Haru's days were swallowed by writing. His notebook filled with verses, fragments, and stories inspired by Ezra and Kei's tragic love. He spent hours alone in the library or tucked away in his room, chasing the perfect line.
Ren watched quietly, sketchbook open but unfinished, colors drying on the page.
"Your poems are good," Ren said one evening, tracing a brushstroke with his finger. "But you don't look at me much anymore."
Haru looked up, surprised.
"I'm here, you know," Ren added softly.
Haru smiled weakly. "I'm sorry. I just… want to get this right."
Ren nodded but didn't say more.
At school, their paths crossed less.
Haru attended writing workshops, buried in words and grammar. Ren joined art club, spending late nights painting canvases of crashing waves and shadowed faces.
They still met sometimes after class, but the conversations were shorter, filled with silences and half-smiles.
One afternoon, Ren showed Haru a new painting—a portrait of two boys standing at the edge of a cliff, lilacs swirling around them.
"It's about them," Ren said quietly.
Haru touched the edge of the canvas. "It's beautiful."
"But it's lonely," Ren whispered. "Like us."
The distance grew, slow and steady.
Haru wanted to share every new poem, but Ren was tired. Ren wanted to show every sketch, but Haru's eyes glazed over.
One night, Ren's phone buzzed with a message from an art competition. He looked at it, then at Haru.
"I'm thinking of applying," he said.
Haru nodded, trying to smile. "That's… amazing."
But inside, a quiet fear bloomed.
They still held hands sometimes, but it was less a promise and more a memory.
And beneath the lilac sky, two hearts began to unravel.