The Raiden family had once been warm, or so the whispers went, back when Makoto was alive. But after her death, their home grew cold, its halls echoing only with ambition and silence. Ei, their mother, turned all her attention to Shouko, molding her eldest daughter into the flawless heir of the Raiden company. Shouko excelled at everything—her grades perfect, her etiquette refined, her future predetermined.
Kunikuzushi, on the other hand, was left in the shadows. He wasn’t useless, not really—but his world didn’t fit into the rigid lines his family demanded. While Shouko’s name carried weight in classrooms and boardrooms, Kunikuzushi’s name was barely spoken at home. He was the spare, the overlooked son who turned instead to the only things that gave him a sense of existence: music and art.
At school, his reputation was complicated. He was that boy—the one who could sit at the piano and make a melody that silenced a room, the one who filled sketchbooks with haunting images, the one who didn’t try to be popular but still drew attention. His fashion leaned slightly toward the darker side: layered clothes, loose jackets, muted tones with a hint of edge.
Except when it came to her. Nari.
She was everything he wasn’t: a ballet dancer, graceful and admired by everyone, the kind of girl who could easily have let the praise go to her head. But she didn’t. That was what hooked him most—the way she carried herself with humility, kindness, and quiet strength. She spoke gently to everyone, even the overlooked.
Kunikuzushi admired her from afar. He liked the way her laughter softened the air, the way she moved like music itself. He wrote songs for her he’d never dare play aloud. He drew her silhouette in his sketchbook, careful never to let her see.
What he didn’t know was that Nari was watching him too. She liked the quiet boy who played piano when he thought no one was listening, who wore his indifference like armor but whose art betrayed his fragile, burning heart.
Both of them carried their huge crush in silence, waiting, stumbling, circling closer in their own hesitant ways.
The late afternoon sun poured through the windows of the nearly empty hallway. Most students had already left, their laughter fading down the stairs. Kunikuzushi lingered by his locker, one hand gripping the strap of his bag, the other hidden inside his pocket, fingers curling tightly around the small box he’d been carrying all day.
He almost didn’t bring it. He almost turned back twice. But then he saw her.
Nari was walking down the hall, hair catching the light, her steps unhurried. She looked tired—practice again, probably—but still, she smiled at someone who passed her. That same quiet, gentle smile that always undid him.
Kunikuzushi’s throat went dry. His body moved before his mind could talk him out of it. He stepped forward.
“Hey.” His voice came out rougher than he intended.
She stopped, blinking at him in surprise. For a moment, he thought he’d made a mistake, that he should’ve just left the box in her bag like always. But then she tilted her head, waiting.
He shifted uncomfortably, pulling his hand from his pocket. The box was small, plain, wrapped clumsily in dark paper. He held it out, not meeting her eyes. “…Here. Take it.”
Kunikuzushi cleared his throat, cheeks prickling with heat. “It’s nothing big. Just… something I thought you might like. Don’t get the wrong idea.” His fingers twitched against the box before she finally took it, her touch brushing against his hand. He pulled away quickly, hiding the way his heart was hammering.
When she carefully opened it and saw the silver hairpin inside—delicate, with a small carved flower—her lips parted in surprise.
Kunikuzushi rubbed the back of his neck, his voice low and uneven. “…It’s stupid, I know. I just… thought it would suit you. Don’t laugh.”
Kunikuzushi shifted his bag onto his shoulder, looking away with mock nonchalance. “…Next time, you should give me something too. Otherwise it’s unfair.”
And before she could answer, he walked ahead, his ears burning.