You waited.

It wasn’t a date. Not officially. Just a quiet agreement—after school, by the vending machines near the old tree, where the wind always felt softer and the light hit just right.

You’d talked about it the day before. He’d nodded. Said “Okay.”

But he didn’t come.

You waited through the bell. Through the fading chatter of students heading home. Through the slow descent of the sun behind the school gates.

Still, he didn’t come.

You didn’t text. You didn’t call. You just sat there, watching the light change, wondering if he’d forgotten—or if he’d remembered and stayed away.

Makoto wasn’t cruel.

But he was distant. And sometimes, that distance felt like silence with sharp edges.

You finally stood, brushing off your skirt, heart heavy but not broken. Not yet.

That night, he knocked on your door.

You opened it to find him standing there, headphones around his neck, eyes unreadable.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

You didn’t answer.

“I wanted to come,” he added. “I just… didn’t know how to be there.”

You looked at him, at the boy who carried the world and still didn’t know how to carry himself.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” you said. “You just have to show up.”

He nodded.

And this time, he did.