Chapter 4: First Conversation

The morning light filtered through the classroom window, casting long shadows across the desks. Outside, the rain had finally stopped, leaving the world slick and shimmering. The faint scent of wet asphalt mixed with freshly blossoming trees floated in through the cracked window.

Aki sat silently beside him, her notebook open on the desk, pencil moving steadily as she jotted notes or sketches—he wasn’t sure which. Her calm focus was almost a sharp contrast to the restless hum of the classroom, where voices bubbled and whispered just beyond the safe bubble around their desks.

He tried to concentrate on his own textbook, but his eyes kept drifting toward her. She seemed so at ease—unfazed by the stares or the rumors, as if the world’s judgment simply slid off her like raindrops on a windshield.

Finally, during the break before the next class, she leaned a little closer, just enough for her voice to reach him without drawing attention.

“Why do you never say anything?” she asked, soft and steady.

He blinked, startled by the question. It was unlike anything anyone had asked him before.

He wanted to answer, wanted to tell her that words had lost meaning long ago; that speaking only seemed to bring more pain. But his throat tightened, and no sound came out.

“I… I don’t know,” he whispered, voice cracking.

She smiled then—a gentle smile, free of pity or mockery—and nodded slowly.

“That’s okay. You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to.”

Her words hung in the air, light and genuine, like a small island of kindness in a sea of silence.

When the lunch bell rang, he was surprised when Aki opened her bento and, without hesitation, passed a small container toward him. It was a simple offering: a couple of rice balls wrapped carefully in plastic wrap, some pickled vegetables arranged neatly beside them.

He stared at it for a moment, then carefully peeled back the wrapping. The rice ball was a bit warm from the sun, slightly sticky in his hands. He took a small bite, the familiar taste comforting in a way he hadn’t expected.

Around them, the classroom was alive with chatter and laughter, but he felt like they were alone in a quiet corner of the world. Aki didn’t push him to speak; she simply ate her lunch while occasionally glancing over at him with a soft smile.

When lunch ended, the two walked together toward the school gates. Aki carried a bright yellow umbrella, held high to shelter them both from the lingering drizzle. The sound of rain tapping rhythmically on the umbrella mixed with the distant laughter of other students rushing home.

Neither spoke for a long time. The silence between them wasn’t heavy—it felt almost peaceful.

Finally, after crossing the narrow street near the school entrance, Aki turned to him.

“Tell me your name,” she said quietly.

He swallowed. No one had ever asked him that directly.

He hesitated, eyes fixed on the damp pavement.

“My name is _,” he said, voice barely audible.

Aki nodded thoughtfully, as if understanding that _ was the only name he could give.

“I’m Aki,” she said, offering her real name like a small gift.

The name felt warm, simple, and real—something he hadn’t heard in a long time.

They walked the rest of the way home side by side, sharing the umbrella. The world around them seemed softer, colors a little brighter, sounds a little gentler.

He caught himself smiling once, a quick flash that surprised him even more.

Aki noticed and smiled back, a spark of something hopeful in her eyes.

He quickly looked away, cheeks burning.

Maybe this was the start of something new. Maybe the weight on his chest was beginning to lift—just a little.

That night, as he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the words she had said echoed softly in his mind.

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to.”

For the first time, silence felt like a choice, not a prison.