The university rooftop was quiet at this hour, save for the occasional rustling of the wind against the railing. The city stretched endlessly below, its lights shimmering like scattered stars upon the earth. Tokyo was alive, restless even in the dead of night, yet up here, above it all, there was a kind of tranquility that neither of them had found anywhere else.
Haruto leaned against the railing, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, gazing at the sky. The stars, though dimmed by the glow of the city, still held their familiar allure. Aiko sat beside him on the cool concrete floor, her sketchbook resting against her lap, her pencil tapping idly against the pages.
"You should've brought a jacket," Haruto murmured without looking at her.
Aiko exhaled a soft laugh. "You always say that."
"And you never listen." He shrugged off his own jacket and draped it over her shoulders before she could protest.
She sighed, pulling it tighter around herself. It smelled like him—faint traces of coffee and that subtle, comforting scent that was uniquely Haruto's. She didn't complain.
For a long while, neither of them spoke. They had been doing this often lately—meeting in the late hours, escaping from the weight of their studies, their expectations, their unspoken fears about the future. Up here, they didn't have to be students or dreamers struggling under the pressure of reality. They could simply exist.
Aiko broke the silence first. "Do you ever think about what it'll be like in ten years?"
Haruto tilted his head, considering her question. "You mean, where we'll be?"
She nodded, her fingers brushing absentmindedly over the corner of her sketchbook. "Yeah. What kind of people we'll have become. Whether we'll still be sitting together like this, or if we'll be too far apart to even remember nights like these."
Haruto frowned. He had never given much thought to such distant futures—not because he didn't care, but because the present was already overwhelming enough. Yet now, with Aiko beside him, asking questions that made the air feel heavier, he couldn't ignore it.
"I think…" he started, hesitating. "I think I'll still be chasing the stars. Maybe working on some research, traveling to observatories around the world." He glanced at her. "And you?"
Aiko smiled faintly. "I want to hold my own exhibition one day. Not just some student showcase, but a real one. A gallery filled with paintings that mean something."
"They already mean something," Haruto pointed out. "At least, they do to me."
She looked down, her smile deepening. "That's different."
"Not really." He leaned against the railing again, looking up at the night sky. "You paint the way I look at the stars. We both search for something bigger than ourselves, something that makes us feel alive."
Aiko stared at him for a long moment. Sometimes, Haruto said things without realizing how deeply they affected her. He had a way of putting her thoughts into words when she couldn't find them herself.
"You're right," she admitted softly. "We're both dreamers."
He turned to her, studying her expression. "Does it scare you?"
"What?"
"The future. The idea that we might not always be… like this."
Aiko hesitated. "A little." She traced the edge of her sketchbook. "Sometimes, I wonder if our dreams will pull us in different directions."
Haruto was silent for a moment before he reached out, gently taking her hand in his. His fingers were warm against hers, steady despite the cold. "We'll figure it out."
Aiko glanced at their joined hands and then at him, searching his face. "You always say that."
He smiled. "And you never listen."
She laughed, shaking her head. "Haruto…"
"Hm?"
She didn't finish her sentence. Instead, she let out a slow breath and leaned her head against his shoulder. He didn't move away. Instead, he tightened his fingers around hers, as if silently assuring her that no matter where their dreams took them, they would always find their way back to each other.
Below them, the city lights flickered, and above, the stars burned—distant but unwavering, much like their dreams.
And for now, that was enough.