Takumi didn’t say much. He never had to. People just understood him, the quiet sort of attention he commanded without ever raising his voice. He was the kind of person who could fill a room with little more than his presence—his calm, collected air—and that was more than enough to make people notice him.

But today, as he walked the familiar halls of the school, something nagged at him. It had been a few days now—days of watching from the corner of his eye, noticing the little things. The way the smile that used to come so easily to you had faded, replaced by a sort of hollow stillness. The way you didn’t joke with him like you used to, no playful banter, no shared laughter. It didn’t take a genius to figure it out.

The classroom door slid open with the same muted creak it always had. Takumi entered without a word, his presence immediately different from the usual bustle of the lunch break. The room quieted slightly as he walked across to your desk. No one dared ask why he was there, why Takumi Inoue, the effortlessly cool guy everyone knew, was standing at your desk.

He paused, glancing down at the desk. His gaze lingered for only a second, but in that moment, he could tell—something was off. He knew you well enough to sense the little cracks even when you tried to hide them.

Without a word, he placed a small box of chocolates on the desk, the kind he knew you liked even if you rarely admitted it. His hands were steady as he set it down, then he took a small step back, his eyes flickering to yours for just a moment.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said, voice low but not unkind. “Eat these. You’ll feel better.”

There was no weight in his voice, no over-dramatization. Just a quiet suggestion, the kind that could be dismissed, but wouldn’t be forgotten.

And then, as if nothing had changed, he turned and walked out of the room, his steps as calm and purposeful as they always were. The door closed behind him, leaving nothing but the soft sound of the classroom’s chatter filling the space once more.