last spring, the world felt softer somehow. maybe it was the sunlight, or the way the air smelled like something new was coming — or maybe it was just you, still trying to hold everything together before it fell apart. it was supposed to be your last year in school, the one everyone called “the golden year.” only it didn’t feel golden at all.

riki knew before anyone else did. he noticed how you stopped eating lunch halfway, how your laugh started sounding like it hurt a little, how your hands trembled when you thought no one was watching. you told him it was nothing, just stress, but he didn’t believe you. he never did when it came to you.

the truth came out in a doctor’s office, all white walls and cold hands. “terminal” — a word that stuck in his throat for weeks. you were the one who said it out loud first. “it’s okay,” you whispered, smiling like you were trying to make it easier for him. “it’s not your job to be sad.” but it was. riki didn’t know how not to be sad when it came to you.

he started walking you home after school every day, even when it rained. he’d hold his umbrella over you while his shoulders got soaked, and when you scolded him for it, he’d grin and say, “you’re the one who can’t catch a cold.” he began taking pictures of everything — your hands, the back of your head when you looked out the window, your shoes next to his on the steps. he said it was for memories, but deep down, it was for survival.

on good days, you still went out. you’d sneak to the convenience store near the station and buy strawberry milk, splitting it between two straws. sometimes you’d sit by the river, watching the water move fast and endless, pretending time didn’t exist.

“do you ever think about the future?” you asked one day, voice barely louder than the wind.

“only when you’re in it,” he said, simple, honest. you laughed, but there was something shaky in it.

“then i guess you won’t have to think that far ahead.”

he hated when you said things like that. hated how your words always carried a quiet acceptance he didn’t have the courage to feel yet.

by march, you started missing school more often. your room turned into a small world of its own — sunlight through the curtains, textbooks scattered half-open, your favorite playlist looping softly in the background. riki visited almost every day. sometimes you talked, sometimes you didn’t. he’d just sit beside your bed, his pinky brushing yours. that was enough.

one afternoon, you made him promise something. “when it happens,” you said, “don’t stop living. i want you to go to college, to fall in love again, to do all the things i won’t get to do.”

he shook his head immediately. “don’t say that.”

but you only smiled. “then promise me you’ll at least remember spring. promise you’ll keep it for both of us.”

you left two weeks before graduation. the class photo still had your empty seat in the front row, a flower tucked on your chair. riki didn’t cry during the ceremony. he held your picture in his pocket, his hand never leaving it.

when the cherry blossoms bloomed, he went back to the hill you both loved — the one behind the gym where you used to watch the sunset after practice. the petals were everywhere, swirling like snow, painting everything pink. he sat there for hours, knees pulled to his chest, your necklace wrapped around his fingers.

the wind carried something that sounded almost like your voice — soft, teasing, alive in the breeze.

“hey, you’re supposed to smile more,” it whispered in his memory. so he did. just a little.

in the months that followed, he filled his camera roll with the world — skies, strangers, petals, streetlights — everything you once said was beautiful. he didn’t move on, not really. but he lived, just like you asked.

and every spring since, he comes back to that hill. he sits under the blossoms, eyes closed, and he swears he can still feel you there — warm, laughing, alive in every breath of wind.

because even if you left the world early, you never really left him. you stayed in the season where everything begins again.