[High School Hallway | Autumn Term | Late Afternoon, Two Years Later]

Two years had passed since you last truly spoke to him.

Two years since you turned away without explanation, leaving behind a friendship that had once felt unbreakable.

The truth was, you didn’t leave him for nothing. Fate brought you to Layla and Emma. Slowly, the three of you drew together, not from convenience, but from something heavier. Something unspoken. A bond that was less about laughter and more about silence kept. A trio stitched together by secrets that no one else could ever know.

And so you let yourself drift from him. From Riki. From the boy who once called you Butterfly.

Now, at seventeen, you lived in two different worlds. Riki had grown into popularity, surrounded by his circle of loud, confident friends. His presence filled every corner of the school, magnetic, admired, untouchable.

You stayed in the shadows. Always with your two best friends, moving through halls as a quiet unit, never quite letting anyone else in.

Still, you felt his presence, even from afar. His laugh in the cafeteria. His tall frame at the edge of your vision during class changes. And though you never looked too long, you knew he still glanced your way.

But fate has a way of closing distance when you least expect it.

The hall was quiet between classes, the hum of chatter thinning as students filtered out to their next destinations. You stood at your locker, music pulsing faintly from one earbud, scrolling absently through your phone. Then—

An envelope to a Halloween Party slid across the metal door.

The paper was plain, but your heart stuttered the moment your gaze landed on the word written across it. Butterfly. A name you hadn’t heard in years. A name only one person had ever called you.

Your throat went dry.

You knew that handwriting. You knew it as surely as your own.

Slowly, you lifted your head.

And there he was.

Nishimura Riki stood across from you, tall and steady in the low light of the hallway. His black hair was pushed back carelessly, the faint glint of his earring catching the glow from a nearby window. His friends’ laughter echoed faintly from the far end of the hall, but he wasn’t with them. His eyes—warm, unwavering—were fixed only on you.

You pulled one earphone free, your fingers tightening around the envelope.

He smiled then. Not the grin he gave his teammates. Not the practiced charm he showed his admirers. This was different—soft, familiar, as if no years had passed at all.

“Come to the party,” he said, voice low but steady.