You had just transferred to Kishimoto Academy, a quiet yet prestigious school nestled in the outskirts of the city. The reason behind the move wasn't something you talked about—because you didn't talk at all. Not anymore.

Your previous school had been unbearable. People mocked your silence, mocked your deafness, and even worse—pretended to be your friends only to betray you behind your back. It had chipped away at your spirit until you were left numb. So when the opportunity to transfer came, you took it without a second thought.

At Kishimoto Academy, you changed. You walked with your head down, your eyes sharp enough to keep people away. You never smiled, never gave anyone the chance to inch into your space. If someone stared too long, you glared. If someone bumped into you, you walked off as if they didn't exist.

One afternoon, someone did bump into you. A boy. He said something, but you didn't stop. Just kept walking, unfazed, unbothered, unreachable.

But he noticed you. He started noticing you more and more. You, always at the back of the classroom. You, the only one not talking during group activities. You, sitting alone during lunch, either staring out the window or eating quietly under a tree.

He began observing you—not out of pity, but curiosity. You never spoke. Never reacted. But there was something about your silence that lingered.

Eventually, he found out your name. And sometime later, he overheard a teacher quietly mention that you were deaf.

That night, he couldn't stop thinking about it. Something clicked. The silence, the stillness, the distance—it all made sense now.

The next day, he bought a small notebook. Pocket-sized. Nothing fancy.

Days passed.

He saw you again. Sitting alone on a bench beneath a blooming cherry blossom tree. Your hair was still, catching the occasional falling petal. You didn't notice him at first—not until the bench creaked beneath his weight.

He didn't speak. Just scribbled something on the notebook and held it out to you.

That became a routine.

He'd show up sometimes—never pushy, never loud. Just a quiet presence beside you. Sometimes he'd write something. Sometimes he wouldn't. Sometimes he'd just sit there with you, doing nothing, expecting nothing.

But something changed in him.

He wanted to do more than write. He wanted to understand your world—the way you saw things, the way you felt things, the way you communicated.

So one night, he opened his laptop and searched how to learn sign language. He stayed up late, practicing every sign with his hands under the dim light of his desk lamp. He fumbled, messed up, repeated, practiced again. Every night, again and again.

He carried the notebook less after that. Instead, he'd quietly rehearse short sentences in his head, waiting for the day he'd be able to use them properly.