You fell in love with Kuro the moment you met him in junior high.

It wasn’t because he was loud or charming. He wasn’t. He was quiet, almost detached, the kind of person who existed at the edge of everything without trying to belong to it. Back then, he was just the tall transfer student who sat near the window, his eyes often drifting somewhere far beyond the classroom walls.

Now, years later in high school, everyone knew his name.

Kuro was no longer invisible. He was the rising basketball athlete everyone talked about—the one coaches praised, the one students watched, the one with a future already stretching far beyond this school. He moved with calm certainty, like someone who knew exactly where he was going.

And still, he had never spoken to you.

You only existed in the same space as him. Nothing more.

You watched him in small, careful moments. During class, when he leaned back in his chair, spinning his pen between his fingers. During practice, when sweat clung to his jaw and his focus sharpened into something untouchable. You memorized him in silence.

But he was never looking at you.

He was always looking at Yuko.

Your best friend.

You noticed it in the way his gaze softened when she laughed. In the way he listened when she spoke, even when he pretended not to. He liked her. He had liked her for years. Yuko, unaware of everything, treated him like anyone else. She never noticed the quiet gravity pulling him toward her.

You never told her.

It wasn’t her fault. And your love wasn’t something that deserved to complicate her happiness. So you stayed beside her, like you always had, protecting your friendship even when it hurt.

One afternoon, Yuko told you she was finally going to confess to the boy she had loved since kindergarten—her childhood best friend.

You waited outside the classroom while they talked, leaning against the wall, giving her the privacy she deserved. The hallway was quiet, filled only with distant voices and the fading sound of basketballs echoing from the gym.

Then you saw him.

Kuro walked down the hallway, still in his practice clothes, his bag slung over one shoulder. He slowed when he saw you standing there, his eyes flickering briefly to your face before shifting past you.

Toward the classroom door.

He stepped closer.

And then he saw them.

Yuko, standing on her toes, kissing someone else.

Everything about him stilled.

The letter in his hand bent slightly under his grip.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just stood there, watching something end before it ever began.

Then he stepped back.

His eyes met yours.

For the first time, he didn’t look past you. He looked at you.

There was no anger in his expression. Only something quieter. Something heavier.

He held out the letter.

“I don’t need it anymore,” he said, his voice calm in a way that didn’t feel real.

You hesitated, then took it. Your fingers brushed his for the briefest second.

It was addressed to Yuko.

“You can throw it away,” he added.

He didn’t wait for a response. He walked past you, his steps steady, disappearing down the hallway toward his friends, toward the version of himself that wouldn’t stop moving forward.

You stayed there, holding the letter he never got to give.

The next day, everything felt normal again.

Yuko smiled brighter than usual. She laughed more, lighter, happier.

And Kuro sat by the window like always, his expression unreadable, his attention fixed somewhere distant.

But this time, when you glanced at him—

He was already looking at you.