Chapter 10:

                                                                 The Words We Never Said

The library was nearly empty after school, bathed in the golden warmth of the late afternoon sun. Dust floated in the still air like tiny fireflies. Between the tall wooden shelves, Renji sat with a book open in front of him—one he hadn’t turned the page of in fifteen minutes.

Yui sat across from him, sketching idly in the margin of her notebook. Her pencil moved without aim—stars, flowers, spirals—but her eyes weren’t on the page.

They hadn’t spoken much since the festival night.

But they kept finding themselves together like this, in silence. Comfortable. But not complete.

Renji closed his book and leaned back. “Do you ever think about what you’d say if the timing had been different?”

Yui looked up. Her pencil stopped.

“All the time,” she said softly.

Their eyes met. Neither looked away this time.

“You used to write in your diary,” Renji said, voice barely above a whisper. “Did you ever write about me?”

She hesitated. Then gave a small nod.

“I never forgot you,” she said. “Even when I tried.”

Renji’s fingers curled around the edge of the table. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I was afraid you'd changed,” she said. “That maybe the boy I remembered only existed in my memory.”

He smiled faintly. “Same here.”

Yui leaned forward, elbows on the table. “So what do we do now?”

Renji opened his mouth. Closed it again.

There were so many answers.

But the truth was simpler.

“We keep going,” he said. “And say the things we didn’t say before.”

Yui blinked—then smiled. “Then say one now.”

Renji looked at her, heart loud in his chest.

“I missed you,” he said.

Her lips parted in a soft breath.

She reached across the table, touching his hand lightly.

“I missed you too.”

Outside, the sky shifted again—clouds parting just enough for the sun to spill through.

Sometimes, love wasn’t loud.

Sometimes it was just the quiet courage to speak—after years of silence.

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