It had been three weeks.
Three weeks since Ayato walked through the school gates for the last time.
Three weeks since Izumi Ichikawa had sat on their rooftop, waiting for her, only to remember—too late—that she wouldn't be coming.
Spring had started to fade, giving way to early summer. The cherry blossoms were gone, replaced by thicker green leaves that swayed in the wind like quiet applause. The world hadn't stopped. It never did. Teachers still gave homework. Classmates still gossiped. The vending machine still jammed Izumi's canned coffee every other morning.
But something in Izumi had gone still.
His mornings were quiet again—no Ayato at the gate, waving like a windmill on overdrive. His lunch breaks were solitary—just him and his bento, eaten mechanically beneath the same rooftop sky. And his walks home… well, they felt like walking through a shadow of what used to be.
He didn't cry. He didn't sulk.
He simply missed her.
The kind of missing that curled up in the chest and made even happy days feel like background noise.
But he had her letter. Folded carefully and kept inside the inner pocket of his school blazer, even now in the rising heat. He hadn't reread it, though he'd memorized every word.
Maybe it was his way of keeping her voice alive.
On a Wednesday afternoon, Izumi found himself at the school's art club room. Not because he'd joined—he hadn't—but because the teacher had asked for someone to help move supplies.
It was quiet, the way Ayato would've liked. Smelled like turpentine and old wood. He picked up a box of sketchpads and turned to leave—then paused.
A familiar notebook sat on the edge of a shelf. Small, bound in soft blue leather.
He recognized it instantly.
Ayato's sketchbook.
His chest tightened.
Was this the one she always carried?
He debated for a second. Logic told him to leave it—maybe she'd come back for it someday. But his hands moved on their own.
He opened it.
The first page was an old sketch: two figures walking under cherry trees. One with long white hair, one with messy black.
Izumi swallowed hard.
Each page that followed was a memory frozen in time—Ayato's view of their shared moments. Him reading in the library. Their bento boxes side by side. His face caught in half a smile. One sketch of them under an umbrella, even though they had never shared one—just her imagination painting what might have been.
And then, on the final page:
A new drawing.
Recent. Unfinished.
It was him again—but this time alone. Sitting beneath a sakura tree. The petals falling around him like snow. His expression, though made of pencil lines, looked so real it hurt.
Beneath the sketch, a single line was written:
> "Even when I'm gone, I hope you keep blooming."
Izumi stared at the page, his fingers trembling.
He closed the book gently and held it against his chest.
Maybe she had forgotten it on purpose.
That night, Izumi pulled out his old sketchpad—the one he hadn't used in over a year. He sharpened a pencil, sat at his desk, and stared at the blank page.
And slowly, he began to draw.
He didn't have her talent. His lines were shaky, his proportions sometimes off. But he drew anyway.
He drew the rooftop. The river path. Her smiling in her uniform, laughing at something only she found funny.
It wasn't perfect.
But it was them.
At school the next day, he returned the blue notebook to the art room—right where he found it.
He didn't take it home.
He didn't need to.
She had given him enough.
That same afternoon, as he walked past the sakura path (now mostly green), a voice called out.
"Hey, Ichikawa!"
It was Takano from class 2-B. Loud, obnoxious, never shut up.
"You're in the anime club, right?" Takano asked.
Izumi blinked. "I… guess."
"We're doing a summer panel at the culture fest. Want to join? We're short one member."
"Me?"
"Yeah, you. Didn't you help plan that anime quiz last year?"
"That was Ayato."
Takano's expression softened just slightly. "Oh. Right. The white-haired girl. She was cool."
Izumi hesitated.
Then, for reasons he didn't fully understand, he said, "I'll think about it."
Takano grinned. "Cool. Let me know. We meet after school Thursdays."
As he walked away, Izumi felt something shift inside him.
Maybe this was what she meant.
Maybe "keep blooming" didn't mean forgetting her.
Maybe it meant continuing to grow because of her.
He reached into his pocket, touched the letter.
And for the first time in weeks, he smiled.
Thursday afternoon arrived with the lazy hum of cicadas and the scent of summer rain hanging in the air.
Izumi Ichikawa stood in front of the anime club room door, arms crossed, hesitating.
Inside, laughter echoed—animated voices chatting about summer events, character polls, and new season releases. He could hear someone passionately debating why the heroine of a magical girl show was clearly the best-written character in recent years.
It used to be the kind of conversation he only watched from the sidelines—ears open, eyes down, notebook out. But today, he stepped inside.
"Yo! Ichikawa!" Takano called, waving him over like they were lifelong friends.
The others looked up. Some blinked in surprise. Others smiled. A few gave polite nods.
"You came," Takano said, tossing him a plastic folder. "You're now officially in charge of panel visuals."
"Why?"
"Because you have the cleanest handwriting and you look like the type who'll actually do the job."
Izumi blinked, caught off guard. "That's… fair."
Takano grinned. "Don't worry, we won't let you drown."
The room burst into chatter again. Someone offered him a snack. Another asked which anime he was currently watching. It felt strange—being spoken to so casually, without expectation.
And yet, he found himself answering. Quietly at first. But more.
Like a muscle long unused, stretching again.
That evening, Izumi found himself walking a different path home—one that curved through the city's shopping district. He paused at a bookstore, the one Ayato had once dragged him into when she spotted a rare manga volume.
He stepped inside.
The smell of fresh pages hit him like nostalgia in waves.
He wandered aimlessly until something caught his eye: a display for an artbook series—soft watercolors, dreamy cityscapes, sketches of mundane life made magical.
Ayato would've loved it.
Without overthinking, he picked up a copy and walked to the register.
Later that night, back in his room, Izumi flipped through the book slowly. Every page reminded him of Ayato—not just her sketches, but the way she saw the world. In details. In light. In fleeting expressions that most people missed.
He reached for his own sketchpad again.
This time, he drew the anime club room. The overlapping conversations. The way sunlight cut across the desks. A scene that was completely ordinary.
But he understood now—that ordinary didn't mean forgettable.
Over the next few days, Izumi began to change in small, quiet ways.
He no longer waited at the school gate—but he walked a little slower in the mornings, just in case.
He sat with the anime club at lunch sometimes—not every day, but enough that they stopped being surprised.
He even joined a group chat.
When the club members voted on the theme for their culture fest panel, Izumi suggested, "Everyday Magic: The Romance of Slice-of-Life."
No one laughed.
In fact, someone said, "That's… kinda poetic, Ichikawa."
He flushed slightly. "It was Ayato's favorite genre."
There was a pause.
Then Takano spoke up. "She sounds cool."
"She was."
"She'd probably be glad you're here with us."
Izumi smiled faintly. "I think so, too."
One evening, after finishing homework, Izumi walked out to the small park near his home.
The sun had dipped low, casting golden streaks across the playground. The wind carried faint laughter from a nearby apartment. A couple of high schoolers passed by on bikes, their chatter fading behind them.
He found an empty bench and sat.
He didn't have a sketchpad or music. Just the moment.
Then, out of habit, he reached into his blazer pocket.
Ayato's letter was still there—edges soft from wear, folded perfectly.
He didn't open it.
Instead, he whispered, "I joined the anime club."
The wind stirred in response.
"I've been drawing more. Even started a new story."
Somewhere, a cicada cried.
"I miss you."
And then—quietly, like a secret—
"I think I'm okay now."
He didn't expect a reply.
But maybe, just maybe, Ayato heard him anyway.
Later that week, Izumi passed by the art club room again. The door was open. No one was inside.
On impulse, he stepped in.
He walked straight to the shelf where he'd found her sketchbook before.
It was still there.
But this time, next to it, was something new.
A white envelope.
No name.
Just a sticker of a tiny green clover.
He hesitated… then picked it up.
Inside was a postcard. On the front, a simple illustration: two figures under a sakura tree.
On the back:
> "Keep sketching. Keep blooming.
—A."
Izumi smiled.
Maybe Ayato had come back, if only for a moment.
Or maybe… she'd left it long ago, knowing he'd return here someday.
Either way, it was enough.
Because in the spaces between people, memories bloom like flowers.
Sunday arrived wrapped in soft blue skies and the promise of early summer.
Izumi Ichikawa stood at the station platform, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. Trains hissed in and out, the usual noise of announcements and footsteps filling the air.
He wasn't waiting for anyone.
And yet… he was.
He took the train anyway. The one that led to the riverside park district, where he and Ayato once wandered under spring blossoms. It had been her idea—to walk there after school on a whim. She'd called it their "spontaneous adventure."
It had felt like nothing and everything at once.
The river was quieter now. Fewer petals, more green. The wind was stronger. The benches emptier.
Izumi sat under the same tree.
Pulled out his sketchbook.
Opened to a fresh page.
And began to draw.
This time, he drew what he saw—not just the scene, but the way it felt. The subtle sway of grass. The shifting light on water. The breeze that made his bangs flutter just slightly. A kid throwing a frisbee to his dog.
No Ayato.
Just Izumi.
And that felt right.
Because this was who he was now—someone changed by her, not chained to her.
He flipped to a new page.
And for the first time in weeks… he drew himself.
Not as he was before. Not as the silent, background character he once believed himself to be.
But as someone trying.
Learning.
Becoming.
A boy with a quiet smile, pencil in hand, blue eyes looking forward.
Back home, Izumi taped that sketch to the wall above his desk.
Right beside it, he pinned Ayato's final drawing—the one of him under the sakura tree.
Now they looked at each other.
Two pages. Two perspectives. Two moments in time.
Together, they told a story.
Not of heartbreak.
But of connection.
Of impact.
Of love in its gentlest form.
Monday arrived with warmth and a breeze.
School felt the same, but Izumi didn't.
He entered class with a small nod at Takano. Spoke during roll call. Even shared a comment about the weather—something small, but real.
During lunch, he sat with the anime club under a shady tree. They talked about the upcoming summer panel, and someone joked about cosplaying. Izumi laughed, genuinely.
He hadn't forgotten Ayato.
He never would.
But he wasn't just waiting anymore.
He was living.
After school, he walked home past the local stationery store. He paused.
Inside, he picked up a new sketchpad.
A small one.
For moments on the go.
Then, without much thought, he bought a second one.
White cover. Green binding.
He didn't know when—or if—he'd see her again.
But if he ever did…
He wanted to give her something too.
A piece of his growth.
A piece of his heart.
As the sun set behind him and the wind played with the corners of his notebook, Izumi walked with a quiet smile.
His days had changed.
Because of her.
But now, they were his.