Sayuri wakes before her alarm.
Yesterday, after Saturday practice ended, Aina looked at her hands three times.
Each glance lasted only a moment.
Each time, Aina redirected her attention before Sayuri could ask what she expected to find.
They stopped where the path divided between the outer doors and the dorms.
“Are you heading back to the dorm?” Aina asked.
“Yes.”
Aina looked down at the pink-ribboned rabbit.
“Then you have plans for tomorrow?”
“I have an errand.”
“Oh.”
The disappointment was small but unmistakable.
Sayuri had prepared for several possible problems with the chocolates.
An imperfect filling.
Uneven shells.
Insufficient time for them to set.
She had not accounted for Aina assuming the absence of a gift during practice meant there would not be one.
“I will contact you tomorrow afternoon,” Sayuri said.
Aina looked up.
“Sunday?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be free.” The answer came immediately, restoring the brightness to her expression.
“You do not need to rearrange your schedule.”
“I’m not.”
“You answered too quickly.”
Aina smiled.
“Maybe I already planned to keep the afternoon open.”
“For what?”
“In case you contacted me.”
Sayuri had no immediate response.
Aina adjusted her tote.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t take too long.”
“I have not given you a time.”
“That makes waiting worse.”
Sayuri watched her for a moment.
“I will be efficient.”
Aina laughed softly.
“I know.”
She lifted one hand in farewell and followed the path toward the outer gates.
The pink-ribboned rabbit bounced against her tote with every step.
Sayuri remained at the intersection until Aina turned around a corner.
Only then did she return to the dorm.
✦ ✦ ✦
Now Sunday morning has arrived, and Aina is waiting for her message.
Sayuri changes out of her sleepwear and dresses for the walk to the store.
She checks the ingredient list on her phone.
Dark chocolate.
Cream.
Butter.
Three possible fillings, only one of which meets her standards.
Sayuri transfers her wallet and phone into her tote.
The green-ribboned rabbit swings from its strap as she leaves the dorm.
She intends to reach the supermarket before the late-afternoon crowds grow worse.
As she approaches the outer doors of the Tokui grounds, voices carry from around the side of the wall.
Sayuri slows.
Two female students stand partially concealed from the main path.
One holds a small White Day gift between them.
The taller girl accepts it with both hands.
The other takes a careful step closer.
“S-so does this mean we’re official now?” she asks.
“Can I say you’re my girlfriend?”
Girlfriend.
The word enters Sayuri’s thoughts and refuses to leave.
Aina appears in its place immediately.
Sayuri steps back before either student notices her.
They deserve privacy.
Sayuri knows that two girls can love each other.
She has seen couples before.
There is nothing confusing about the fact itself.
What unsettles her is how quickly the word finds somewhere familiar to belong.
Aina laughing beneath the convenience-store lights.
Aina asleep beside her.
Aina’s shoulder beneath her cheek on the train.
The pink-ribboned rabbit pressed against its green-ribboned partner.
“They like each other.”
Sayuri touches the charm hanging from her tote.
The two students laugh softly behind the wall.
She walks toward the gates with rigid, unnecessary precision.
Her face is growing warmer.
Girlfriend.
Aina’s girlfriend.
The thought forms so clearly that Sayuri nearly misses a step.
She corrects her balance at once and continues walking.
This is not an appropriate location for such an analysis.
Neither is the supermarket.
Unfortunately, the thought follows her there.
The crisp morning air does nothing to cool her face.
By the time Sayuri enters the store, she has repeated the word often enough that it has begun to feel both impossible and dangerously natural.
She collects a basket and proceeds to the baking aisle.
Dark chocolate with a high cacao percentage.
Fresh cream.
Unsalted butter.
Powdered cocoa.
Silicone molds.
Parchment paper.
A narrow pink ribbon that nearly matches the one worn by Aina’s rabbit.
Sayuri compares three brands of chocolate before selecting the one with the most suitable cacao and cocoa-butter balance.
She checks each package twice.
This is not nervousness.
It is quality control.
She turns into the produce section and finds Ryosuke standing beside a refrigerated display.
He holds a basket containing greens, root vegetables, eggs, and carefully portioned proteins.
Sayuri reacts before logic can intervene.
She moves her basket behind her leg.
Ryosuke turns.
His dark eyes settle on her face, then move toward the basket she has failed to conceal.
The silicone molds remain visible above her arm.
So does the pink ribbon.
“Good afternoon,” he says.
“Good afternoon.”
“Shopping?”
“That is generally why people come here.”
Ryosuke looks toward the hidden basket again.
Sayuri straightens.
“I’m gathering supplies.”
“For White Day.”
“The date is clearly displayed throughout the store.”
“For Aina?”
Sayuri does not answer.
She brings the basket back in front of her and adjusts the chocolate bars until their labels face the same direction.
Ryosuke waits.
“What makes you assume they are for Aina?” she asks.
“You hid the basket.”
“It was obstructing the aisle.”
“You moved it behind your leg.”
“That was the nearest unobstructed position.”
“Of course.”
Sayuri narrows her eyes.
“The recipient is not relevant.”
“Then neither is my assumption.”
Silence settles between them.
Something quiet passes through Ryosuke’s expression.
It disappears before Sayuri can identify it.
“She made mine herself,” Sayuri says at last.
“Returning something store-bought would be insufficient.”
Ryosuke nods once.
“I know.”
“How?”
“You carried the box through practice as though it contained emergency medical supplies.”
“It could have been damaged.”
“I’m sure that would have been catastrophic.”
Sayuri studies him.
“Was that sarcasm?”
“An observation.”
His attention briefly shifts to the green-ribboned rabbit on her tote.
Sayuri resists the urge to move the bag behind her as well.
Ryosuke says nothing about it.
Instead, he turns toward the next display and lifts his basket slightly.
“I’m preparing lunch and dinner.
The kitchen is nearly empty.”
Sayuri examines its contents.
Even grocery shopping reflects the same discipline he brings to the range.
Every item has a purpose.
Nothing is excessive.
“Your meal preparation remains as structured as your practice schedule.”
“Consistency away from the range supports consistency on it.” A slight curve touches his mouth.
“You know that better than anyone.”
The acknowledgment settles warmly in Sayuri’s chest.
Praise from Ryosuke is rare because he never offers it without evidence.
She values that about him—the steadiness, the honesty, the refusal to soften a correction merely because it might be unpleasant.
She also intends to defeat him.
Both facts exist comfortably together.
“I should proceed to checkout,” she says.
“You haven’t selected the cream.”
Sayuri looks into her basket.
The space reserved for it is empty.
She turns back toward the refrigerated aisle.
Ryosuke follows at a respectful distance.
They reach the registers several minutes later and choose adjacent lanes.
Their items move across the counters with nearly identical efficiency.
Ryosuke finishes first by four seconds.
Sayuri checks the time, then picks up her bag without comment.
They step outside together.
The walk back toward Tokui settles into a familiar silence.
Sayuri carries the baking supplies against her side, still embarrassed that Ryosuke identified their purpose immediately.
Walking beside him steadies her.
He never forces conversation.
He simply matches her pace.
“Your grip adjustment during Thursday’s evening practice,” he says.
“You eliminated the tremor in your release.”
Sayuri turns toward him.
“You noticed?”
“It’s my responsibility to notice.”
“It was a minor correction.”
“It was effective.”
The praise lands with more force because of its simplicity.
“Thank you.”
Ryosuke looks ahead.
“I’m taking my first-dan examination next month.”
Sayuri stops.
He continues one step before turning back.
For months, she has treated first dan as another distance between them—one she intended to close before he could widen it again.
She meant to reach it first.
Now Ryosuke has an examination date, while she does not.
Pride rises alongside a sharper feeling she refuses to name.
He has earned this.
She has watched every disciplined draw, every correction, and every early morning he devoted to improving.
That does not make falling behind easier.
Sayuri balances the handles of her shopping bag across her palm.
“That is an exceptionally rapid progression,” she says.
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
“When is it?”
“The second Saturday next month.”
She knows spectators are not permitted.
She will not see how he carries himself beneath examination conditions or measure his performance against the standard she intends to reach.
“You will tell me everything afterward.”
“Everything?”
“Every correction you receive.
Every hesitation.
Where each arrow lands.”
“You make my test sound like research.”
“It is.”
Ryosuke regards her for a moment.
Sayuri does not look away.
His expression softens by a fraction.
“I’ll give you a full report.”
“See that you do.”
They continue toward the Tokui gates.
Sayuri’s mind begins calculating the weeks between his examination and the earliest date she might qualify for her own.
She will not resent him for succeeding.
On the morning of his examination, she will train.
When he returns, she will listen to every detail.
If he passes, she will congratulate him properly.
Then she will train until her own examination date is no longer an ambition without a deadline.
Ryosuke breaks the silence before they reach the path toward the dorms.
“You should stop comparing the chocolate before you’ve made it.”
Sayuri looks at him.
“I haven’t said anything about the chocolate.”
“You bought three varieties before choosing one.”
“You were watching me?”
“You stood in front of the same shelf for eight minutes.”
“I was comparing cacao ratios.”
“That is my point.”
Sayuri adjusts the paper bag against her side.
“Aina’s chocolates were exceptionally refined.”
“She’ll like yours.”
“You cannot know that.”
“I know how she looks at you.”
Sayuri stops again.
This time, Ryosuke does not turn immediately.
The morning air moves between them.
His posture remains composed, but the hand holding his grocery bag has become unusually still.
When he finally faces her, his expression reveals nothing she can interpret with certainty.
Sayuri’s thoughts return to the two girls behind the wall.
“Can I say you’re my girlfriend?”
“What does that mean?” she asks.
Ryosuke holds her gaze.
“I think you already know.”
Her heart strikes once, hard enough to unsettle her breathing.
Ryosuke looks toward the green-ribboned rabbit.
“Don’t overthink the gift,” he says.
“You’re giving it to someone who values everything you do for her.”
There is too much understanding in the words.
Perhaps too much resignation as well.
Before Sayuri can determine whether she imagined it, Ryosuke steps toward the path leading to his dorm.
“Good luck with the baking.”
“Ryosuke.”
He pauses.
“Thank you,” she says.
His eyes remain on her for one quiet moment.
“Of course.” Then he turns and walks away.
Sayuri watches until the path curves beyond the trees.
Ryosuke is everything she respects in an archer—disciplined, perceptive, unshaken by pressure.
His recognition matters to her because he understands the standards she has built her life around.
But the feeling he leaves behind is steady.
Grounded.
Nothing like the chaos produced by one crimson-haired girl smiling over a pair of magnetic rabbits.
Sayuri looks down at the baking supplies in her arms.
Her phone remains quiet.
Aina said she would keep the afternoon free.
She is waiting for Sayuri to contact her, exactly as promised.
Sayuri opens their conversation and begins typing.
[Sayuri]: I have completed my errand.
She considers the message.
It would invite questions she cannot answer without compromising the surprise.
She deletes it.
The green-ribboned rabbit swings from her tote.
Girlfriend.
Warmth returns to Sayuri’s face.
She touches one finger to the rabbit’s soft head before continuing toward the dorm.
The chocolates still need to be measured, molded, cooled, and packaged before she can contact Aina.
Her feelings will have to wait until after the ganache.
✦ ✦ ✦
Aina reaches the Tokui grounds shortly after Sayuri returns from the supermarket.
She has come without warning, intending to surprise her—and possibly demand evidence that the promised White Day chocolates exist.
Then she sees Sayuri walking beside Ryosuke.
Aina stops behind the trunk of an early-blooming cherry tree.
The two carry grocery bags as they approach the path toward the dorms.
Their pace is perfectly matched.
Neither needs to fill the silence.
They look calm and composed, as though walking side by side requires no thought at all.
Aina’s attention settles on Sayuri.
Her expression is softer than usual.
When Ryosuke turns toward his dorm, Sayuri watches him leave for several seconds.
The sight produces a sharp ache beneath Aina’s ribs.
She thinks about the train.
Sayuri asleep against her shoulder.
The matching rabbits.
The promise of something handmade on White Day.
Perhaps Aina assigned too much meaning to all of it.
Sayuri has her own life.
She has people who understand parts of her that Aina never will.
Ryosuke shares her discipline, her ambition, and the relentless need to improve.
He can correct her form with one glance because he knows exactly what she is trying to achieve.
Aina knows historical periods, railway lines, and how to calculate the probable path of an arrow.
That does not mean she understands what it feels like to stand at the top of the girls’ ranking and still look toward Ryosuke as though first place belongs to him.
Aina steps away from the tree.
She does not call out.
She turns toward home before Sayuri can notice her.
The walk usually takes fifteen minutes.
Today, Aina stretches it close to an hour.
She chooses residential alleys she normally ignores.
She counts cracks in the pavement.
She stops beside a fenced garden to watch a stray cat sleep in a square of morning sunlight.
The cat opens one eye.
“You don’t have to judge me,” Aina tells it.
The cat closes its eye again.
A nearby bakery releases the smell of sugar and warm bread into the street.
Aina’s stomach twists.
By the time Aina reaches home, the excitement that carried her to Tokui has disappeared.
The entrance mirror catches her before she can remove her shoes.
She got dressed specifically for the afternoon—a cream cable-knit sweater, loose beige trousers, and clean white sneakers.
The sweater was a careful choice.
Its thick weave and relaxed shape conceal the clustered marks along her right side and abdomen without making her look as though she is hiding anything.
It is also softer and cuter than what she usually wears for an ordinary Sunday.
Aina told herself she only wanted to be comfortable.
Looking at her reflection now, the excuse feels unconvincing.
She dressed carefully because she expected Sayuri to see her.
Instead, she hid behind a tree and came home without saying a word.
The sweater still looks cute.
Aina wishes it did not still feel chosen for Sayuri.
She looks away from the mirror and places her tote beside the entryway.
The pink-ribboned rabbit swings from its strap.
She turns the rabbit toward the wall.
Then she feels guilty and turns it back.
For the next two hours, she attempts to study.
Her textbook remains open to the same page.
Shortly after one in the afternoon, her phone vibrates.
[Sayuri]: Are you free right now?
A second message follows.
[Sayuri]: If you aren’t busy, would you meet me at the café near the station?
Aina reads both messages twice.
The doubt from that morning immediately offers several explanations.
Perhaps Sayuri wants to discuss practice.
Perhaps Ryosuke asked her to deliver something.
Perhaps she wants help researching her first-dan examination.
Or perhaps—
Aina opens the message field.
[Aina]: It’s a date!
She looks at the sentence.
Heat spreads across her face.
She deletes it one character at a time.
[Aina]: Yeah, I’m free!
I’ll be there soon.
She sends the safer response before she can reconsider it.
Her heart refuses to treat it as safe.
✦ ✦ ✦
Aina arrives first and chooses a small table near the café window.
She checks the entrance whenever the door opens.
A family with two children.
An elderly couple.
Three students from another school.
Not Sayuri.
Aina adjusts the pink-ribboned rabbit on her tote.
She tells herself that Sayuri is only four minutes late.
At five minutes, the café door opens again.
Sayuri steps inside.
Her chestnut hair falls loose over her shoulders in soft waves.
Beneath a light cream jacket, she wears a plain white shirt with pale pink drawstring pants.
White platform sneakers bring her almost level with Aina’s height.
Her red watch circles one wrist.
It is the jacket Aina once told her brings out the amber in her eyes.
Sayuri owns other jackets.
Aina refuses to examine why this is the one she chose today.
The green-ribboned rabbit hangs from her shoulder bag.
Aina has seen Sayuri in casual clothing hundreds of times.
Today feels unfair.
Sayuri notices her and walks directly to the table.
She takes the chair across from Aina, places her bag beside her feet, and studies her face.
“You’ve been furrowing your brow.”
Aina smooths her expression.
“Have I?”
“Yes.”
“I was thinking.”
“That explanation has become suspicious.”
Aina lowers her gaze toward the table.
Sayuri waits.
The silence is not demanding, but it leaves Aina nowhere to hide.
“I saw you this morning,” she admits.
“At Tokui?”
“With Ryosuke.”
Sayuri’s expression changes by a fraction.
“You were there?”
“I was going to surprise you.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“You looked busy.”
“We were walking.”
“Together.”
“That is generally how walking with another person works.”
Aina presses her hands beneath the table.
“I thought you might have plans with him.”
“Why?”
“It’s White Day.”
Sayuri’s lips part, then close.
A beat later, her eyebrows lift.
Then understanding reaches her face.
“You thought I made chocolates for Ryosuke.”
Aina wants the floor to open beneath her chair.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it.”
“I didn’t.”
Sayuri reaches into her shoulder bag.
A beautifully wrapped box emerges between her hands.
The paper is pale cream, secured with a narrow pink ribbon.
She places it in the center of the table and slides it toward Aina.
“I was buying ingredients for these.”
Aina looks down at the box.
“I encountered Ryosuke in the baking aisle by coincidence,” Sayuri continues.
“He was purchasing groceries.
We walked back because we were returning to the same place.”
“Oh.”
“Nothing else happened.”
The clarification comes so directly that Aina looks up.
Sayuri’s ears have turned pink.
“You don’t have to explain.”
“You were upset because you misunderstood the situation.”
“I wasn’t upset.”
“You turned your rabbit toward the inside of your bag.”
Aina looks down.
At some point, she has twisted the pink-ribboned rabbit away from the room.
She slowly turns it back.
“How did you notice that?”
“You always position her facing outward.”
Aina’s heart gives one helpless thud.
Sayuri pushes the box closer.
“I promised to make you something.”
“You really made these for me?”
“Yes.”
“Only me?” The question escapes before Aina can stop it.
Sayuri meets her eyes.
“Only you.”
Every unpleasant thought from that morning loses its footing.
Aina touches the ribbon.
The bow has been tied with perfect symmetry.
“You remembered the color.”
“It matches your rabbit.”
“You planned the wrapping too?”
“Presentation affects the experience.”
“Of course it does.”
Aina carefully unties the ribbon and lifts the lid.
Inside rests a neat arrangement of dark chocolates.
Each one has been molded into a small heart.
She looks at Sayuri.
Sayuri looks toward the window.
“They’re hearts.”
“The mold produced the most consistent volume.”
“You bought a heart-shaped mold for mathematical reasons.”
“It allowed equal distribution of the filling.”
Aina smiles.
“Naturally.”
Sayuri adjusts her red watch.
“The shape was also appropriate for White Day.”
The confession is so quiet that Aina almost misses it.
Her cheeks grow warm.
She selects one chocolate.
The shell gives way beneath her teeth, revealing a smooth ganache center.
The cacao is rich and slightly bitter, but the filling carries exactly enough sweetness to soften it.
Aina closes her eyes.
Sayuri immediately leans forward.
“Is the cacao percentage too high?”
Aina shakes her head.
“Is the filling uneven?”
“No.”
“Then why aren’t you saying anything?”
“Because I’m trying to experience it properly.”
Sayuri sits back.
Aina lets the chocolate melt before opening her eyes.
“I usually don’t like dark chocolate.”
“I know.”
Aina looks at her.
“You knew?”
“You leave the darker pieces behind whenever we share an assorted box.”
“Then why did you make these?”
Sayuri directs her attention toward the small hearts.
“I wanted you to try it once more.
I thought you might like dark chocolate if the bitterness were balanced properly, so I adjusted the filling to your preference.”
Aina studies the half-finished chocolate.
“It does taste different,” she says.
“It’s still rich, but the bitterness doesn’t overwhelm everything else.”
“That was the intended result.”
“You did all of that just to change my mind about dark chocolate?”
“I made three test batches.”
Aina looks up.
“Three?”
“I wanted you to try it once more.
I thought you might like dark chocolate if the bitterness were balanced properly, so I adjusted the filling to your preference.”
Aina studies the half-finished chocolate.
“The first filling separated.
The second was smoother, but too sweet.
This is the third.”
Aina finishes the chocolate.
“It’s incredible.”
Sayuri’s shoulders lower.
“It’s the best chocolate I’ve ever had,” Aina adds.
“That assessment may be influenced by limited sampling.”
“It isn’t.”
Aina looks down at the small hearts.
“You spent all morning making these.”
“I spent part of the morning purchasing ingredients.”
“With Ryosuke.”
Sayuri’s eyes narrow.
Aina laughs for the first time that day.
The remaining tension dissolves with it.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“I couldn’t resist.”
“You were distressed five minutes ago.”
“I feel much better now.”
“That does not justify provocation.”
“It helped.”
Sayuri regards her for a moment, then lifts her bag from the floor.
She moves from the chair across the table to the seat beside Aina.
“What are you doing?”
“The box is easier to share from here.”
“They’re my chocolates.”
“I need to verify that the texture remained stable during transport.”
Aina shifts to give her room.
Sayuri sits close enough that their shoulders touch.
Neither moves away.
Their bags settle beside each other beneath the table.
The pink and green-ribboned rabbits swing from the straps.
The hidden magnets pull.
Click.
Their plush cheeks press together.
Aina points beneath the table.
“Look.”
Sayuri follows her gesture.
“The rabbits have reconciled,” Aina says.
“They were not in conflict.”
“Mine was facing the other way.”
“That was your decision.”
“She was upset.”
“She is fabric.”
“She thought the green one had forgotten her.”
“They were together this morning.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“It is difficult to identify the point when you are assigning emotional distress to a keychain.”
Aina smiles.
“She feels better now.”
The two rabbits remain linked beneath them.
Sayuri reaches for a chocolate and examines its shell rather than eating it.
“Ryosuke said something strange this morning.”
Aina’s smile fades slightly.
“What?”
“He said he knows how you look at me.”
The café seems to grow quieter.
Aina’s thoughts stop.
Sayuri turns the chocolate between her fingers.
“What did he mean?”
The question holds genuine uncertainty.
Of course it does.
Sayuri can analyze the movement of an arrow, reorganize an entire suite, and calculate the structural arrangement of books inside a carton.
She cannot recognize what she is doing to Aina from less than five inches away.
Aina looks down at the heart-shaped chocolates.
“How do you look at me?” Sayuri asks.
Aina gathers every fragment of courage she possesses.
“Like this.” She turns toward her.
For one suspended moment, their eyes meet.
Sayuri’s composure loosens.
Her amber gaze moves across Aina’s face as though searching for an answer she has somehow overlooked.
Aina could say it.
The truth sits close enough to touch.
Then Sayuri lifts the chocolate she is holding.
“You should try this one.
The shell is slightly thinner.”
Aina nearly drops her head onto the table.
“Sayuri.”
“Yes?”
“Nothing.”
She accepts the chocolate.
Sayuri watches closely as she tastes it.
“Better?”
“A little.”
“I thought so.”
“You’re impossible.”
“That conclusion is unsupported.”
Aina laughs again and leans lightly against her shoulder.
For one brief second, Sayuri seems uncertain how to respond.
Then she settles into the contact.
Outside the café window, afternoon sunlight moves across the station plaza.
Inside, they share tea and handmade chocolates while their matching rabbits remain connected beneath the table.
Aina’s doubts have not disappeared completely.
Neither has the question Ryosuke placed between them.
But Sayuri made three batches of heart-shaped chocolates for her.
She remembered the sweetness Aina preferred.
She noticed when one small rabbit faced the wrong direction.
And when Aina leaned closer, Sayuri stayed.
For now, Aina allows those facts to mean exactly what she hopes they do.
✦ ✦ ✦
A few weeks later, spring settles over Tokui High.
Cherry blossoms line the school paths.
Pink petals drift across the courtyard and gather beneath the large wooden bulletin boards outside the main building.
Students crowd around the newly posted class lists.
It is the first day of the academic year.
Their third year.
Their last.
Aina approaches the boards beside Sayuri.
Ryosuke and Saki already stand near the back of the crowd, searching the lists.
Saki finds his name first.
“Class 3-A.”
Ryosuke checks the next sheet.
“I’m in 3-C.”
“So the administration has decided that one year in the same class was sufficient.”
“You transferred halfway through it.”
“And our time together was still meaningful.”
Ryosuke ignores him and moves his attention to the girls’ column.
“Sayuri is in 3-C,” he says.
Aina looks up.
“And you’re in 3-A,” Ryosuke finishes.
The surrounding noise recedes.
Aina steps closer to the board.
She checks Class 3-C first.
Nakamura Ryosuke appears in the left column.
Suzuki Sayuri appears in the right.
Aina searches the rest of the list even though Ryosuke has already told her what she will find.
Her name is not there.
She moves to Class 3-B.
Nothing.
Then Class 3-A.
Halfway down the right column, she finds it.
Tanaka Aina
Across from her name in the left column is:
Shimizu, Saki
Aina reads both lists again.
CLASS 3-C
Nakamura, Ryosuke | Suzuki, Sayuri
CLASS 3-A
Shimizu, Saki | Tanaka, Aina
For two years, Aina and Sayuri have shared the same homeroom.
Every lecture, lunch break, whispered correction, and quiet stretch between lessons has belonged to both of them.
Now Class 3-C is on the third floor of the main building.
Class 3-A is in the east wing, beyond two long corridors and an entirely different staircase.
Sayuri steps beside her.
Her amber eyes move between the two sheets.
Her posture remains controlled, but the strap of her school bag has been pulled completely straight beneath her hand.
Aina looks toward her.
“We aren’t in the same class.”
“No.”
“Or the same wing.”
“No.”
Sayuri studies the lists once more.
“It is logical.”
Aina shifts her weight onto one foot.
“You selected the advanced university-preparatory schedule,” Sayuri continues.
“Your electives are intended for students applying to the highest national universities.”
“And you chose the athletics program.”
“It provides the practice flexibility I need for qualifiers and rank examinations.”
Aina understands immediately.
The school has not separated them carelessly.
Administration has followed the academic plans they submitted months earlier.
Aina chose the future she has worked toward for years.
Sayuri did the same.
“This is what we asked for,” Aina says.
“Yes.”
Neither sounds comforted.
Sayuri’s attention remains fixed on the board.
“You need the strongest possible preparation for the entrance examinations,” she says.
“Remaining together would not justify compromising that.”
“I know.”
“And I need the athletics schedule if I intend to compete nationally.”
“I know that too.”
Sayuri turns toward her.
Aina attempts a smile.
It fails before it fully forms.
“I just didn’t think choosing our futures would mean losing all day with you.”
Something in Sayuri’s expression gives way.
“You are not losing me.” The answer comes immediately.
Firmly.
Aina lowers her gaze.
“It feels a little like I am.”
Sayuri’s hand moves from her bag strap.
For a moment, Aina thinks she will reach for her.
Instead, Sayuri carefully straightens the collar of Aina’s uniform.
The gesture is precise and completely unnecessary.
“We still have afternoon practice,” Sayuri says.
Aina looks up.
“Lunch.”
“Our schedules might not match.”
“Then we will compare them.”
“And after school?”
“Saturday practice.”
“You’ll have athletics meetings.”
“Not every weekend.”
“And when you do?”
Sayuri considers the problem with the same severity she would give a difficult shot.
“I will inform you in advance.”
Aina’s smile returns by a fraction.
“That sounds very formal.”
“It prevents misunderstandings.”
Saki steps closer, his attention shifting between them.
“Aina, I can show you where Class 3-A is.”
“I know where it is.”
“Then I can walk there while being unnecessary.”
“That may be your most developed skill,” Ryosuke says.
Saki places a hand over his chest.
“We’ve been separated for less than five minutes, and already he has become cruel.”
The exchange earns a quiet laugh from Aina.
It does not remove the ache, but it makes space around it.
The warning bell rings over the courtyard.
Students begin moving toward their assigned classrooms.
Aina instinctively falls into step beside Sayuri and heads toward the main staircase.
After two steps, she stops.
The route to Class 3-A branches toward the east wing.
Sayuri takes one more step before matching Aina’s halt.
They stand at the division between the two corridors.
Aina adjusts her school bag.
The pink-ribboned rabbit sways from its strap.
Sayuri’s attention drops toward it.
The green-ribboned twin hangs from her own bag.
Her expression softens.
“Don’t skip lunch,” she says.
“I don’t skip lunch.”
“You forget when you’re studying.”
“That happened once.”
“It happened four times last term.”
Aina decides not to dispute evidence.
Sayuri steps closer, lowering her voice.
“I’ll hold our usual bench.”
“We may only have ten minutes.”
“Then arrive on time.”
Aina touches the pink-ribboned rabbit.
“I’ll be there.”
“That is not sufficiently definite.”
Aina’s eyes brighten despite the sadness still resting beneath them.
“I promise.”
Sayuri gives one small nod.
“Good.”
Ryosuke waits near the main staircase.
Saki stands at the entrance to the east corridor.
Aina and Sayuri remain between them for one moment longer.
Then Aina turns toward Class 3-A.
Sayuri turns toward Class 3-C.
After three steps, Aina looks back.
Sayuri has done the same.
Neither pretends otherwise.
“Lunch,” Aina calls.
“Noon,” Sayuri answers.
They continue in opposite directions.
The school has placed two corridors between them.
By the time Aina reaches the east-wing staircase, she is already counting the minutes until the distance closes again.