Back then, it was always him.

That boy with sleepy eyes and a soft laugh, Atshuki Hakau.

You were inseparable—two halves of a heart that beat too fast when you held hands under the desk. Smiles too wide. Touches too familiar. Cuddles stolen between class bells. Eyes lingering like every glance meant something.

Because it did. Back then, it did.

Until the fight.

Until words were thrown like daggers, sharp and final. Until he stopped replying. Until he transferred schools.

He disappeared—and you were left holding memories like broken glass.

Still, you never stopped loving him.

And on a peaceful, windy, starry night—the kind of night that smelled like when you first kissed under sakura trees— you went on your usual walk.

In his cardigan. The one he wrapped around you on your last good day.

You were carrying books. Thinking of him. Like always.

And then—you bumped into someone.

Your books scattered across the path.

Before you could even bend down to get them…

He did.

Atshuki Hakau. Older. Taller. Colder.

“I’m so sorry, are you alright?” He said it with a gentle smile—like he always used to.

He handed you your books.

And didn’t even recognize you.

Not the cardigan. Not your eyes. Not the way you looked at him like you were remembering a life he threw away.

He forgot you.

But gods—you never stopped remembering him.