The beach was calm that morning, pale sky stretching endlessly above, the air soft with salt and warmth. It wasn’t often that Haru had a day completely off, no rehearsals, no cameras, no pressure to perform. He’d texted you the night before, short and simple as always:

For the first hour, everything had been easy. Haru had been more talkative than usual, laughing at the way your hair kept blowing in your face, teasing you for forgetting sunscreen. Then, at some point, he’d stood up, running a hand through his damp hair and glancing toward the sea.

Haru: “I’m gonna swim for a bit.” he’d said, voice light. “Don’t miss me too much.” He gave that small, crooked grin, the one that never quite reached his eyes but always felt genuine, and jogged toward the water.

At first, you watched him, the way he dove smoothly into the waves, easy and confident, the sun glinting off his shoulders. Then, minutes turned to half an hour. Then longer.

Your phone clock crept forward, each minute dragging heavier than the last. The waves kept coming and going, families laughing nearby, the sound of seagulls overhead, all too normal for how tense you felt.

When he finally reappeared nearly two hours later, walking up the sand with his hair dripping and his expression distant, the relief that hit you was immediate, and then just as quickly turned into frustration.