The last homeroom before graduation always felt like a quiet epilogue
There were no more lectures, no more assignments, no chalkboard equations or frantic note-taking. Just stacks of old notebooks, a few packed-up desks, and the kind of silence that made you feel like time itself had slowed down to let you breathe it all in.
Classroom 3-B was unusually warm that morning, golden sunlight spilling in through the windows and casting a soft glow over the scratched-up floor and faded posters.
Ren Sakamoto sat by the window, chin resting on his hand, watching petals from the courtyard sakura trees flutter past like snow.
Yuuji Aikawa sat beside him, unusually quiet.
Across the room, Rio Wilson and Ian Moore were teasing each other over the difference between college applications and their "backup plans" (Rio's was acting, Ian's was cyber warfare—seriously).
Will Ethan and Kenji Suguru had somehow migrated into the corner by the windowsill, sharing earphones and a bag of cheap gummies they insisted were "memory food."
Then Ms. Nishida entered, carrying something unexpected: a shoebox. Faded, taped at the corners, and covered in old, hand-drawn stars.
"What's that?" Minji Park asked curiously.
Ms. Nishida placed it gently on the desk at the front of the class. "A tradition from ten years ago," she said. "This box was passed down through graduating classes. Inside are unsent letters—notes that were written by students to each other and never delivered."
The class leaned forward, suddenly alert.
"I've been saving it for today," she added. "If your name's on one, you'll get it. If you want to read it out loud… that's up to you."
The room went still. Nervous glances. Stifled laughter.
Then she began calling names.
"Rio Wilson."
Rio stood, curious. She handed him a folded paper.
"Hiro Aoyama."
A girl in the back gasped. "That's my cousin! He graduated four years ago!"
Laughter followed her.
"Yuuji Aikawa."
Yuuji blinked. "Me?"
Ms. Nishida nodded and handed him a slim, folded envelope. It looked old—edges curled, writing delicate and soft.
Yuuji returned to his seat, staring at it like it might burst into flames.
Ren leaned over. "Well?"
Yuuji opened it slowly.
Inside, a few simple lines—handwritten in delicate, uneven letters.
> "I wish I could say it. That when you look at him, it's like watching you forget me.
I liked you first. I liked you quietly.
But you were always looking somewhere else."
—R.S.
Yuuji's breath caught. He folded the letter and looked up.
Ren's eyes widened. "Wait. That—?"
"Your initials," Yuuji whispered. "R.S."
Ren flushed. "Wait—That wasn't—I never—"
"You wrote this?"
Ren buried his face in his arms. "It was two years ago! I never meant for anyone to—!"
Yuuji laughed softly, then leaned close. "You're ridiculous."
"And you're reading it in front of everyone!"
"No one's listening."
They were.
Half the class was eavesdropping, the other half pretending they weren't.
Rio leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "Aww. Baby Ren used to pine."
Ren lifted his head and scowled. "As if you didn't write sonnets about Ian on napkins."
Ian arched a brow. "You wrote sonnets?"
Rio glared. "Shut up. I was sixteen and confused."
"Still are."
Their bickering turned into warm laughter. Ms. Nishida smiled and let them be.
After all, this was their last week.
---
Later that day, the classroom had emptied for lunch. Just a few students remained, lingering over unspoken words and half-packed bags.
Ren stood by the windows again, fingers tracing the name etched faintly into the wooden sill: Sakamoto R. A carving from second year, back when he hated everything—especially Yuuji.
Yuuji came up behind him quietly.
"You wrote me a letter you never sent," Yuuji said.
Ren rolled his eyes. "You've brought this up like five times."
"Because it's cute."
"It's embarrassing."
"It means you've been thinking about me longer than I thought."
Ren gave him a look. "You kissed me before even asking if I liked you back."
"You kissed me back."
"…Whatever."
Yuuji smirked. "Want to carve our initials next to yours?"
Ren flushed. "You're impossible."
"I'm yours," Yuuji said softly.
Ren didn't respond. But he reached out, took Yuuji's hand, and squeezed it once.
Quietly.
The windows stayed open, and the breeze carried cherry blossoms inside like confetti for the end of something important.