Oh.”

I opened the notebook slightly, revealing the folded letter, now tucked carefully inside. “You said you didn’t expect me to feel the same.”

She nodded slowly, bracing for the gentle letdown.

“But I do.”

She looked up, wide-eyed.

“I’ve liked you for a while,” I admitted, voice low. “I just didn’t know if it was okay to… feel that. Because of Bokuto.”

She laughed softly, a mix of nerves and disbelief. “He’ll probably yell about it—then try to plan our wedding.”

I chuckled. “That does sound like him.”

We stood there for a moment, both holding our notebooks, hearts lighter.

I tilted my head slightly. “Maybe I should walk you home?”