I used to think feelings were loud.
Like laughter that bursts out of you.
Like anger that shakes your hands.
Like sadness that makes your throat hurt.
But whatever this was… it didn't behave like any of those.
It didn't rush.
It didn't shout.
It didn't demand.
It simply stayed.
The morning air was colder than I expected. I pulled my blazer tighter around myself as I walked toward school, watching my breath fade into pale mist. The sky was clear, pale blue, almost empty. No rain today.
For some reason, that felt wrong.
Rain had become part of my memory now.
And she was inside that memory.
I slowed my steps without realizing it.
I wasn't late.
I just… wasn't in a hurry anymore.
At the school gate, voices overlapped, students moved past each other like flowing water. I nodded at a few people, returned automatic smiles, but my eyes searched the crowd without my permission.
I told myself I wasn't looking for her.
I was lying.
I didn't see Aya.
Not in the courtyard.
Not near the lockers.
Not in the hallway.
And even though nothing was missing, something inside me felt… unfinished.
2-A felt louder than usual.
Someone was laughing behind me. A chair scraped loudly. My bag hit the desk with a dull sound that felt heavier than it should have.
"Rei," Yuna said, leaning toward me. "You're early."
"Couldn't sleep," I replied.
She studied my face. "You look like you're thinking again."
I smiled faintly. "You say that a lot."
"Because you do it a lot," she replied gently.
I didn't argue.
Because I didn't know how to explain that my thoughts weren't heavy — they were just… full.
The teacher, a woman with soft eyes and strict posture, began writing on the board. I tried to focus. I really did. I copied notes. I underlined important words.
But my mind kept drifting.
To the way Aya lowered her eyes when she spoke.
To the way she held her sketchbook like it could protect her.
To the way she had said my name in the stairwell.
Rei.
Not loud.
Not soft.
Just honest.
I stared at my notebook until the words blurred.
When did someone else's voice start mattering this much?
Break time.
I didn't go outside.
I stayed in my seat, watching sunlight shift across the floor. Dust moved inside the light like tiny stars.
I thought about how Aya would probably notice something like that.
She always noticed small things.
She noticed shadows.
She noticed rain patterns.
She noticed silence.
And somehow… she noticed me.
Not in a loud way.
But in a way that felt like being carefully held.
I didn't understand when I began wanting to protect her from things she didn't even know hurt her.
The way people teased her.
The way teachers overlooked her.
The way classmates forgot her name.
I hated that.
Not because it was cruel.
But because she deserved to be seen.
When lunch came, I finally saw her.
Across the courtyard.
She was sitting with her friends, head slightly bent forward, listening more than speaking. Miki was animated as usual. Haruka was calm, observant.
Aya smiled at something.
Just a small smile.
But it felt like something shifted in my chest.
I didn't wave.
I didn't call out.
I just watched.
Because I didn't want to disturb that moment.
Yuna noticed my gaze.
"You're watching her again," she said quietly.
I didn't deny it this time.
"She looks normal," Yuna continued. "Not sad. Not scared."
"I know," I said.
"You look relieved."
I blinked.
Was I?
Maybe I was.
Because her being okay mattered more than her being close to me.
That realization scared me.
After lunch, classes felt slower.
Not boring — just stretched.
Like time was giving me too much space to think.
And thinking was dangerous.
Because every thought eventually led back to her.
I remembered something small.
The way she hesitated before stepping under my umbrella.
The way she didn't trust comfort easily.
The way she still accepted it.
I realized then:
Aya didn't reject closeness.
She just feared what it could do to her.
And I didn't want to become something she feared.
I wondered what love was supposed to feel like.
Books made it sound dramatic.
Movies made it sound desperate.
Songs made it sound painful.
But what I felt wasn't dramatic.
It was quiet.
It was patient.
It was a wish that didn't ask to be fulfilled.
It was a promise I hadn't spoken.
After school, I didn't go home immediately.
I walked past the art room.
The door was open.
No one was inside.
But the smell of paper and paint felt familiar.
I stepped inside.
I sat near the window, where the light softened.
I imagined Aya sitting there, pencil in hand, eyes distant.
I imagined her drawing storms.
Not because she loved storms.
But because they understood her.
I rested my head against the desk.
And for the first time, I admitted something silently.
Not aloud.
Not clearly.
Not proudly.
Just truthfully.
I didn't want her to love me.
I wanted her to feel safe with me.
And somehow, that felt deeper.
My phone vibrated.
A message from Yuna.
"Did you see her today?"
I typed.
"Yes."
"What did you feel?"
I stared at the screen.
Then typed.
"Quiet."
She replied with a heart emoji.
And I smiled.
Not because it was cute.
But because it was gentle.
I walked home slowly.
The streets were filled with warm evening light. The sky looked like it was thinking too.
I passed places Aya might walk.
I imagined her steps.
I imagined her thoughts.
I imagined her confusion.
And I wished I could take it from her.
I stopped near a small bridge.
Water moved quietly beneath it.
I leaned on the railing.
And I finally understood something.
Love didn't have to be confessed to exist.
It didn't have to be returned to be real.
It didn't have to be shared to be strong.
Sometimes…
It only had to be carried.
I didn't want to touch this feeling yet.
I didn't want to shape it.
I didn't want to speak it.
I wanted it to stay soft.
Like her.
That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.
I didn't think about kisses.
I didn't think about holding hands.
I didn't think about endings.
I only thought about the way she said my name.
And how I hoped she would say it again.
I promised myself something.
I would not rush her.
I would not pull her.
I would not scare her.
I would simply walk beside her.
Until she understood.
Until I understood.
Until we both did.
And somewhere between sleep and thought, I realized:
This was love.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just quietly staying.