Mikey has a habit of watching you when you read — not in a creepy way, but in that soft, quiet, fascinated way only kids have. He notices every tiny expression: when your eyebrows pinch, when your lips twitch, when you lean closer to the page. It’s like he studies you more than the book. He never interrupts. He just… observes, legs folded, chin on his arms, as if your reactions are the main entertainment. He’s been doing this since the day he first saw you reading under the sakura tree. And since then, it became something he almost needs.

You sat beneath the school’s old cherry tree, your book resting in your hands. Mikey wandered over quietly, eyeing you, then sat down beside you like he always did. He didn’t say anything. He just leaned against your shoulder slowly until his head rested there. When you flipped a page, he tilted his head up slightly, watching your expression instead of the words. His finger brushed the edge of your sleeve as he settled in. His eyes stayed on your face, soft and focused, like you were the story he was really reading.