Affection: From you

The rehearsal was supposed to end at 6:00 p.m.

At 7:30, I was still untangling mic cords under the gym stage, wondering how my life had turned into a strange mix of romance, regret, and power tools.

Izumi was still upstairs in the control room, finalizing the lighting sequences. From what I could hear over the hum of the cheap speakers, Kaito and Mina had already left, taking their chaos with them. Somewhere between managing equipment lists and practicing a mock kabuki line for the stage play, I'd been left behind.

On purpose? Maybe.

I didn't mind.

The truth was, these long after-school hours gave me something that the rest of the day couldn't.

They gave me her.

Not the Izumi everyone else saw—the perfect council president with a sharp voice and colder stare—but the version that existed after everyone left. The one who would roll her eyes at dumb jokes and sometimes mutter lyrics to old childhood songs when she thought no one was listening.

That Izumi was fragile in a way I didn't expect.

And maybe that's why I found myself still here, even after the tasks were technically done.

I stood, dusted my hands, and called up the stairs.

"Oi! President! The underworld is tamed. Any orders from Olympus?"

A moment passed.

Then her voice came, crisp and amused.

"Stop being weird and come upstairs."

I smiled.

That's what I was waiting for.

---

The control room was warm and dim, filled with soft hums from the lighting console and a gentle scent of peppermint tea—hers. She was standing by the window, watching the gym below, arms folded.

"I was serious, you know," I said as I stepped in. "Cables: tamed. Ladders: dodged. Gravity: still hostile, but manageable."

"You forgot to label the light sockets," she replied without turning.

My smile faltered. "Ah. So close."

"But you tried." Her voice softened just enough to make the words linger.

She turned then, finally meeting my eyes.

It had only been a week since we started working on the festival together, but I already knew what that look meant.

She wasn't just seeing me. She was reading me.

And it scared me how much I wanted to be understood by her.

"I brought snacks," I offered, pulling a convenience store bag from my backpack like a magician with a rabbit. "Celebration for surviving another day of festival madness."

She raised a brow. "Sugary or salty?"

"Both. I'm nothing if not diverse."

She chuckled—genuinely this time—and took a seat on the old couch near the wall. I joined her, opening a packet of spicy senbei as she sipped her tea.

We sat like that for a while. Quiet, close. Comfortable.

Too comfortable.

"Ryou," she said, suddenly serious, "why didn't you ever come back?"

I blinked. "Come back?"

"To the town. To the school. To me."

I looked at the tatami floor. My fingers clenched around the plastic wrapper.

"I don't remember leaving," I whispered. "I don't remember anything before I was nine."

She turned toward me. "But you remembered the braid. The tree. Me."

"Only after I saw that album."

"But why now?" Her voice broke, just slightly. "Why did it take so long?"

I had no answer.

Only the truth.

"I don't know," I said. "But I think… part of me never forgot. It just got buried. Under noise. Under growing up. Under being alone."

Izumi said nothing for a long time.

Then, softly, "I hated you, you know. For forgetting."

"I know."

"But I also hated myself. For waiting."

She laughed bitterly, wiping at the corner of her eye. "I used to sit under that sakura tree every spring. Alone. Like some idiot in a fairy tale."

"You weren't an idiot," I said. "You were loyal."

She looked at me. "Don't romanticize it."

"I'm not. I admire it. Even if I didn't deserve it."

Another silence.

Then she whispered, "You still don't."

I flinched.

But she added, even softer, "But you're trying."

And somehow… that meant more.

---

The lights dimmed around us as the sun dipped lower outside the window.

I lay back on the couch, hands folded behind my head. "So… what was I like? Back then?"

She paused, then smiled faintly. "You were reckless. Loud. Dramatic."

I laughed. "Sounds accurate."

"But also…" She trailed off. "You made me laugh when I didn't want to. You climbed the tallest trees just to find the best flower to tuck behind my ear. You called me princess, not because I acted like one, but because you said I deserved to feel like one."

I turned my head to face her.

"I want to be that person again," I said. "Or someone even better."

Izumi stared at me for a long time.

Then she leaned forward, brushing something off my cheek.

"Sugar," she murmured. "From the donut."

Our eyes met.

The distance between us was shrinking, second by second.

My heart thundered.

And just when I thought she might close that final inch—

Her phone buzzed.

She pulled back, face hardening instantly.

"Council report," she said. "I have to review the vendor list."

The moment shattered.

But not completely.

I watched her stand, straighten her skirt, and pause by the door.

Then, almost shyly, she said:

"Walk me home?"

---

The streetlights flickered on as we walked side by side through quiet lanes.

Our steps were in sync, our shadows long and joined.

Izumi didn't speak much. But I noticed how she glanced at me every now and then—quick, uncertain.

She was letting me in.

Bit by bit.

And I was falling.

Faster than I meant to.

---

We stopped in front of her gate. The porch light glowed warmly behind her.

"Thanks for today," I said. "And… for letting me stay late."

She hesitated.

Then reached into her bag and pulled something out.

A folded piece of paper.

I took it and unfolded it.

It was a rough sketch of the stage layout for the festival.

On the back, in small, elegant writing:

> "Sometimes I wonder what you remember when you look at me."

> —Izumi

I looked up.

She was already walking inside.

But just before the door closed, she said—so quietly I almost didn't hear:

"You used to kiss my hand when we said goodbye."

The door clicked shut.

And I stood there in the falling night, heart in my throat, wondering:

What other memories had I forgotten?

And how many more would come rushing back if I dared to fall in love again?

AUTHOR — CrimsonBorN / Step

Twitter / X account: ANC_CrimsonBorN