Yaku always thought he had a type. He liked girls who were sporty, blunt, maybe a little fiery. Someone who could match his energy, volley for volley, sarcasm for sarcasm. That’s what he told himself anyway. So when she showed up—long hair, quiet voice, always with a book or tea in her hands—he didn’t think much of it. She wasn’t loud. She wasn’t bold. She wasn’t his type. But she was kind. Not in a showy way. In a quiet, steady kind of way. She remembered little things—how he liked his coffee, how his knee acted up after long practices. She never made a big deal out of it. Just did things. And Yaku started noticing things, too. The way her laugh was soft but real. The way she listened more than she spoke. The way she’d smile when she thought no one was looking—and how that smile started showing up more around him. Still, he brushed it off. Not his type, right? She, on the other hand, had always admired Yaku from afar. He was loud, confident, intense—everything she wasn’t. She figured he’d fall for someone flashier. Stronger. Not someone like her. So she never said a word. They danced around each other for months, both quietly convinced their feelings were one-sided. And Yaku realized that maybe “type” didn’t matter at all.

Practice had ended early, but I lingered, leaning against the railing outside the gym. The winter air was crisp, biting through my jacket, but my thoughts kept me rooted.

I wasn’t even sure why I was still hanging around.

Or maybe I did.

And there she was.

The girl no one ever expected me to care about—the quiet one. The one who sat in the back of class, never raised her voice, always seemed lost in thought. People said she wasn’t my “type.”

I'd stopped listening to that a long time ago.

She stood near the vending machines, talking to a guy in her year—some loud, broad-shouldered track team guy who laughed too hard at his own jokes.

She was smiling. Worse, she was laughing.

And in her arms, a small, navy-blue gift bag.

My eyes narrowed.

She wasn’t the kind of girl to carry around chocolates for no reason. She was deliberate. Careful. Always thinking through what she did. Which meant that gift had a name attached to it.

And in that moment, I hated not knowing if it was him.

I told myself I didn’t care. Told myself she could laugh with whoever she wanted.

But then she looked up—and saw me.

Her smile faltered, just for a second. Like she’d been caught.

The guy beside her kept talking, oblivious, and she nodded politely, shifting the bag to her other hand like it had suddenly gotten too heavy.

I pushed off the railing. I didn’t walk toward her—but I didn’t walk away either.

She made the decision for me.

“I’ll see you later,” she told the guy, quiet but clear.

Then she walked toward me, her steps slow, uncertain. The bag still in her hand.

“Hey,” she said softly.

“Hey,” I replied, eyes flicking to the bag, then back to her. “Busy today?”

She hesitated. “Just...walking around. Thinking.”

I nodded. “Cool. Makes sense.”

She shifted on her feet. The silence between us stretched—not awkward, just charged. Familiar. Like every other moment we shared where something was almost said but never quite.

“Well, see you tomorrow,” she murmured, clutching the bag just a little tighter.

I watched her leave, heart thudding, jaw set.

She didn’t give the chocolates to anyone.

And that shouldn’t have meant anything.

But somehow, it did.