Chapter 10 : The Weight of an Unspoken Wish

The diary sat on my desk like an unwanted guest that refused to leave. Its leather cover was cracked, the edges frayed, and yet, when I touched it, it felt heavier than any textbook I’d ever lugged around. Heavy not because of the paper, but because of the words pressed into it—the weight of someone’s life distilled into childish handwriting and unfinished dreams.

I flipped through the pages again. The cheerful entries, the laughter, the little scribbles in the margins—it all belonged to a girl who now laughed beside me as though nothing was strange.

Except there was something strange.

On the very last page, tucked between the binding, I found it: a flower.

A cosmos. Dried, fragile, its petals browned at the edges. A flower that should’ve disintegrated long ago, but somehow clung to life in pressed silence.

I didn’t need Yui to tell me what it meant. Even an emotionally stunted high schooler like me had read enough seasonal poetry and awkward love confessions to know: cosmos meant love. A love that bloomed quietly, unnoticed, until it was too late.

I held it in my hand, staring at the brittle stem, and for the first time, Yui’s laughter didn’t echo like something alive. It sounded distant, almost like a memory I had accidentally stepped into.

The clock ticked past midnight, and I shoved the diary shut. Sleep wasn’t coming anyway.

---

The next morning, the world looked the same. Rain-clouds hovered lazily over the countryside town, puddles gathered along the narrow roads, and students trudged to school like prisoners to their cells. Normal. Unchanging.

But Yui wasn’t normal.

“Good morning, Haruto-kun!”

Her voice was as cheerful as always, but there was a hesitation, a softness to it, like her words were wrapped in glass. I glanced at her walking beside me—her steps were lighter than usual, almost as if the wind could sweep her away at any moment.

I didn’t say anything. Hikigaya Hachiman, patron saint of awkward silences, would be proud.

At school, things got worse.

Aya, the girl who sat next to me, leaned over as I spaced out for the fifth time that morning. Her eyes narrowed, probably calculating whether I was mentally stable enough to still be considered human.

“You know,” she said in that blunt countryside tone people here seemed to love, “talking to yourself all the time isn’t healthy.”

I froze, pen hovering midair.

She tilted her head, looking genuinely confused. “You’re always mumbling in class. And laughing at… nothing. People are starting to notice.”

I forced a laugh. “Maybe I’m just… practicing for a play.”

Yeah, a play where the main character slowly loses his sanity and ends up mumbling to the ghost sitting beside him. A real comedy.

Aya frowned, like she didn’t buy it, but she let it go. I, on the other hand, felt the ground shift beneath me. Nobody else noticed Yui. Nobody else heard her voice, her laughter, her little scolding remarks.

It was just me.

And maybe, that terrified me more than anything.

---

That afternoon, the rain finally started. The sound of droplets against the classroom windows filled the silence as I packed my bag. Yui stood by the doorway, smiling as usual, umbrella dangling loosely in her hand.

We walked home together, the world blurred in sheets of rain. It should’ve been peaceful. Ordinary. But her reflection didn’t appear in the puddles we passed.

I stopped walking.

“Yui,” I said, the word catching in my throat.

She turned, tilting her head. “Hm?”

“What happened to you… before I came here?”

It was the kind of question that tasted like iron, sharp and heavy. My chest tightened, waiting for her answer.

For a moment, her smile faltered. Her eyes softened, like she was staring through me instead of at me. Then she laughed, quietly.

“Some stories,” she said, “are prettier when they stay unfinished.”

The rain pattered harder around us, like the world itself was trying to drown out her words.

I wanted to scream. To demand she tell me everything. Why her house was empty. Why her diary ended without a goodbye. Why she carried that smile even when the edges of her presence blurred like mist.

But all I did was stand there, the umbrella trembling slightly in my grip.

She walked ahead, humming softly.

I clenched the diary in my bag so tightly my knuckles turned white.

“I won’t let it end unfinished,” I whispered, more to myself than to her.

Because if there’s one thing I hated more than people, it was wasted effort. And Yui’s story, her life, her wish—it wasn’t going to rot away in silence.

Even if it broke me.

---

That night, the flower lay on my desk, pressed between the pages like a secret too fragile to touch.

I stared at it until my vision blurred.

Maybe Hikigaya was right: genuine relationships were impossible. Everyone wore masks, told lies, pretended until the pretense became the truth.

But Yui’s mask was slipping. And I couldn’t pretend anymore.

Her story wasn’t just unfinished.

It was waiting.

And for some reason, out of all the idiots in the world, I was the one holding the pen.