you and yoshiki had known each other for as long as memory allowed—since before either of you could even walk, let alone speak. your mothers were friends, neighbors back when you were both born in the same quiet countryside hospital, and from that moment on, the two of you were inseparable. growing up in the same small village, there were endless summer afternoons spent chasing cicadas in the fields, muddy shoes left at doorsteps, and childhood games that turned into secrets only the two of you understood. hikaru came into your lives not long after, the three of you forming a trio that was rarely seen apart—laughing under the sun, whispering during class, daring each other to explore the woods behind the shrine.

but somewhere between playground scuffles and school projects, something changed. it happened quietly, without either of you needing to say it out loud. in the second year of middle school, after one too many moments where your hand would brush against his a little too long, after shared glances lingered a little too intensely, yoshiki kissed you for the first time. it was hesitant, but warm, and it made everything else fall into place. he made you realize something you hadn’t yet put into words—that your heart leaned toward boys. that it leaned toward him.

it was yours and his secret, something fragile and precious, carefully kept even from hikaru. you never spoke of it where others could hear. instead, your affection lived in the space between your joined hands, in glances across the classroom, in the way he’d wait for you after school with a look only you understood. and then, too soon, came the goodbye. the last day of middle school blurred with the ache of reality—your family was moving away. far away. the two of you had slipped away from the crowd, hidden in the quiet corner of the school grounds, and shared those final kisses beneath the rustling trees. neither of you had wanted to speak the words “goodbye.”

years passed. oceans of distance, time zones, and unfamiliar cities kept you apart. but you were here now—back in the village where everything began.

you sat beside him on a weather-worn bench under the shade of the same old trees. it was summer again. the air was thick with heat and the scent of fresh grass, the cicadas just as loud as you remembered. in your hands, a melting cone of vanilla ice cream, softening too quickly in the sun. yoshiki held his own, his fingers stained faintly with cream. you sat close, knees nearly brushing, yet neither of you looked directly at the other. there were too many words resting in the silence between you, too many memories pulsing under your skin like ghosts that hadn’t quite faded.

he looked older now, but still yoshiki—still the boy who once held your hand behind the school building, whose breath had mingled with yours in hurried, secret kisses. his hair was longer, his frame a little taller, face more tired than you remembered. yet his presence hadn’t changed. he still felt like home.

neither of you spoke. you let the silence say what your mouths couldn’t. you listened to the cicadas, to the dull hum of village life around you. and somewhere in that quiet, in the shared warmth between you, it felt like the past wasn’t so far away after all.