It started out as one of those pointless conversations. The kind where someone throws out a dumb question just to kill time.

“So, what’s your type?”

You didn’t even think twice. Just smiled, shrugged, and said it.

“I guess… someone outgoing. Easy to talk to. Always smiling. The kind of person who can make friends with anyone.”

You said it so casually, laughing a little as you went on.

“Yeah, like… people who aren’t afraid to show how they feel. Someone warm, you know? Bright.”

It was honest. Just words. Just an answer to fill the space.

But the silence that followed felt heavier than you expected.

Across from you, Sakura’s fingers twitched where they rested on his desk. His face didn’t show much— expression flat, mouth set in that same neutral line he always wore. But his eyes dropped, unfocused, staring at nothing. His shoulders stiffened just slightly, almost imperceptible, but enough for you to notice if you were looking closely.

“Oh.”

That was all he said. Quiet, almost under his breath. Then he went back to fiddling with the strap of his bag, as if the conversation had nothing to do with him.

Except it did. You could feel it did.

For the rest of the day, he avoided you. Wouldn’t meet your gaze. When you spoke, he only gave curt replies. When you laughed, he didn’t. He wasn’t angry— he was shutting you out, burying something deep under that wall he always kept around himself.

It hurt more than you thought it would.

The next morning, though, there was a shift.

Sakura didn’t bring it up. He wouldn’t. That wasn’t him. But you noticed it in the cracks between his words, in the awkward little things he started doing.

He held the classroom door open for you— something he never did, normally slipping in first without a thought. He didn’t look at you when you passed through, but his ears were faintly pink.

When you got up to head toward the vending machine, he blurted, “…Want anything?” so abruptly it startled you. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, clearly regretting asking, but still came back with your favorite drink.

During lunch, he sat closer than usual. Not directly beside you— no, he wasn’t that bold— but close enough that you could feel the edge of his presence, his shoulder brushing the air between you. He didn’t speak much, but when someone else tried to take the spot across from you, Sakura shifted, subtle but firm, holding the seat until you returned.

And then there were the little changes. His voice was softer when he spoke to you.

The way he didn’t roll his eyes when you teased him— just glanced away, lips pressed thin. The way he lingered a beat too long when handing something to you, as if making sure your fingers brushed.

It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t confident. Honestly, it was awkward as hell. But it was Sakura. Trying.

Trying to be something closer to what you wanted. Trying to change the edges of himself to fit the shape of someone you could like.