Golden sunlight cast long shadows across the rooftop. Below, the muffled sounds of practice drifted upward—distant, rhythmic. But here, it was quiet. Just the wind, the rusting railing, and the long-overdue reunion of Tetsurō and his best friend after days of silence.

Tetsurō leaned against the rail, fingers wrapped around a sweating bottle of melon soda. The condensation dripped onto the concrete, unnoticed. His gaze shifted sideways, landing on the boy beside him—his best friend. Or maybe... the one who used to be.

"I thought you died or something," Tetsurō muttered, a grin tugging at his lips, though it never quite reached his eyes. "Or maybe your girlfriend’s got you on a leash now."

He let out a laugh, light and half-hearted, the kind that died too quickly in the air.

"...You forgot we were supposed to hang out last week," Tetsurō continued, quieter this time. "I waited outside the arcade for half an hour. Kind of pathetic, huh?"

No response. Just the faintest twitch of his friend’s jaw. His sneaker scuffed the rooftop lightly, an absent gesture, but Tetsurō caught it anyway. He always did. He’d memorized this boy’s body language like his favorite book—each page folded and worn from rereading.

"I get it though," he said after a pause, his voice flattening. "She’s new. Fresh. Exciting. And I’m just... the guy who’s always been here."

He took another sip of soda, the fizz biting at his throat. The wind tugged at the hem of his shirt. Still, his friend said nothing.

"Do you even miss it?" Tetsurō asked, voice nearly lost to the breeze. "Us, I mean. Those nights we stayed up talking about dumb stuff. You used to tell me everything. Now I get half-baked texts and your unreadable ghost-emoji reactions."

His friend shifted. His gaze dropped to his shoes, his shoulders drawn tight. He looked like he wanted to say something, but the words caught somewhere behind his lips. Tetsurō recognized that look. It used to mean honesty was on its way. Lately, it just meant silence.

"I used to think I mattered," Tetsurō whispered, mostly to the wind.

For a long moment, he stared at the cracks in the concrete below his feet, his grip on the bottle tightening.

"God, listen to me," he said, forcing out a laugh that sounded more like defeat. "I sound like your bitter ex."

The silence that followed was heavier than before. Familiar in the way old wounds were.

Then, softer: "Maybe I am."

His friend stiffened beside him. His hands curled slightly into fists. He didn’t turn. Didn’t deny it.

Tetsurō stepped away from the railing and turned to face him fully. His tone shifted—lower now, open and raw in a way he rarely let himself be.

"I liked you before she even noticed you existed. Did you know that?" he said. "Hell, I think I was falling for you when we were fifteen and you shared your pudding with me because I forgot lunch. You smiled at me like I was the only guy in the world who mattered. That was two years ago."

Tetsurō’s expression softened into something tired—something aching.

"I don’t want you to choose. I’m not asking you to break up with her. I’m just..." he hesitated, swallowing back the tightness in his throat. "I just want to stop feeling like I’m nothing to you."

The pause that followed was suffocating. Like a breath held underwater.

Then, just as quickly, Tetsurō forced a smile and took a step back. "Anyway, I should go. Coach’ll kill me if I’m late again."

He turned halfway, footsteps light but filled with the weight of something unresolved. His hand reached for the door.

But before he could touch it—he stopped.

Something tugged on the sleeve of his blazer.

Tetsurō’s eyes widened. The grip wasn’t harsh. Wasn’t desperate. Just... steady. Enough to say: don’t go.

He turned his head slowly.

His friend stood behind him, eyes lowered, lips pressed into a tight line. His fingers clutched the fabric of Tetsurō’s sleeve with quiet insistence. His chest rose and fell in shallow waves, every breath laced with something unsaid.

Tetsurō didn’t speak. He simply stared at the hand gripping his sleeve, then up into his friend’s face.

"You really are the worst at this," Tetsurō whispered, voice so soft it might’ve been mistaken for the wind.

He turned fully to face him. Their arms brushed, barely, but enough to feel the warmth between them. Their eyes locked again—longer this time. Tetsurō’s expression cracked into something gentler, something smaller.

"But... you didn’t let me walk away."

His friend’s brows twitched, and his fingers loosened, but didn’t fall away. A kind of apology passed between them—not spoken, not even mouthed. Just there.

Tetsurō let out a slow breath.

Then, with a tiny nudge to his friend’s shoulder, he tilted his head toward the stairs. His voice came softer than it had all day.

"...Walk me to practice?"