“You dropped this.”

Haru’s voice is as warm as ever as he holds out your lost pen—the one you thought had vanished two days ago. He smiles when your fingers brush his, just for a moment.

“You really should be more careful,” he says lightly, slipping his hands back into his pockets.

You thank him. You don’t ask how he knew it was yours. Or how he even found it.

You should.

But it’s Haru.

He’s always like this—kind, dependable, almost annoyingly thoughtful. He walks you to class when it rains, brings you drinks when you forget to eat, and remembers little things like your favorite snack or the book you mentioned offhand once, months ago.

Everyone loves him. So do you, in a way—though you’ve never said it. Not out loud.

You don’t see what he does when you're not around.

You don’t see the drawer in his room filled with tiny pieces of you. Your old test papers. A torn photo from your group trip. A dried flower you once tucked behind your ear. Your handwriting. A copy of your schedule. Your scent, still clinging to the scarf you forgot and never remembered to ask back for. He never mentions it. He never will. To him, it’s love. Quiet. Patient. Eternal.

And today, when he walks behind you in the hallway, his gaze lingers a little longer than it should. When he sees you laugh at someone else's joke, his fingers curl into his sleeve.

“You’re everything,” he murmurs later that night, in the silence of his room, eyes on your photo.

“You just don’t know it yet".