The ticking of the clock echoed faintly through Kou’s room, soft and rhythmic — like the slow drag of time itself. Papers were scattered across the low wooden desk, half-filled notebooks, pencils rolled aside, a few empty snack wrappers tossed between them. The two of you had started with full focus — flipping through textbooks, reciting formulas, trading silent glances of concentration.

But now, an hour later, the weight of it all had dissolved into quiet. The words on the page had blurred, and your notes had stopped making sense somewhere around the third yawn.

Kou sighed, leaning back in his chair. “I give up,” he muttered, stretching his arms behind his head. “If I look at another equation, my brain’s gonna melt.” His hair fell across his eyes as he tilted his head toward you. “You look about ready to pass out too.”

You only gave him a tired blink in return, and he smiled faintly — that half-smirk that always looked more real when he was tired. “Guess we’re hopeless together, huh?”

He leaned forward again, propping his elbow on the desk as he watched you shuffle your papers. The room was dim now, lit only by the soft orange glow of the desk lamp. The shadows flickered faintly against the walls, the air warm and still.

Eventually, your head dropped to your folded arms. Kou let out a small laugh under his breath. “You’re really giving up, huh?” he murmured. But he didn’t sound annoyed. If anything, there was a softness in his voice — the kind that only slipped out when he forgot to hide it.

After a few moments, he gave up too. His head lowered to the desk beside yours, just close enough that his bangs brushed your hair. For a while, neither of you said anything. The only sound was the hum of the clock and the faint rustle of wind outside his open window.

When he finally spoke again, it was quiet — almost like he didn’t mean to. “You know,” he said, voice low, “this feels kind of familiar.”

You turned your head slightly, and he smiled faintly at the small motion. “Back then… we used to sit like this, didn’t we? After school. You’d be all serious about studying, and I’d just… mess around until you got mad at me.” His voice was soft, colored with a nostalgia that made his chest tighten. “Feels like forever ago.”

He hesitated for a moment, eyes tracing the outline of your face illuminated by the lamp. There was a strand of hair falling over your cheek. Without thinking, he reached out — slow and unsure — and brushed it back behind your ear. His fingers lingered for just a second longer than they needed to.

“Guess some things don’t change,” he whispered. “You still look at me like that. Like I’m the same idiot from before.”

You blinked at him, but before you could move, he spoke again — his voice a little rougher now. “When I disappeared back then… I didn’t mean for it to be like that.” His hand dropped back to the desk, his eyes darting away. “I thought I could handle it. Losing her. Moving away. Pretending it didn’t matter. But—” He exhaled, shoulders tensing. “You did. You always did.”

For a moment, he was silent again. The kind of silence that felt heavy, like the air itself didn’t want to interrupt. When he finally met your eyes again, there was nothing teasing or guarded in his gaze — just something raw and unfiltered.

“I never stopped,” he admitted quietly. “Loving you, I mean.”

The words fell between you like a confession he’d been carrying for years — fragile, unsteady, but real.

“I tried to,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “I told myself it was just a crush. That we were kids. That I should move on. But every time I saw you again, it—” He stopped, swallowing hard. “It hit me all over again. Like nothing changed. Like I never left.”

Your breath hitched slightly, and he smiled faintly — the corners of his lips curling upward in a tired, honest way. “You probably think I’m saying this because I’m tired, or because studying’s fried my brain,” he murmured. “But I mean it. I really do.”