I didn't dream about Aya.
That was the strange part.
I dreamed about nothing.
Just gray light through a window. The sound of rain without rain. A hallway with no people. My name echoing somewhere I couldn't see.
When I woke up, my chest felt heavy, like I'd forgotten something important.
I stared at the ceiling for a long time.
My room was quiet. Too quiet. The clock ticked. The curtains moved slightly with the morning breeze. Everything felt normal.
But I wasn't.
Because the first thought in my head wasn't school.
It was her.
I sat up slowly, rubbing my eyes. My phone lay beside me. No messages. No notifications. No proof that yesterday had even happened.
But it had.
Aya had looked at me.
Aya had talked to me.
Aya had said okay when I told her I wasn't going anywhere.
That memory stayed.
I got ready in silence, my movements slower than usual. My uniform felt heavier on my shoulders. My reflection in the mirror looked the same as always—smiling, calm, untouched.
But I knew better.
The walk to school felt longer.
Not because the distance changed.
Because I kept thinking.
About how Aya had run.
About how she had stopped.
About how she had looked at me in the stairwell like she didn't know whether to stay or disappear.
I hated that look.
Not because it hurt me.
Because it hurt her.
2-A was loud when I entered.
Desks scraping. Bags dropping. Girls laughing. A teacher—female, strict but kind—writing something on the board.
I slipped into my seat quietly.
"Morning, Rei," Yuna said.
"Morning," I replied automatically.
She tilted her head. "You look tired."
"I'm fine."
She smiled softly. "That's what you always say when you're thinking too much."
I looked away.
Class started.
I tried to focus.
I really did.
But my mind kept drifting—not to words on the board, not to the teacher's voice, not to the lesson.
To the space beside me that didn't belong to her.
To the silence that felt different now.
I caught myself writing her name in the corner of my notebook without realizing it.
Aya.
I stared at it like I'd betrayed myself.
I erased it immediately.
But the faint mark stayed.
During break, I didn't go looking for her.
That was new.
Not because I didn't want to see her.
Because I was afraid of what I'd feel if I did.
Yuna noticed.
"You're quiet today," she said.
I shrugged. "Am I?"
"Yes. Usually you talk too much."
"Rude."
She smiled. "True."
We sat near the window. The courtyard below was filled with students from different classes, different worlds.
Somewhere in that space, Aya existed.
I didn't see her.
But I felt her.
That was worse.
I didn't understand when it started.
This thing.
This feeling that didn't hurt, didn't burn, didn't excite.
It just stayed.
Like warmth under skin.
Like knowing someone was there even when they weren't.
I used to think love was loud.
Dramatic.
Obvious.
But this?
This was quiet.
And terrifying.
I told myself I wasn't in love.
Not yet.
Because if I was, I would know.
Because if I was, my heart would scream.
Because if I was, I wouldn't be able to breathe.
But I could breathe.
I just… noticed.
Noticed how I waited for her footsteps.
Noticed how I remembered her expressions.
Noticed how I cared when she looked uncomfortable.
Noticed how I wanted to protect her silence.
That wasn't love.
Right?
Lunch came.
I barely ate.
Yuna watched me carefully.
"Rei," she said softly, "you okay?"
I nodded.
But she didn't believe me.
"You're thinking about her again," she said gently.
I froze.
"She's not a bad thing," Yuna added quietly. "But you're acting like she is."
I exhaled slowly.
"She's not bad," I said.
"Then why do you look scared?"
I didn't answer.
Because I didn't know.
After lunch, I saw Aya.
She was walking with her friends, sketchbook against her chest, eyes down, steps careful.
She looked normal.
But to me, she looked fragile.
And strong.
And real.
She didn't see me.
I didn't call her.
I just watched her pass.
And something in me whispered:
Don't rush her.
I realized then.
Not as a big moment.
Not as a dramatic thought.
Just a quiet understanding.
I didn't want her to change for me.
I didn't want her to become braver.
I didn't want her to understand love.
I just wanted her to stay.
That was when I knew.
Not fully.
Not clearly.
But enough.
I loved her.
Not in words.
Not in confession.
Not in dreams.
But in attention.
In patience.
In restraint.
I went to the art room after school.
Not because I draw.
Because she does.
She wasn't there.
But her presence felt close.
I sat near the window, watching dust float in sunlight.
I wondered how she felt.
If she was confused.
If she was scared.
If she was thinking about me too.
I didn't want her to.
I wanted her to think about herself.
About her safety.
About her space.
Even if it meant she forgot me.
That thought hurt.
And that's when I finally accepted it.
I loved her.
Because I was willing to disappear for her comfort.
I didn't want to confess.
Not because I was afraid.
Because she wasn't ready.
Because she didn't even know what love felt like yet.
And I did.
I could wait.
That evening, I walked home alone.
The sky was orange and soft.
The world felt quiet.
I held my phone in my hand, almost typing her name.
Almost.
But I didn't.
I smiled faintly.
Not because I was happy.
Because I was patient.
Aya didn't belong to my future yet.
But she belonged in my heart.
Quietly.
Safely.
Without pressure.
And I promised myself something.
I would let her discover love in her own time.
Even if she never discovered it with me.