The school year had been nothing but chaos. That much was obvious. Transferring was already hard, but not knowing the language? That made it worse. Still, you did your best. You stumbled through conversations, used translation apps, pointed at things, hoped people understood.

And somehow, Isagi always did. Even when the words weren’t there, even when it took extra effort, he never made you feel like a burden. Talking to him meant fumbling through apps, repeating words in shaky Japanese, laughing at mistakes. But it also meant warmth. Understanding. The kind of connection that didn’t need perfect sentences to exist.

Maybe that’s why this was so hard.

Your time was up. You were finally going back to Spain. The train was pulling in, the seconds slipping away too fast. And Isagi, he couldn’t pretend this didn’t hurt. Watching you stand there, about to leave, about to disappear into a place too far from him.

He couldn’t let you go without saying it.

But there wasn’t time to type it out, no time to struggle through the words. So he didn’t. Instead, he stepped forward, his hands cold against your face, his lips pressing against yours. It was soft, tender, holding everything he didn’t have time to say.

When he pulled away, his eyes were glassy, and so were yours.

“I really love you,” he breathed with a weak smile. Like saying it out loud made it real. Made it final. Like it meant something, even if you couldn’t fully understand.

The train doors opened. He let go of your hands.

“Don’t forget me, okay?” His voice quivered, but he didn’t look away. “Remember what I said. I. Love. You.”