CHAPTER XXXI
-Where the Petals Fall-
Standing before Shigure, Yuzuki felt the weight of that unspoken threat. She was torn—caught between the warmth of Shigure’s confession and the cold certainty that breaking her connection with Rin would bring repercussions that might haunt her, in ways she could not bear to imagine.
And somewhere above, on the shadowed rooftop, stood the very person to whom Yuzuki was tethered. Rin watched in silence, his presence veiled from the world below. The invisible bond between them pulsed faintly in the air—a supernatural thread that held Yuzuki fast, its weight a constant reminder of the contract she could neither break nor escape.
“Shigure-kun,” Yuzuki breathed, her voice calm yet resolute as she gently withdrew her hand. She met his gaze with a quiet strength, choosing her words with care.
“I’m truly honored by your feelings, and the poetry you’ve shared touches me deeply,” she began, her tone polite but firm. “But becoming someone’s tether… it’s not something I can offer. Bonds like that—especially ones that anchor souls—carry weight beyond what words can capture. I’ve learned that some ties bind not just hearts, but destinies, and sometimes, they come with burdens that are not easily undone.”
She paused, searching his eyes for understanding. “I believe in walking beside someone freely, not being the anchor that holds them fast or the chain that limits their flight. For now, I need to find my own balance—without becoming a tether to anyone.”
Her words were measured, weaving honesty with respect, leaving no room for misunderstanding but softening the refusal with genuine care.
Shigure’s eyes shimmered, reflecting the silver hush of rain-soaked poetry as he spoke, his voice a gentle, trembling melody:
“Why, Yuzuki?
Is it because of the shadow that lingers above us—
the silent sentinel perched upon the rooftop,
watching with eyes like midnight storms?”
He turned, gaze drifting skyward, his words blooming soft and sorrowful:
“Tell me, is your heart a lantern
already lit by another’s longing?
Is there a thread, spun of dusk and memory,
that binds you to the wind—
to a name whispered in the hush between raindrops?”
His voice quivered, each word a petal falling:
“If so, let me not be the storm
that scatters your spring,
nor the weight that dims your dawn.
I only wished to be the gentle rain
that coaxes your laughter from the earth—
but if another has already planted hope in your garden,
I will step lightly,
and let the petals fall where they must.”
He looked at her, a fragile, rain-washed smile trembling on his lips, the ache of unspoken dreams shimmering in his eyes.
Yuzuki slowly turned her head, following the path of Shigure’s gaze—skyward, to the rooftop bathed in the soft gold of the setting sun.
But there was no one there.
No shadow.
No silhouette.
No trace of the one she thought might still be watching.
Just the wind, brushing gently through the trees, and the fading light painting the clouds in hues of rose and lavender.
Her heart gave a quiet, uncertain flutter.
She turned back to Shigure, her expression softening with gratitude, touched by the purity of his words, the grace in his pain.
“Thank you,” she said gently, her voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you for understanding… for speaking to me the way you do. I won’t forget it.”
She bowed deeply, the gesture filled with sincerity and quiet respect. Then she straightened, offering him a small, warm smile—bittersweet, like the last bloom of spring.
“Goodbye, Shigure-kun,” she said, her voice carrying the weight of something unspoken, yet kind.
With that, she turned and walked away, her shoes brushing softly against the grass, her figure slowly disappearing into the golden hush of evening—leaving behind the boy with poems in his hands and rain in his eyes.
Yuzuki’s footsteps echoed softly as she ascended the staircases, each floor passing in a blur of fading daylight and quiet anticipation. Her mind spun with thoughts of Rin—his steel blue eyes, the stoic calm that masked so much beneath the surface, the supernatural contract that bound them together.
She wondered if he had truly been watching her from above, or if it was only the echo of his presence haunting her heart. What does he feel, always deciding to play hero or villian? Does I even matter to him at all? she mused, a mix of uncertainty and longing tightening in her chest.
Reaching the top floor, Yuzuki hesitated for a moment before pushing open the heavy rooftop door. The world outside was washed in the golden hues of dusk, the city stretching endlessly beyond the school’s boundaries.
There, perched with casual grace on the edge of the rooftop wall, sat Rin—his silhouette sharp against the sky, hair ruffled by the breeze, gaze distant yet piercing. At his feet and clustered beside him, the Korobokkuru gathered, their tiny forms shifting restlessly, some peering curiously at Yuzuki, others whispering among themselves.
“B-baby boy?” Yuzuki called out, her voice tentative as she stepped onto the rooftop. The wind tugged at her hair, carrying her words across the open air.
Rin didn’t respond. He remained perfectly still, perched on the wall, his back to her—gaze fixed on the sprawling city beyond, as if she were nothing more than another breeze passing by. Unlike him, the Korobokkuru immediately noticed her arrival. They turned with bright, mischievous eyes and dashed to her feet, circling her shoes as they sang in their lilting voices, “I see you… I see you…”
Yuzuki’s heart tightened. The coldness in Rin’s silence, the way he refused to even glance her way, stung more than any words could. She could sense the disappointment radiating from him, heavy and unmistakable, as if her presence was a shadow he couldn’t shake but wouldn’t acknowledge. The playful chorus of the Korobokkuru only heightened the ache, their innocent joy clashing with the quiet distance stretching between her and Rin.
“You know what?” Rin said suddenly, his voice low but laced with a strange, bitter amusement.
He turned fully now, the golden light catching the blood that trickled slowly down his chin, painting a cruel contrast against his pale skin. His smile—crooked, tired, and sharp around the edges—didn’t reach his eyes.
“That man you just met,” he continued, eyes locking onto hers with a quiet, unreadable intensity,
“before he left… he shot his fan at me.”
He let out a soft, humorless chuckle, the kind that didn’t belong to someone laughing, but to someone trying not to break.
“Right from the courtyard—up here. Like some kind of poetic duel,” he added, voice laced with irony, as he wiped the blood from his chin with the back of his hand. “Guess he wanted to leave a mark… and well—” he tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly, “he did.”
The Korobokkuru had gone quiet now, sensing the shift in the air. Their playful energy faded into a hush, as if even they understood the weight of the moment.
Yuzuki stood frozen, her heart pounding, caught between guilt and disbelief, the rooftop suddenly colder than before.
Yuzuki stepped forward, the wind brushing past her like a whisper, her footsteps soft against the rooftop tiles. Her eyes never left Rin’s face—his bleeding lip, the forced smile, the quiet storm behind his gaze.
Without a word, she raised her arm, pulling her sleeve down across her palm. She folded her fingers into a gentle fist, holding the fabric in place. Then, with her other hand, she reached out—slowly, carefully—and placed it behind his head, her fingers threading lightly into his hair.
She brought the cloth to his chin and dabbed the blood away with delicate, almost reverent movements. The rooftop was silent, save for the wind and the distant hum of the world below.
Her voice came low, trembling slightly, but steady.
“Why… didn’t… you dodge it?” she asked, her eyes searching his, every word falling like a drop of rain.
There was no anger in her tone. No accusation.
Just quiet confusion.
And something deeper. Something aching.
He let out a quiet, breathless laugh, the sound almost lost to the wind.
“Besides,” he added, gaze returning to hers, “I knew you’d be the one to wipe the blood away.”
Rin held her gaze, the pain in his smile unhidden, raw as the wound on his lip. His voice was quiet, stripped of pretense.
“I can’t give you what he could,” he said, the words heavy with truth, “not with those beautiful verses or the way he weaves the world into poetry.” He let out a breath, almost a laugh, but it caught in his throat.
“But if me being in pain… if that’s what it takes to pull you close, even for a moment—” his eyes shimmered, vulnerable, “I’d take it. Every time.”
He didn’t look away, letting her see the ache he usually kept hidden, the silent hope that maybe, just maybe, she’d understand what he couldn’t say in words.
Yuzuki stood there, frozen—his words sinking into her like rain into dry earth. The wind swept gently between them, tugging at her sleeve, at his hair, as if nature itself dared not interrupt the silence that followed. Rin didn’t move. He just looked at her, eyes open, unguarded, the pain in his smile no longer masked by indifference or distance. It was the first time she had seen him like this—not the Rin who stood above everything, untouchable and cold, but the Rin who bled, who longed, who felt. “I’m not asking for your heart,” he said softly, voice barely above the hush of the wind. “I’m not asking to be chosen over him. I just… I wanted you to know. That even if I can’t say the right things, or wrap my feelings in poetry…” He paused, his throat tightening. “…I’m still here. Bleeding, if that’s what it takes. Because—” He swallowed, the words emerging rough and unguarded, “because I… I like you, Yuzuki-chan.”
The Korobokkuru, quiet and still now, watched from the edges of the rooftop, their usual playfulness replaced by something almost reverent—like they, too, understood the weight of the moment. Yuzuki’s hand, still holding the cloth against his lip, trembled slightly. Her heart ached—not just from the confession, but from the truth of it. The rawness. The honesty. The way Rin, in his own quiet, broken way, had offered her something more real than any poem could. And for the first time… she didn’t know what to say.
Rin’s eyes lingered on Yuzuki for a heartbeat longer, searching her face for any flicker of response. When none came, his expression shifted—first a flash of hurt, then a spark of mischief lighting up his features as if a switch had been flipped.
He shot up from his perch, wiping the last trace of blood from his lip with a dramatic flourish. “Wow, NPC, you really left me on read in real life, huh?” he quipped, voice suddenly bright and teasing. “Guess I should’ve sent a meme instead of a confession. Maybe a dancing cat would’ve done the trick?”
He winked, tossing a sly grin over his shoulder. “No worries, I’ll just go cry about it in my group chat with the Korobokkuru. We’ve got a whole ‘ghosted by crush’ support channel. Super exclusive.”
He started to back away, hands raised in mock surrender, still grinning. “Catch you later, heartbreak hotel! Don’t miss me too much—I’ll be in the snack aisle, living my best life.”
With a playful salute and a goofy little spin, Rin dashed off across the rooftop, the Korobokkuru scampering after him, their laughter and high-pitched “Let’s gooo!” echoing in the evening air. The moment’s heaviness dissolved into a burst of chaotic, childlike energy—leaving Yuzuki blinking in the breeze, caught between heartbreak and a reluctant smile.
As Rin slid the classroom door shut behind him, the last traces of his playful mask crumbled. He dropped to his knees, fists clenched so tight his knuckles whitened, and let out a shaky breath. Then, with a sudden burst, he began pounding the floor—each thud echoing through the empty room.
Tears streamed down his cheeks, but even in heartbreak, his words tumbled out in that sly, irreverent tone—half deflection, half desperate plea.
“Yo, plot twist—turns out I’m the main character in a tragic anime, huh?” he choked out between sobs, forcing a crooked grin. “Someone cue the sad lo-fi beats, ’cause your boy’s about to drop the hottest heartbreak mixtape of the century.”
He sniffled, wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve, then banged the floor again, harder this time. “Like, seriously, universe? Not even a text back? Left on delivered IRL? That’s cold, fam. That’s ice age level.”
The Korobokkuru clustered around him, their tiny faces scrunched with concern. One tried to pat his shoulder, but Rin just flopped dramatically onto his back, staring at the ceiling with glassy eyes.
“Guess I’ll just vibe here, drowning in my own tears. Somebody order me a pizza with extra loneliness. Make it a large,” he mumbled, voice cracking but still laced with that signature quirkiness. “Or maybe—maybe I’ll just become a ghost and haunt the vending machines. At least then, someone might actually notice me.”
He let out a half-laugh, half-sob, the sound echoing off the walls. The Korobokkuru, sensing his pain, huddled close, their presence a silent comfort as Rin’s heartbreak spilled out in a storm of humor, tears, and the kind of vulnerability he’d never let anyone see—until now.
Rin flopped dramatically onto the classroom floor, fists thumping the linoleum with a rhythm that was equal parts tantrum and meme. Tears streamed down his cheeks, but he didn’t bother to hide them—not from the Korobokkuru, not from the empty desks, not from himself.
“Bruh, can I get an F in the chat for my dignity?” he sniffled, voice cracking as he tried to keep it light. “Literally just got soft-blocked by my own crush. That’s peak main character trauma, right there.”
He pounded the floor again, rolling onto his back and throwing an arm over his eyes. “No cap, this hurts more than when my favorite anime got canceled mid-season. Like, where’s my plot armor now? Hello? Anyone?”
The Korobokkuru gathered around, one offering a tiny tissue, another trying to dab his forehead with a leaf. Rin peeked at them, managing a watery grin. “Y’all are real ones. For real, squad goals. But if any of you post this on TikTok, I’m haunting your FYP forever.”
He sat up suddenly, wiping his face with his sleeve, cheeks still wet but his smile returning—crooked, mischievous, and just a little bit broken. “Guess I’ll just glow up, drop a fire playlist, and pretend I’m thriving. That’s the Gen Z way, right? Fake it till you make it, then meme about it later.”
He let out a shaky laugh, the sound echoing through the empty room, and flashed the Korobokkuru a peace sign. “Alright, squad, let’s bounce. Sad boy hours are over—time to go manifest some snacks and maybe, just maybe, a little self-respect.”
And with that, Rin scrambled to his feet, still sniffling, but already slipping back into his goofy, unbreakable persona—leaving heartbreak and hope tangled together on the classroom floor.
To be Continued...
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