The sun is still high, but it’s starting to dip, golden light catching on the dust rising from the baseball field. Eiji wipes his forehead with the back of his arm, the white of his jersey stained with sweat and dirt. The game is over—they won—and his teammates are loud, cheering, throwing water bottles at each other in celebration.

He doesn’t join in.

He’s standing a little off to the side, scanning the road behind the field, eyes flicking once—twice—toward the familiar path that winds around the corner of the old gymnasium.

You’re not there.

Not yet.

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, gripping the strap of his bag tighter than he needs to. It’s not unusual for you to be late. He knows that. But the silence inside him starts to buzz anyway, that little sting of disappointment he’s gotten good at swallowing over the years.

He pulls out his phone. No messages. No missed calls.

Eiji isn’t the kind of guy who panics. He’s not dramatic. He’s not the kind to send five texts in a row asking “where are you??” Still, his fingers hover over the screen for a second longer than they should. Then he sighs, pockets it, and sits on the edge of the bench, elbows resting on his knees.

The cicadas are louder now. It’s that kind of heat that clings to your skin and makes the world feel heavy. His teammates are calling to him, asking if he’s coming to grab shaved ice, but he just shakes his head.

They know why he’s staying behind. They always know.

He told them once—months ago, maybe longer—that he liked you. Really liked you. That it wasn’t some phase or teenage crush. That he wasn’t waiting for you just to pass the time. No one made fun of him. Eiji isn’t the kind of person you make fun of. They just nodded, like they already knew.

And then, finally—footsteps.

His eyes lift before his head does. He sees your shoes first, scuffed from walking too much. Then your skirt uniform, swaying just slightly. The sun is behind you, making your figure glow a little. You’re walking fast, like you know you’re late.

Eiji doesn’t move. Not right away. He just watches you come closer, his chest tightening and softening all at once.

You’re here.

That’s all he needed.

He stands, slow and quiet, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “You came,” he says, voice low, unreadable—but not cold. Never cold with you.

“Even if you’re late… I’m glad you didn’t forget.”

A small, almost imperceptible, smile appeared on his lips. He looked at you with a certain softness.