Chapter 9 – A Wish Left Behind

The old diary felt heavy in Haruto’s hands, even though it was small and worn, the leather cracked and flaking at the edges. He had found it tucked away in the dusty desk of the abandoned house Yui had guided him toward, her laughter ringing in his ears as though nothing was strange about it.

But the house was silent, locked, and lifeless. And the diary… it told a story Yui hadn’t.

He sat on the edge of his bed that night, the faint yellow light of his desk lamp illuminating the faded ink. His fingers brushed over the childish handwriting.

"Spring, Year 2 of high school…"

The entries were short, but vibrant—full of everyday details about her friends, her teachers, and the little things that had made her laugh. She wrote about sneaking snacks during class, tripping during gym, the way her classmates teased her. Haruto could almost hear her voice as he read, cheerful and bright, as though she were speaking directly to him.

But then, as he turned the pages, something shifted.

"I think I’ve fallen in love."

Haruto blinked, rereading the line. His heart skipped as though someone had whispered the words into his ear. The next pages described how she saw someone in her class, someone she admired for their kindness, though she never wrote their name. Instead, she wrote about moments—how they lent her an eraser, how they smiled when she made a joke, how they always listened even when no one else did.

"I want to be brave enough to confess before graduation."

Haruto’s chest tightened. He could picture Yui writing these words, her cheeks probably pink, her handwriting rushed with excitement. She had dreamed of something so ordinary, so human—something every high schooler thought about at least once.

But the entries grew scattered. The handwriting became messier. Sometimes there were whole weeks with only one line scribbled:

"Not today. Maybe tomorrow."

"I’ll find the right moment soon."

And then—nothing.

The diary ended abruptly, months before graduation.

Haruto stared at the last page, the ink faded as though time itself had stolen her voice. He turned the rest of the notebook over and over, hoping for one more entry, one more clue. But it was blank. Just silence.

He swallowed hard.

“Yui…” he whispered into the empty room.

Almost as if on cue, the curtains fluttered though the window was shut. He looked up, and there she was—sitting cross-legged on his desk like she always did, smiling at him as though nothing was strange.

“You were reading pretty intensely,” she teased, tilting her head. “Did you find something interesting?”

Haruto froze, his grip tightening around the diary. He didn’t know what to say. Should he tell her what he had discovered? Should he ask her why her house was empty, why her diary stopped?

Instead, he forced a smile.

“Just… old stories,” he murmured.

She leaned closer, her hair brushing his shoulder, and he felt a chill. “You’re always so secretive, Haruto-kun. I wonder what you’re hiding.”

His heart beat painfully. She didn’t know. Or maybe… she didn’t want to know.

For the first time since meeting her, he felt the distance between them—not in steps, not in space, but in time itself. She was smiling, but there was a shadow behind that smile now, one he couldn’t unsee.

---

The next day at school, Haruto could barely focus. Aya gave him side glances, probably thinking he was lost in daydreams again. And maybe he was. Every time Yui laughed beside him, every time she tugged his sleeve and pulled him toward the rooftop or the courtyard, his mind replayed that unfinished diary.

A wish left behind.

Had she ever confessed? Had she ever told that person how she felt?

When the lunch bell rang, Yui dragged him toward the rooftop again. The wind was strong, carrying the faint scent of autumn leaves, and she spread her arms wide, pretending to fly.

“Doesn’t it feel nice up here?” she asked, her eyes closing. “Like you could just let go of everything and float away?”

Haruto watched her, a lump forming in his throat. “Yeah,” he managed softly.

She turned, her skirt fluttering in the wind. “Hey, Haruto-kun… if you had something important you wanted to say, would you wait for the perfect moment, or just say it?”

His breath caught.

It was the same question her diary had been asking, in her own handwriting.

“I…” He hesitated. His chest ached with the weight of the truth he couldn’t tell her. That she had been waiting, that her story had stopped before she ever got to say it.

“I think,” he said finally, meeting her gaze, “sometimes waiting makes you lose the chance forever.”

Her eyes widened slightly. Then, to his surprise, she smiled—softly, almost sadly. “You’re braver than I thought.”

The bell rang again before Haruto could say more, and Yui turned toward the door, her laughter echoing as she skipped down the steps.

But Haruto stayed behind, staring at the sky.

He made a silent vow then.

If Yui had left behind a wish… if she had wanted to confess before graduation but never could…

Then maybe, just maybe, he could help her find peace.

Even if it meant breaking his own heart.

---

That night, Haruto sat at his desk again, diary open before him. He traced the last unfinished sentence with his finger, imagining the girl who wrote it.

A girl who dreamed of love.

A girl who wanted to confess.

A girl who never got the chance.

“Yui,” he whispered into the quiet. “I’ll make sure your wish doesn’t stay unfinished.”

And somewhere, faintly, he thought he heard her humming outside his window—gentle, fleeting, like the echo of spring carried on autumn wind.