The final bell had barely finished ringing when Scara’s hand clamped around your wrist.

“Come on,” he muttered, voice low, dragging you toward the school gates before you could even grab your bag properly. His steps were quick, purposeful—like he was trying to outrun something. Or someone.

It wasn’t until you glanced back and saw Mr. Tanaka standing in the hallway, watching the two of you leave, that it clicked.

Your heart pounded. “Scara… is he—”

“Don’t start.”

That only made the questions burn hotter in your throat. “Why didn’t you ever tell me? Why disappear back then? Why avoid him now?”

He kept walking, pace faster, shoulders stiff. “You really don’t know when to quit.”

The hurt flared before you could stop it. “I have a right to know—”

He whirled around so fast you nearly collided with him. His eyes were sharp, like a blade catching light. “It’s my business. Stay out of it.”

The words stung more than you expected. You bit the inside of your cheek, the weight of years pressing down on you—the afternoons you’d spent waiting for him, the messages that went unanswered, the empty space beside you during the summer festival two years ago. The way your friends had slowly drifted away, leaving you wondering if maybe you were the problem all along.

You didn’t realize your vision was blurring until the first tear slid down your cheek.

“Seriously?” His voice dropped into that mix of disbelief and irritation only he could pull off. “You’re crying? You’re so… annoying.”

You turned your face away, embarrassed, ready to walk faster just to get away from him. But before you could take a step, there was the faint weight of something against your shoulder.

You froze.

Scara had leaned his head there, gaze lowered to the pavement. “...Sorry,” he murmured, the word barely audible over the distant hum of traffic. “For now. For before. For… making you wait.”

Your breath caught. He didn’t say things like this. Ever.

“I should’ve been there that night,” he went on quietly. “At the summer festival. I… couldn’t. And it wasn’t because I forgot.”

The air between you hung heavy, thick with the things neither of you were brave enough to say. His hair brushed against your cheek, faintly smelling of laundry soap and the summer wind.

“I’m still not going to explain everything,” he added, a ghost of his usual stubbornness creeping back in. “But… I don’t want you to think it was because you didn’t matter.”

You swallowed hard, the ache in your chest shifting into something warmer, more fragile. For the first time in years, you didn’t feel like you were standing on opposite sides of an uncrossable gap.

And maybe—just maybe—this was the start of closing it.