After-school hours always felt like the world had lowered its voice.
Not because anything special happened, not because the sun suddenly looked different, but because the school itself began to empty in a way that made every remaining sound more noticeable. A chair dragged somewhere down the corridor. A locker door that didn't close on the first try. The soft echo of footsteps that had no hurry in them.
Outside the windows, the day was still bright, but it had started leaning toward evening, the light becoming less direct, more patient, as if it had time to wait.
Club was supposed to be a routine. It was written on the schedule, listed on the noticeboard, counted as participation. But for most of us, club hours were really just a place to put the leftover parts of the day. The parts we didn't know what to do with yet. The parts that felt too early to take home.
I went because I always went.
And she went because she always did.
Our houses were close enough that we had never once needed to decide whether we were "walking together." We simply ended up on the same roads, year after year, the same narrow streets, the same quiet corners where weeds pushed through the concrete, the same convenience store whose lights turned on before the sky fully darkened.
It had been like that since childhood.
So by the time we reached the middle years of high school, being near her felt less like an event and more like a background condition, like the sound of trains in a suburban town—you don't notice it until it stops.
The club room had that familiar smell: old paper, dust warmed by sunlight, and something faintly metallic from the open windows. A few students were still here, scattered at tables, doing whatever their club required them to do. Pens tapping. Pages turning. Someone sighing dramatically over a notebook.
She sat near the window.
She almost always did.
Not like she was claiming it. More like she had arrived at it so often that the seat had started to feel like it belonged to her. Her bag rested against the leg of the chair. Her sketchbook was already open, the pages slightly curled at the edges, not from damage exactly, but from being handled without ceremony.
She held her pencil loosely, the way people hold something when they don't need to prove they're using it correctly.
For a while, she didn't draw.
She just looked outside, eyes half-focused, like she was watching something that wasn't really there anymore. The sky over the school grounds, pale and wide. A line of rooftops in the distance. The thin wires that cut across everything, carrying nothing visible.
Then she leaned down and began moving the pencil.
It wasn't fast. It wasn't slow. It was… steady. Like the pencil was following a path already decided.
I sat two desks away, close enough to hear the scratch of graphite when the room got quiet enough, far enough that it wouldn't count as hovering.
I told myself I wasn't watching.
But I was.
Not in the obvious way. Not staring. Not thinking, she's drawing again, as if it were remarkable. It was more like my eyes kept returning to the same place, the way you keep glancing at a familiar clock, not because you're in a hurry but because it's comforting to know it's there.
She shifted in her chair, energetic in that quiet way she had. Even sitting still, she looked like she could stand up at any moment and move, as if being alive took a little extra momentum for her. When she pushed her hair behind her ear, she did it without pausing her hand. When her bag strap slipped down her shoulder earlier in the day, she had adjusted it with a quick, practiced motion, barely noticing.
Her silence wasn't empty.
It was warm.
Like she carried a small pocket of calm around her that didn't demand anything from you. You could talk, you could not talk, you could say something stupid and it wouldn't become a moment you had to remember forever.
I flipped open my own notebook and pretended to read.
A page passed. Then another.
Somewhere behind us, two boys argued about something that sounded extremely important to them and completely unimportant to everyone else. Someone laughed, short and bright, then tried to smother it. The teacher assigned to supervise club hours moved around quietly, checking on people without really checking.
At some point, she spoke, without lifting her eyes.
"Did you do the math homework?"
Her voice was casual, like the question didn't matter, like she was only asking because it was something to place into the space between us.
"I did," I said. "But I don't remember it."
She let out a small breath that might have been a laugh.
"You're lying."
"I'm not."
"You are."
I looked over. She was still drawing, but her mouth had that faint curve, not exactly a smile, more like the beginning of one, as if she didn't want to commit to the expression fully.
I said, "I can show you, if you want."
"Later," she said, and the way she said it made it sound like later was guaranteed.
A few minutes passed.
Then she asked, "What did you draw in art class today?"
I frowned. "We didn't draw."
"That's why I asked."
"I wrote my name on the paper," I admitted.
She finally glanced up, and the look she gave me wasn't judgmental, it was just… amused, as if this was exactly what she expected from me, and for some reason that was comforting rather than insulting.
"You're wasting your potential," she said, deadpan.
I rolled my eyes. "I have no potential."
She went back to her sketchbook. "That's also what people with potential say."
I didn't answer. Mostly because I didn't know how.
Her pencil kept moving.
I watched the window instead. The school grounds looked washed in late light, the shadows longer now, slower. A breeze pushed the leaves of the trees gently, not enough to be dramatic, just enough to remind you the air was still awake.
In the distance, a train passed.
Even from here you could tell which line it was, not by sight but by sound, the particular length of it, the rhythm of the cars, the slight change in volume as it moved past the buildings and open spaces.
She paused her pencil for half a second.
Not because she was listening.
Just because the world outside had shifted, and her hand obeyed it without thinking.
I wanted to ask what she was drawing.
I didn't.
I told myself it would be annoying. Or that it would make her self-conscious. Or that she would answer with something vague and I would be stuck holding the question awkwardly.
The truth was simpler, though I didn't know it then.
I liked being near her without needing to touch anything about it.
I liked that the silence could exist without explanation.
A little later, she leaned back, stretching her arms above her head, and her chair creaked softly. She blinked at the ceiling as if she'd forgotten it existed, then looked back down.
"Your handwriting is getting worse," she said.
"You haven't seen my handwriting."
"I saw it on your desk yesterday," she said. "It looked like a spider fell into ink."
"That's rude."
"It's accurate."
I laughed, quietly, and she looked at me again, just for a moment, like she was checking whether the laugh was real. Then she nodded slightly and went back to drawing, satisfied.
Outside, the light was thinner now, the color shifting toward something cooler. The room's brightness became uneven, the window side lit, the opposite side already sinking into shadow.
Eventually, the supervising teacher clapped once, gently.
"That's enough for today. Clean up."
No one moved immediately.
People always waited a second, as if hoping the instruction would be withdrawn.
Then bags were unzipped. Papers stacked. Chairs pushed in.
She closed her sketchbook carefully, pressing down on the cover like she was keeping a thought from escaping. She slid it into her bag and stood up with that same lively motion, like the simple act of standing had energy in it.
"Do you want to stop by the convenience store?" she asked, as if the question had already been agreed upon.
"Why?" I spoke.
She looked at me like the answer was obvious. "Because I'm hungry."
"You're always hungry."
"That's called being alive," she said, and started walking.
I followed, because that was what I always did.
The hallway was dimmer now, the fluorescent lights already on, making everything look a little less gentle. Shoes squeaked against the floor. A door somewhere shut too loudly. The sound echoed and then disappeared.
Outside, the air felt cooler against my face.
She inhaled and exhaled like she was testing the temperature.
"It might rain," she said.
"You always say that."
"And I'm usually right."
We walked past the school gate, the metal cool-looking even from a distance. The road outside was familiar, the kind of street you could walk with your eyes half-closed and still know where you were. Houses close together. A few small parked cars. A bicycle leaning against a wall like it had been abandoned, though it probably hadn't.
Her steps had that energetic rhythm. Mine were quieter, more measured. Sometimes she walked half a step ahead, then slowed without thinking so we were aligned again.
We didn't hold hands.
We didn't do anything that would make someone point and say, that's love.
We just walked.
At the convenience store, the automatic doors opened with their usual small chime. The bright light inside made the evening outside feel suddenly darker.
She went straight to the drinks.
I drifted toward the shelves, not looking for anything in particular.
"Get something," she said, turning slightly. "You always act like you don't want anything."
"I don't want anything."
"You do," she said, matter-of-fact. "You just don't like deciding."
That was unfairly accurate.
I picked something small, something I didn't care about enough to regret.
At the counter, she placed an onigiri and a drink down, then looked at the cashier with that polite, practiced expression everyone learns. After we paid, we stepped back out into the evening.
The streetlights were beginning to wake up.
One by one, like a slow sequence.
We ate quietly for a bit, standing near the store, not in the way, just… there.
She took a bite, then said, "I messed up the eyes again."
"What?"
"My drawing," she said, as if it was normal to talk about it like that. "The eyes never come out right."
I hesitated. Then, finally: "What were you drawing?"
She looked at me, surprised—not because I asked, but because I asked now, after so long of not asking.
"Just the street," she said.
"That's it?"
She shrugged. "And the station, a little. And…" She looked away, as if deciding whether to say it. "People walking. Like silhouettes."
I pictured it. The station. The street. People passing through, becoming shapes more than individuals, because you never had enough time to learn their details.
"That sounds like you," I said, before I could stop myself.
She blinked. "What does that mean?"
I stared at the pavement, suddenly interested in the texture of concrete. "I don't know."
She laughed softly, and the laugh had no sharpness in it, no teasing edge. Just warmth.
"You're weird," she said.
"I know."
We started walking again.
The sky was dimmer now, the color deepening. Somewhere nearby, a train crossing bell began to ring, that familiar pattern that always sounded slightly lonely even when you were used to it.
We stopped at the crossing, waiting.
The barrier came down. The red lights blinked. The bell kept ringing.
She leaned slightly forward, looking down the tracks, like she always did. Like she believed she might see something important approaching, even though it was always just a train.
"Do you ever think," she said, still looking ahead, "that we'll end up in completely different places?"
I looked at her. The question wasn't dramatic. She didn't sound anxious. It sounded like something she'd noticed quietly and decided to mention.
"I don't know," I said.
"You never know," she replied, not unkindly. "You should know something, at least."
"I know this town," I said.
"That doesn't count."
The train came through, loud and close, filling our vision. For a moment it blocked everything on the other side, like the world had been divided into two halves that couldn't see each other.
I watched the windows streak past.
Somewhere in there were people sitting, staring at phones, thinking about dinner, thinking about nothing. People moving forward without meaning to.
Then the last car passed, and the bell stopped, and the barrier lifted, and the road returned.
She stepped forward first.
I followed.
A few minutes later, we reached the point where our paths split—subtle, not dramatic, just a corner we'd turned so many times it barely felt like a decision.
She slowed.
"So," she said, "tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," I echoed.
She adjusted her bag strap with that familiar motion, then looked at me like she wanted to say something else, something that didn't quite fit into the word tomorrow.
But she didn't.
Instead, she smiled—small, quick, like a light flicker—and turned away, walking with that energetic rhythm, her figure shrinking down the street as the evening gathered around her.
I stood there a second longer than necessary.
Not because I was reluctant to go home.
Just because watching her walk away felt… important, in a way I couldn't name yet.
Back then, I didn't think of it as holding on.
I didn't think of it as anything.
It was simply the shape of my days.
Warm, ordinary, repeating.
And because it repeated, I assumed it would always be there.