Takara told himself it didn't matter.
That the silence wasn't strange, that the distance wasn't growing again.
But the truth was harder to ignore every time he crossed the hallway and didn't knock.
Every time he heard music through Kayo's walls and didn't ask what he was listening to.
Every time he saw Kayo's name light up in the class group chat but didn't message him directly.
The "almost" between them was becoming a space again. Familiar. Unbearable.
And Takara had never been good at waiting for someone else to speak first.
It came to a head on a Friday night.
The campus courtyard was buzzing with students celebrating the end of midterms. Music, lights, laughter—everything that should've made Takara feel alive. But all it did was make the emptiness louder.
He found Kayo sitting alone on a bench behind the science building, lit only by the orange glow of a streetlamp.
Of course he was there.
Of course Takara found him anyway.
"You're hiding," Takara said softly.
Kayo didn't deny it. "I needed quiet."
Takara sat beside him. Not too close.
"You've been quiet for days," he said.
Kayo stared ahead. "I didn't know what to say."
"Try."
There was a pause—long and brittle.
Then: "You were right. Back in high school. About what I felt."
Takara's breath caught. He didn't speak.
"I liked you," Kayo said. Slowly. Carefully. Like the words might shatter. "Maybe I still do."
Takara turned toward him, heart in his throat. "Then why pull away again?"
Kayo met his gaze, eyes shadowed. "Because it feels like we're repeating the same mistakes. Just older now. Smarter. More cautious. But still scared."
"I'm scared too," Takara whispered.
"I don't want to be a detour in your life."
Takara exhaled sharply, bitter and soft. "You're not a detour, Kayo. You're the part I keep coming back to."
They sat in silence.
Then, wordlessly, Takara reached into his bag and pulled out their shared project notebook.
He flipped to a blank page, uncapped a pen, and wrote something.
Then he handed it to Kayo.
Kayo read the words carefully.
What would you write if you weren't afraid of the ending?
He stared at the question for a long time. Then he picked up the pen.
Takara watched as Kayo wrote just one sentence in return.
"I would let them try again."
They left the notebook open between them.
Neither said it out loud.
But something shifted.
The next few days weren't perfect.
They didn't fall into each other's arms. There were no sweeping declarations. No dramatic kisses in the rain.
But something opened between them. A door. A possibility.
They texted again—every day.
Takara started cooking meals he could leave by Kayo's door.
Kayo started answering with "thank you" notes… and sometimes showing up at Takara's kitchen table without being asked.
They worked on the next story together, but this time the characters didn't miss each other.
This time, the ending wasn't tragic.
This time, it was soft.
It was a Wednesday evening when it happened.
Takara had fallen asleep on his own couch, drooling into a throw pillow. A movie played quietly in the background.
When he opened his eyes, Kayo was there.
Not on the floor. Not across the room.
Right beside him.
They were sharing the blanket. Their shoulders touching. Their fingers—almost.
Takara blinked, disoriented. "Did I dream you again?"
Kayo gave a faint smile. "No. I just didn't want to leave this time."
And then, finally, they crossed the line that had held them apart for years.
No more "almost."
Just warmth. Just breath. Just closeness.
Takara turned toward him.
Kayo met him halfway.
Their first kiss wasn't perfect.
Their noses bumped. Takara almost laughed. Kayo's hand trembled against his cheek.
But it was real.
And it was enough.