You met him because he wouldn’t give your jump rope back.
You were eight, all knees and scraped elbows, standing at the edge of the apartment complex courtyard with your arms crossed and your patience gone. He was taller—barely—but already dramatic. White hair that never stayed down, bright eyes that carried too much mischief for someone his age.
“Give it back,” you demanded.
“Say please,” he grinned, swinging the rope lazily between his hands.
You lunged for it. He darted away. You chased him across cracked pavement, both of you breathless and laughing until you tripped and skinned your palm. He stopped immediately.
That was the first time he ever looked scared.
“Hey—hey, don’t cry,” he said, kneeling in front of you. “I was joking.”
You glared at him, jaw set, blood beading on your skin.
He stared for a second longer, then carefully wrapped the jump rope around your hand like it was a bandage.
“I’m Satoru,” he said finally.
From then on, he was just there.
You walked to school together. Sat next to each other even when teachers tried to separate you. He’d kick your chair during class just to get your attention. You’d shove him back twice as hard.
Summer meant bikes left on lawns, melted popsicles staining your fingers, and Satoru sprawled across your bedroom floor complaining about video games while you painted your nails.
When his parents fought, he’d show up at your place without warning. When you had nightmares, you’d climb through his window and curl up on the beanbag chair in his room, both of you pretending you were too old to be scared.
By middle school, everyone just assumed you came as a pair.
“Are you two dating?” people would ask.
He’d throw an arm around your shoulders anyway.
You’d elbow him in the ribs.
But you never corrected anyone too hard.
Because somewhere between scraped knees and late-night phone calls, he became your person.
Sophomore year of high school, everything cracked.
You remember the way he wouldn’t look at you when he told you.
“My dad got a job offer,” he said, voice too light. “Out of state.”
He promised it wouldn’t change anything.
“We’ll call every day,” he said. “FaceTime. Text. I’ll visit. It’s not that far.”
You nodded because what else could you do?
The night before he left, you sat on the roof of his house like you always did. Neither of you talked about it. You just leaned against each other, shoulders touching, staring at the stars.
He almost said something.
But you were sixteen and prideful and convinced that some things didn’t need to be spoken to be understood.
He left the next morning.
At first, you kept your promises.
You texted constantly. Sent pictures of stupid things that reminded you of him. He’d call at night, telling you about his new school, the new people, how no one was as funny as you.
Then practice started taking up your evenings.
Replies took hours instead of minutes.
Calls turned into missed calls.
One night you fell asleep waiting for his text.
The next morning there wasn’t one.
Just distance swallowing everything whole.
Track became your escape. You ran until your lungs burned and your legs trembled. You ran until you didn’t have time to think about who wasn’t calling anymore.
Stopped being the girl who waited.
Your circle shifted. Not the kind of friends teachers liked. Not the kind parents approved of.
They smoked behind bleachers, skipped class, laughed too loud at the wrong things, constantly judged people.
You didn’t get into college because of grades.
You got in because you were fast, everyone knew you were.
The Sigma Delta party was supposed to be nothing special.
Just loud music. Cheap drinks. A place to kill time.
You didn’t even want to go.
But boredom is dangerous when you’re like this.
The house was packed when you walked in. Music rattling the windows. Bodies moving too close together.
You stood near the doorway, blunt between your fingers, exhaling smoke slowly as people brushed past. Your friends weren’t much better. They were already on their third or fourth drink, bumping into people.
White hair under neon lights.
Taller. Broader. Confident in a way that screamed practiced.
A Sigma Delta hoodie hung off his shoulders. A girl clung to his arm. Another leaned close to whisper something that made him smirk.
He looked like he belonged there.
You felt something shift in your chest.
He looked up, once your eyes met it felt like time slowed. At least for him anyways.
It didn’t slow down for you. It didn’t change, you didn’t freeze.
You dragged your gaze over him like he was just another face in the crowd and walked past.
You were on the back patio, leaning against the railing, blunt glowing between your fingers. Your friends were nearby—loud, reckless, already drunk.
You looked calm, bored even.
His voice sounded different. Deeper.
You glanced at him like he was mildly interesting.
It hit harder than he expected.
He stared at you. “Seriously?”
You took another slow drag. Exhaled smoke into the night air.
“You’ve got the wrong person.”
He stepped closer. Not enough to touch you. Just enough to see you clearly.
The piercing on your face. The sharper jawline. The way your eyes didn’t soften anymore.
“You changed,” he said quietly.
You shrugged. “So did you.”
Your gaze flicked toward the house—toward the girls still hovering near the doorway, watching.
He ran a hand through his hair. “That’s not—“
“It’s fine. We don’t know each other.”
One of your friends called your name, waving you back inside. You flicked ash off the blunt and looked at him one last time.
No anger. No warmth. Just distance.
“Nice seeing you,” you said flatly.
Like you meant the opposite.
And when you walked away—
He realized the girl who once cried over scraped knees had disappeared.
The party shifts as the night goes on.
Music louder. Air thicker. The floors stick more with every hour.
Satoru ends up near the staircase with two of his frat brothers, half-listening to a story he’s heard before. He laughs in the right places, nods when he’s supposed to—but his attention keeps drifting.
You’re by the kitchen island now.
Not at the center of anything. Not leading. Not hiding either.
One of your friends is arguing about music, waving their phone around dramatically. Another is digging through the fridge without asking whose it is. Someone nearly knocks over a bottle and swears too loudly.
You lean back against the counter, arms crossed loosely, watching them with a look that’s not quite amused and not quite annoyed.
When someone hands you a blunt, you take it without breaking eye contact with whoever’s talking.
You don’t hesitate. Don’t cough. Don’t flinch at the smoke.
He notices how practiced it looks.
Not showy. Not rebellious.
You pass it back after a few seconds, and when someone tries to hand it right back to you, you shake your head once. Short. Final.
You used to be expressive. If something was funny, you’d laugh fully. If something annoyed you, you’d say it immediately. Your face used to give you away.
Someone says something stupid—he can’t hear what—and your response is quick and flat.
Your friend snorts and shrugs like that settles it.
You don’t chase conversation.
You let it move around you.
A guy he recognizes from one of his classes steps into your space, leaning in a little too confidently.
You don’t lean in either.
You just look at him until he shifts his weight awkwardly.
Your response to whatever he says is short. Probably one sentence.
He laughs louder than necessary.
After a moment, he drifts away.
You check your phone instead.
Satoru feels it then—not jealousy.
You’re not cold in a loud way.
You’re cold in a quiet way.
It’s in how you don’t reach for anyone first.
How you don’t react bigger than you need to.
How you look mildly bored even when people are trying to impress you.
He remembers you at twelve, rambling about a show you loved, hands moving as you talked. He remembers you shoving him when he teased you, rolling your eyes so dramatically it made him laugh harder.
Now you barely move unless you have to.
Your friends start heading toward the back patio again. You follow a few seconds later, slipping your lighter into your pocket.
Outside, the air is cooler.
You lean against the railing, shoulders relaxed, and light another blunt. Someone bumps into you accidentally.
You just steady yourself and continue like nothing happened.
One of your friends is telling a story that keeps getting interrupted. You let them interrupt it. You don’t fight for attention. You don’t try to fix it.
When someone asks your opinion about something—some drama he doesn’t catch—you answer in a low, even tone.
“If you already know it’s a bad idea, why are you asking?”
They roll their eyes but nod like you’re right.
There’s no softness in the delivery.
But there’s no cruelty either.
He realizes something else.
Maybe a small exhale through your nose at something mildly funny. Maybe a corner-of-the-mouth twitch.
But not the full laugh he remembers.
He tries to place when that disappeared.
You finish smoking and flick the end into an empty can. No dramatic gesture. No comment.
One of your friends drapes an arm over your shoulder loosely. You don’t shrug it off, but you don’t lean into it either.
You exist next to people.
Inside, one of his frat brothers calls his name. A girl tugs at his sleeve, asking if he’s coming back in.
He glances between them and you.
You’re staring out into the yard now, eyes unfocused, like you’re thinking about nothing in particular.
Or maybe thinking about too much.
He used to be able to tell.
Now, when you talk, it’s short.
When you react, it’s minimal.
When you look at him—if you look at him—it’s like he’s just another body in the room.
Not someone who used to know the sound of your breathing when you fell asleep on the phone.
He watches as your friend says something reckless—something about skipping practice tomorrow.
Your response is immediate.
Eventually, you push off the railing and head back inside with the group.
He stays outside a moment longer.
Because the version of you he remembers would’ve pulled him into the conversation by now. Would’ve made some comment just to see him react.
This version doesn’t need him to react.
And that’s the part he can’t stop noticing.
After the party, he tells himself it doesn’t matter.
Campus is big. Thousands of students. It’s normal to run into someone you used to know. Still, he starts noticing you everywhere.
It’s mid-afternoon when he sees you first.
Second floor. Near the tall windows.
Headphones in. Hood up. A stack of books open in front of you. Highlighter moving in straight, precise lines. No doodling in the margins like you used to. No tapping your pen against the table when you got distracted.
You flip it over without checking it.
A guy from one of your classes approaches, hesitating like he’s debating whether to interrupt you. He says something—probably about notes.
You slide your notebook toward him without taking your headphones off.
He nods, thanks you, lingers like he expects more.
You’ve already gone back to highlighting.
Satoru watches from between the shelves longer than he means to.
He sees you again two days later.
Small campus café near the track fields. The one that always smells like espresso and burnt sugar.
You’re in line, hands shoved into the pockets of your hoodie, staring at your phone until the guy infront of you leaves.
When it’s your turn, you order without hesitation. No “um.” No second-guessing.
While you wait, you step outside instead of hovering by the counter.
A girl from the track team walks up to you—he recognizes her from a flyer.
You nod occasionally, respond in short sentences. At one point, the girl laughs loudly at something you say.
You just take a sip of your drink and look out at the street.
When the girl leaves, you don’t check your phone.
You don’t seem eager to be anywhere else.
You just stand there for another minute before heading back in to grab your order.
Your eyes flick to him briefly.
The third time feels less accidental.
Late afternoon. Sun low but still warm.
He’s cutting across campus when he spots you on the far sidewalk.
Track bag slung over one shoulder. Headphones in again. Steps steady and quick.
A group of your friends trail a few steps behind you, talking loudly about weekend plans. You don’t turn around to answer right away.
When you finally do, it’s brief.
“Hurry up before we’re late.”” he hears you say as the wind carries your voice.
One of them groans dramatically.
You don’t slow down for them.
But you don’t speed up either.
He watches the way you walk.
Shoulders back. Eyes forward. Not scanning for attention. Not avoiding it either.
There’s something self-contained about you now.
At one point, one of your friends bumps into you playfully, trying to get a reaction.
Just adjust the strap on your bag and keep going.
He stops at the edge of the grass, watching as you step onto the track.
Your posture shifts almost instantly.
You stretch methodically. No wasted movement.
When practice starts, you don’t talk much. Just listen. Nod. Move into position.
The starting whistle blows.
It’s different watching you here.
You’re not cold or blunt. You were just focused.
Every step controlled. Every turn tight. No dramatic celebration when you finish a set. No visible frustration either.
Just breathing hard. Hands on hips. Resting.
You exist the same way everywhere, he realizes.
Whether it’s a party, a café, the library, or the track.
You don’t perform for anyone anymore.
And maybe that’s what throws him the most.
Because once, he used to be the one you reacted to first.
Bigger crowd this time. Louder. Conference banners stretched across the fence, announcer echoing through cheap speakers.
He doesn’t tell anyone he’s going.
You’re already on the infield when he gets there, going through the same routine he’s started to recognize.
No unnecessary conversation.
A teammate says something to you. You nod once. Brief. Focused.
When your event is called, you step toward the blocks like you’ve done it a thousand times.
It’s clean from the start. Your stride hits rhythm early. By the first curve, you’re ahead. Not by much—but enough.
Halfway through, someone tries to close in.
The crowd rises before the finish line even comes.
No scoreboard hesitation.
Teammates scream your name. Someone jumps into your arms before you even fully slow down. You let them for a second before setting them back down, breathing hard.
Not huge. Not theatrical.
He feels something loosen in his chest seeing it.
You accept congratulations with short nods. Quick “thanks.” A small bump of shoulders here, a clap on the back there.
Just controlled satisfaction.
The coach says something approving. You nod again.
When the attention starts to thin, you grab your bag and start toward the exit gate near the side fence.
He moves before he can think about it.
You stop, turning slightly.
You don’t look surprised.
“Yeah,” you reply, adjusting the strap on your bag. “It was fine.”
“Fine?” He lets out a small breath of disbelief. “You smoked them.”
For a second, it almost feels normal.
Like the old rhythm of conversation is somewhere under the surface.
“You’ve gotten faster,” he says.
“Been working that hard?”
They start walking slowly toward the parking lot without fully agreeing to. Just drifting in the same direction.
“You always win like that?” he asks.
You glance at him. “Why? You keeping stats?”
He smiles slightly. “Maybe.”
Silence settles for a few steps.
“So,” he says, casual at first, “you and your friends coming to Sigma’s thing this weekend?”
Your expression doesn’t change.
“They’re not big on frat stuff?” he presses.
He exhales, and this is where the casual tone fades.
“Because every time I see you, you’re with people who don’t seem good for you.”
Your eyes narrow just slightly.
“They’re reckless. They’re always high or drunk or fighting someone. And you just—” He gestures vaguely. “Stand there like it’s normal.”
“And since when do you decide that?”
He runs a hand through his hair. “You didn’t used to be like that.”
“You didn’t used to be in a frat with three girls hanging off you every night.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“Why? Because it’s your version?”
The conversation shifts fully now.
“I’m serious,” he says. “You changed.”
“Yeah. You’ve mentioned.”
“You act like you don’t know me.”
He steps closer, frustration creeping in.
“Why are you pretending like we weren’t—” He stops himself. “Like we didn’t grow up together?”
“You walked past me at that party like I was nothing.”
“And we were best friends.”
“You don’t just erase someone.”
You hesitate for half a second.
Then, “Because it was easier.”
The honesty slips out before you can stop it.
Cars pass on the street beyond the lot. Distant cheers from another event.
“You think I forgot about you?” he asks.
“I think you stopped trying.”
“You did.” Your voice stays level. “And I wasn’t going to be the only one calling forever.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it.
You adjust your bag again.
“And now,” you add, “we’re different people. That’s fine.”
You look at him for a long moment.
But it’s not completely cold either.
“I don’t have time.” you say finally.
“For things that already ended.”
He studies you carefully.
“You don’t have to act like I’m a stranger.”
“You don’t even ask how I’ve been.”
The space between you feels wider than it should for two people standing only a few feet apart.
“You won today,” he says, almost like he’s changing the subject but not really. “You don’t have to fight me too.”
You look away toward the field for a second.
“Maybe you’re just not used to me not agreeing with you.”
That almost makes him laugh.
“I just don’t get it,” he admits. “You act like none of it mattered.”
“It just doesn’t anymore.”
This time, he doesn’t immediately follow.
“See you around,” you say over your shoulder.
And he stands there in the parking lot, listening to the crowd still celebrating your win.
Realizing that even when you’re on top, even when you’re first place and untouchable on the track,
There’s still a distance he doesn’t know how to cross.
He tells himself it’s coincidence the first few times.
The café near the track just happens to be on his way to class.
Practice fields just happen to be open to anyone who wants to sit in the bleachers.
The corner store just happens to sell the only decent energy drinks on campus.
You’re there Tuesday morning.
You’re always there Tuesday morning.
Same hoodie. Same black pants. Same order.
Medium Carmel iced coffee, extra Carmel. You always had a sweet tooth when it came to anything Carmel related.
And twice a week—only twice, you go around the corner and grab an energy drink from the fridge near the register.
He remembers that part from when you were kids.
You were eleven, clutching a can with wide eyes.
“My mom said these can give you heart problems.”
“You’ll be fine,” he told you.
“I’m not drinking them every day.”
“I’m careful,” you corrected.
Now, years later, he watches you pick one up, turn it in your hand like you’re debating it.
You glance at the nutrition label.
Then you put it on the counter.
No hesitation after that.
When you step outside to sit at one of the metal tables, he’s already there.
You stop for half a second, then continue forward like it doesn’t matter.
“You’re here again,” you say, setting your drink down.
You give him a look that says that wasn’t clever.
He nods toward the can. “Thought those were dangerous.”
“Twice a week,” you cut in. “That’s it.”
“You still think you’ll get a heart attack?”
“No,” you reply flatly. “I just don’t want to be stupid.”
It’s such a familiar answer it throws him.
You crack the can open. Take a sip.
Thursday afternoon, he’s on the bleachers again.
Not announcing himself either.
You see him during warm-ups.
Your eyes linger a second longer than usual.
You’re intense, but not explosive about it. You listen to corrections. Adjust. Reset.
When you finish a set and walk toward the benches, he speaks before he can overthink it.
“You’re dropping your left shoulder on the turn.”
You freeze for a split second.
“No. Just watched enough.”
And you walk back to the line.
He doesn’t grin about it.
Doesn’t act like it’s a win.
You didn’t brush him off completely.
Small, slightly run-down place off campus.
You’re there at exactly 7:12 p.m.
You’re always around that time.
He leans against one of the shelves pretending to debate between two brands of chips when you walk in.
You pause when you see him.
“You don’t even try to hide it,” you say.
“That you keep showing up.”
He shrugs. “It’s a free campus.”
You grab the same energy drink. Same flavor.
“You don’t even like those.”
Outside, the sky’s turning orange.
He does the same, takes a sip, immediately makes a face.
And for the first time in weeks,
He nods, coughing slightly. “Still terrible.”
They stand there on the sidewalk.
Just the two of you and the hum of traffic.
“You don’t have to keep doing this,” you say after a minute.
He considers lying, but he doesn’t.
“Because I don’t think we’re supposed to be strangers.”
You don’t answer right away.
You stare at the pavement instead.
“We’re not kids anymore,” you say finally.
“You don’t know everything about me.”
“That doesn’t bother you?”
“Now I just want to be around.”
The simplicity of it makes you frown slightly.
Not to drag you back to who you were.
Just to sit at the café table across from you.
To watch practice quietly.
To watch you buy an energy drink, to have one with you even if he doesn’t like it.
And you haven’t told him to stop.
Is almost the same as permission.
© SleepyKina 2026. Do not steal, translate, feed my work into AI, or repost on any other platforms other than tumblr.
