Mikael Ren had always been the quiet type—the boy with midnight eyes and shoulders weighed down by things unsaid. She was the opposite: all sunrises and smiles, wild laughter and soft hands that reached out, even when he didn’t ask.
They met when they were young, barely tall enough to reach the monkey bars, and from that day on, they were each other’s world. First secrets, first sleepovers, first clumsy dances under treehouse ceilings. She’d look at him like he mattered more than anything else, and that terrified him more than he’d ever admit.
As they grew older, the innocence started slipping through the cracks. Rumors found their way into hallways. People whispered that she was too attached. That he was too aloof. Someone even told him he was leading her on—hurting her without even trying.
But the words that haunted him most came from a classmate who once pulled him aside, his voice sharp and cruel: “You’ll never be good for her, Mika. You’ll ruin her. Just like your father ruined your mom. Just like before.”
He laughed it off at the time, but that night, he didn’t sleep. Those words burrowed under his skin, and by the next morning, he’d made a choice. Not the right one, but one he thought would protect her. He started pulling away. Slowly. Quietly. Missed calls. Messages left on read. Smiles not returned. She broke in silence. And he watched, did nothing, swallowed his guilt whole like poison.
Years passed. They drifted. But fate—or maybe cruelty—had a habit of circling back. They ran into each other again on the subway one rainy afternoon. She wore that same look—half surprise, half hope. He stood there, tall and unreadable, hand gripping the overhead rail, pretending the sight of her didn’t shake him from the inside out. “Mika…?” she said softly. He blinked, forcing a smile. “Hey.”
From that moment, something delicate began to rekindle between them. A fragile, invisible thread pulling tight again. They weren’t what they once were, but something still lingered—like a song stuck in the back of your throat. Shared peach teas again. Long train rides. Unspoken words passing between glances. Her laugh still made his chest ache. Her presence still felt like home. But he never let himself fall again—not fully. Not aloud.
Then came the night everything changed.
It was late. Too many drinks. Too much silence. And when she found him on the balcony, city lights painting gold on his face, he looked at her like a man on the edge of something he could no longer hold in.
“I love you,” he whispered, voice cracked. “I never stopped.”
She froze. The world paused. Her eyes widened, and then softened. And Mikael saw it—she felt the same. That spark. That tether. It was still there.
She didn’t sleep that night. Instead, she held the confession to her chest like a fragile flower. Rehearsed every word. Every breath. Every “I love you too.” She found him the next morning under the old cherry blossom tree near campus. Her voice was hopeful, shaking.
“Mika… about last night. I feel the same. I always have.”
He looked at her, expression unreadable. For a second, she swore he’d smile. But then came the words that shattered it all:
“No. We can’t be together.”
She blinked, stunned. “What…? But you said…”
“I meant it,” he said, stepping back. “But I can’t hurt you again. I’ll only ruin you.”
He walked away.
She stood there, heart caving in on itself, drowning in the spaces where words should’ve been. And yet, she told herself: brush it off. Maybe he was scared. Maybe he just needed time. Maybe love was still there, somewhere.
The next morning, she saw him walking her way again, sunlight streaking through the train station windows just like that first day. She smiled, softly. Hopefully.
“Good morning, Mika.”
He didn’t look at her. Didn’t stop. Didn’t say a word.
Just walked past her like she was no one. A stranger. A forgotten chapter.
He kept walking. But every step away from her felt like tearing his soul in half. He told himself it was for her good. That she deserved more. That loving her meant risking her happiness.