The air between them had always been filled with words left unsaid, emotions buried beneath the weight of unspoken confessions. It was a silence that lingered between fleeting touches and stolen glances, a silence that neither of them dared to break, though both longed to.
Haruto had always known that there was something different about the way he felt when Aiko was near. It was not the mere comfort of familiarity nor the warmth of friendship; it was something deeper, something he had never quite been able to name. And yet, for all his certainty, he had never been able to bring himself to speak of it.
They walked side by side through the narrow streets of Tokyo, the distant hum of the city a steady undercurrent to their quiet companionship. The neon signs reflected in the puddles from the earlier rain, their colors flickering like memories waiting to be revisited. Aiko walked slightly ahead, her hands tucked into the pockets of her coat, her breath forming soft clouds in the cool night air.
She had been unusually quiet that evening, though Haruto had not dared to ask why. He, too, had his own thoughts to contend with, thoughts that had been pressing against the confines of his heart for far too long.
At a small intersection, she stopped and turned to him, her dark eyes searching his face as though looking for something—an answer, perhaps, or the courage neither of them seemed to have.
"Haruto," she said at last, her voice barely above a whisper. "Do you ever feel like… there are things we're too afraid to say?"
His heart clenched at her words, though he forced a small, almost teasing smile. "What do you mean?"
Aiko exhaled softly, looking away. "Nothing," she murmured. "Forget I said anything."
But he couldn't.
He never could.
Instead, he studied her face, the way her lashes cast shadows against her cheeks, the way the city lights danced in her eyes. He wanted to tell her that he understood, that he, too, carried words unsaid like fragile glass in his chest. But the fear of breaking what they had kept his tongue tied, and so he simply nodded, letting the silence stretch between them once more.
They continued walking, the air thick with unspoken truths.
When they reached the small bridge that overlooked the Sumida River, Aiko stopped again, resting her arms on the railing. The water shimmered beneath them, reflecting the city's glow in quiet ripples.
"I used to think silence was safe," she mused, her voice carrying the weight of unshed emotions. "That if I didn't say certain things, I wouldn't have to face them."
Haruto turned to her, his fingers tightening around the railing. "And now?"
She hesitated, then let out a small, rueful laugh. "Now I think silence can be just as cruel as words."
He swallowed, his throat dry. "Aiko—"
But she shook her head, offering him a small, sad smile. "Don't," she said. "Not if you're not ready."
Haruto clenched his fists, the ache in his chest almost unbearable. He wanted to tell her that he had always been ready, that every time he looked at her, he felt something that words could never fully capture. But fear was a stubborn thing, and so he remained quiet, letting the moment slip through his fingers like sand.
Aiko sighed softly, her breath mixing with the cold night air. "We should head back," she said, pushing herself away from the railing.
He nodded, falling into step beside her once more.
They walked in silence, just as they always had.
But this time, it was not a silence of comfort.
It was the silence of longing.
And it was far louder than any words could ever be.