Lunch break.
The courtyard of Shinkawa High was alive with spring sun and mild chatter. Students filled the benches and stairs, laughing over convenience store snacks and bentos from home. Somewhere, a soccer ball bounced against a wall. Someone whistled a song Satoru didn't recognize.
He sat alone beneath the old camphor tree, a quiet patch of shade where the breeze was just enough to keep his bandaged wrist from aching. He'd only just returned to school that week, and though no one said it aloud, they all noticed.
His uniform didn't quite fit right anymore.
His bag hung a little lower.
His steps were heavier.
He'd taken another hit. Again. No one asked how.
Not even the teachers.
He unwrapped a plain rice ball with one hand and stared off at the sky.
That's when he saw her.
Miyako stood just a few paces away—fidgeting, staring at her feet, clutching something in both hands. She looked like she'd been frozen there for minutes. Her cheeks were flushed, and her fingers twisted in the hem of her sleeve.
Satoru blinked. "Hey."
She flinched. Looked up. And panicked.
"I—I brought something!" she blurted, nearly tripping over her own words. "For you! Since you were… since you were in the hospital and stuff."
She held out a small box wrapped in blue cloth, tied neatly at the top. The box was plain, but the wrapping had tiny embroidered clouds along the edges.
"A bento?" Satoru asked.
She nodded quickly. "It's nothing special! Just eggs and some rice balls and maybe a little… uh… tamagoyaki and—"
He smiled. "You made this?"
She nodded again, eyes wide. "Y-yeah."
There was a beat of silence. The courtyard continued behind them. Birds chirped in the tree overhead.
Miyako looked like she wanted to evaporate.
Satoru took the box gently. "Thanks. I haven't had anything this nice in a while."
That only made her turn redder.
"I just… I wanted to say… um…" She wrung her hands. "I think you're really brave. And nice. And I… I hope you're okay. Even if people say weird stuff. I think you're…"
She stopped.
He tilted his head. "I'm…?"
Her mouth opened again. Then shut. Her eyes widened. And then—without a word—she dropped into a hurried bow, turned on her heel, and ran.
Satoru blinked.
The only thing she left behind was her name, carefully written in kanji on a paper strip taped to the box: Miyako Hoshino.
He opened the bento. Inside was simple but thoughtful food—neatly arranged. No fancy designs, but everything looked carefully cooked and packed with care. One of the rice balls had a crooked smile drawn with seaweed strips.
He stared at it for a moment, then let out a soft laugh.
"Thanks, Miyako," he said quietly.
No one heard him. And that was fine.
He took a bite, leaning back against the tree.
---
Later that evening, Miyako sat at her desk, gripping her pencil tightly. Her textbook lay open, forgotten.
She kept replaying the moment over and over in her head: standing there, giving him the lunch, almost saying what she meant, almost saying—
> "I like you."
She buried her face in her arms and groaned.
"I'm such a coward…"
Outside, the sky turned deep blue. A single star blinked into sight.
---
Meanwhile, Satoru stood behind the flower shop counter, wiping a cracked vase with a towel. His left wrist still ached when he moved it too fast, but the pain was dull now—manageable.
The bento box, cleaned and wrapped, sat beside the register.
He would return it to her tomorrow.
Maybe thank her again.
Maybe ask if she liked camellias.
Maybe not.
He didn't know how to talk to people like Miyako. Soft people. Kind people. People who saw his bruises and didn't flinch.