The weight of seventeen years lingered between them, heavy as silence and tender as breath.
Ren sat still in his wheelchair, his hand trembling slightly beneath Aika's. Her fingers hadn't moved—not away, not even a twitch. She was there. Right in front of him.
Not leaving.
Not disappearing.
The realization settled slowly, like warmth returning to numb limbs.
Aika had remembered him.
More than that—she had stayed.
His lips curved into a smile, soft and trembling, but real.
And then, the tears came.
They weren't loud, weren't broken sobs. Just a quiet stream falling down his cheeks—silent, unburdening.
Tears of years stored in silence.
Tears of a boy who had waited too long to be seen again.
She didn't interrupt.
She simply held his hand tighter.
That was when he looked at her—really looked—and, in a voice so faint it was barely a whisper, he asked the question that had haunted him for more than half his life.
"…You're not going to leave again… are you?"
Aika's eyes widened. Not because she was surprised he asked, but because of the way he asked. Like every word cost him something. Like he needed the answer more than air.
Then came another question, rushed and quieter—laced with an old boy's shame.
"Are you… angry?"
And then, the softest confession of all.
"I wanted to tell you. Every time you saved me. Every time I looked at you and wanted to speak. But I thought… you'd forget me."
Aika blinked hard.
She had fought criminals in courtrooms, had stared down men three times her size in the dojo, had defended lives with a single glare.
But nothing had ever shaken her as much as those three sentences.
She knelt slowly in front of him, gently pressing her other hand over his—palms wrapped in hers like a shelter built from everything unsaid.
And then she answered, quietly but clearly.
"I'm not angry," she said. "I'm… sorry."
Ren's eyes lifted.
"I should've never left without saying goodbye. I thought I was protecting you by walking away. But I didn't realize I was leaving someone behind."
"You were just a kid," Ren said, voice tight. "We both were."
"But you remembered me," Aika whispered, tears forming now in her eyes. "You carried all of it. Alone."
"I didn't want to lose it," he said. "I didn't want to lose you."
She took a deep breath. "I'm not going anywhere. Not this time."
Ren's breath hitched.
A strange weight lifted from his chest, so sudden it almost hurt. Like a thorn he'd grown used to—suddenly, blessedly—gone.
The pain didn't vanish, but it changed shape. Became something softer.
He swallowed, then finally spoke. Not in whispers anymore. Not hidden in corners of fear.
"I thought about telling you… for so many years. Every time I imagined seeing you again, I rehearsed what I'd say. But when I saw you walk into that boardroom… I just froze. You were so strong. So you."
Aika gave a tiny, sad smile. "And you were so quiet… I didn't see it."
Ren chuckled—a short, broken sound.
"I didn't want to ruin anything. What if you didn't remember me? What if you didn't want to?"
"I did want to," she said. "I just… I didn't realize who you were. Not until I saw that sketchbook. And then it all came rushing back."
He paused, then nodded.
"I kept drawing you. Every time I panicked… I heard your voice. You were like this… anchor. I thought I made it up. That I was just pathetic."
"You're not pathetic," Aika said fiercely.
Ren looked at her, emotion rising again. He hadn't expected her to defend him still. Not like when they were kids.
But she was the same.
Even after all this time, even with all the years that had passed between them—Aika hadn't changed the core of who she was.
And maybe, neither had he.
He leaned back slightly, exhaling, the words spilling out now like a river released.
"I was in an accident not long after you left. That's how I… how I lost the ability to walk. It was a car incident—the driver was texting and did not see me. My spine was damaged. There were surgeries, recovery attempts. Nothing worked."
Aika's face was stricken.
"I didn't know…"
Ren shook his head. "How could you? I didn't have anyone else to tell my pain. My parents… I don't want to burden them further. Moved out when I was still recovering. After that, I just… figured things out myself."
"You did more than figure it out," she whispered. "You built everything yourself."
He nodded. "I couldn't go back to school for a while. So I started teaching myself computers. Coding. Accessibility tools. I got into open-source projects, contributed under a different name."
"And now you're a genius in the shadows," Aika said softly, her voice filled with admiration.
He smiled, small and self-deprecating. "I just wanted to do something useful. Make life easier for people like me. People who didn't get lucky."
"You never needed luck," Aika said. "You had strength."
There was silence again, but this time, it wasn't heavy.
It was sacred.
A moment where two timelines—two hearts—finally merged again.
Ren reached out slowly and touched the edge of the sketchbook.
"I don't know what happens next," he said.
Aika placed her hand gently over his again.
"I don't either. But I'm not walking away."
His eyes searched hers.
Not for answers.
But for reassurance.
And this time, it was there.
He spoke. She stayed.
Now what?