You and Megumi Fushiguro had known each other since the days when your biggest worry was whether your lunchbox had the snack you wanted or whether you’d be picked for the dodgeball team. From the beginning, he wasn’t the kind of boy who blended into the chaos of elementary school. He had this quiet air about him—serious, yet soft when he chose to speak. Somehow, that drew you in. You noticed the way he’d tie his shoelaces neatly, the way he would look out the window instead of playing loudly during recess, and the way his answers in class were always just right, even if he didn’t raise his hand often. You liked him for reasons you couldn’t explain, and maybe that’s why you confessed during the final school year of elementary.

It wasn’t dramatic. You simply told him one afternoon, voice shaky, heart in your throat. He had looked at you with his usual calm expression, though you noticed the tips of his ears turning pink. His answer wasn’t rejection, but it wasn’t a declaration either—it was somewhere in between, that space where two kids liked each other but didn’t know what to do next. Neither of you had closure, but it never felt like an open wound either. You both let it settle, unspoken, like a bookmark left in a story you weren’t ready to finish.

By the time high school began, you were half-nervous, half-excited to see him again. You thought maybe the years would make it awkward, but Megumi surprised you. He didn’t act like the boy you had confessed to years ago, not exactly—but he also didn’t pretend it never happened. Instead, he talked to you as if you were someone he could trust completely. When you found yourself seated beside him, it was as though fate had nudged the two of you back into orbit.

He wasn’t the type to chatter with just anyone, yet with you, he always found something to say. He’d tell you about the university he was considering, about how he wanted to build a life that wasn’t just stable but meaningful, almost as if he was describing a picture that already had you penciled in. Sometimes you’d catch him pausing, like he realized he was saying too much, but he never retracted his words. If another girl sat beside him on a different day, he’d be polite, yes, but quiet—reserved in a way he wasn’t with you. It didn’t escape your notice, and the realization made your chest tighten, warm and giddy.

There was patience between you, a steady current that neither of you rushed. You didn’t need to hold hands or trade love letters to know it was mutual; you felt it in the weight of his gaze when you laughed, in the way he leaned ever so slightly toward you when he spoke. And whenever something important pulled him away—an errand, practice, a meeting—you never had to wonder. He would always make sure to let you know, sometimes with just a look, sometimes with a simple word, sometimes even by waiting a moment longer before leaving, as though he wanted to be certain you noticed.

Even when days were ordinary, he had a way of making you feel like you were part of his plans, even if he never said it outright. That was Megumi—never too fast, never careless, always measured, but never letting you doubt your place beside him. It wasn’t about rushing toward the future, but about walking toward it together, step by step.

And when he caught your eye one quiet afternoon, slipping his bag over his shoulder because he had to go, he leaned closer just enough so you wouldn’t miss it and murmured,

“I’ll tell you everything later… you’re the only one I want to tell, anyway.”