The following week passed like a fever dream.
Between unpacking, orientation, and getting lost in the maze of lecture halls and seminar rooms, Takara Minami barely had time to think. Not deeply, anyway. Not about things like fate, or chance, or what it meant to have Kayo Tsukishiro living right across the hall again after four years apart.
But that didn't stop him from feeling it.
It was in the accidental brushes when they passed on the stairwell. The shared elevator rides filled with silence. The occasional, unintentional eye contact across campus—like they were orbiting each other again, pulled by some invisible force neither of them could explain.
On Wednesday, their worlds officially collided.
The classroom was bright. Floor-to-ceiling windows, a whiteboard that had already been scribbled on in multiple colors, and rows of long desks. Takara slid into a seat near the middle, still sleepy from the 8 a.m. start.
Creative Writing 201.
He opened his notebook and tapped his pen against the edge.
"Seat taken?"
Takara looked up—and his breath caught.
Kayo stood there, one brow arched, the faintest ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"You're in this class?" Takara asked, half-laughing.
"I need it for my minor," Kayo said simply, sitting beside him before he could answer.
Takara leaned sideways, whispering, "Let me guess—screenwriting elective?"
"More or less."
Takara stared at him. "You're like a narrative ghost haunting me."
"I'm your plot twist," Kayo replied, deadpan.
Takara burst out laughing. The professor gave him a stern look. He apologized with an exaggerated nod and straightened in his chair.
But the grin wouldn't leave his face.
The class was good. Thought-provoking prompts, story exercises, and a group project that made half the room groan in collective dread. When the professor told them to pair up, Takara didn't even hesitate.
He turned to Kayo. "Obviously."
Kayo didn't argue.
They got assigned the theme "Echoes."
Takara tilted his head. "Echoes, huh. That's poetic."
Kayo didn't reply right away. Then, softly: "Like us."
The words hit Takara harder than expected.
They met in Takara's apartment that night to brainstorm. He'd cleared a space near the window, spread notebooks and pens across the rug, and made instant coffee in mismatched mugs.
Kayo took his usual spot—cross-legged, back straight, eyes focused. It was both new and achingly familiar.
"So," Takara began, "echoes. Metaphorically, emotionally, narratively… where do we go?"
Kayo tapped his pen against a notebook. "What if it's about two people who lost touch? And one of them hears the other's voice in all the places they used to go."
Takara blinked. "Wow. That's… haunting."
"It's meant to be," Kayo said simply.
Takara's chest squeezed. "Are you writing about us?"
"No," Kayo said after a pause. "But maybe I'm writing about what could've happened if we hadn't found each other again."
Takara looked away.
They worked until midnight.
They didn't talk much outside of story planning, but it was the kind of silence that buzzed with energy. With unspoken thoughts. With things neither of them quite knew how to say.
When Kayo finally stood to leave, Takara walked him to the door.
"Thanks for tonight," he said.
Kayo nodded. "You still talk too much."
"You still listen too hard."
Kayo turned to him then, something unreadable in his eyes. "You ever think about… why now? Why we're here again, after all this time?"
Takara's voice dropped. "Every day."
For a second, it looked like Kayo might say something more. But he just nodded, stepped into the hallway, and shut the door gently behind him.
That night, Takara dreamed in echoes.
Of quiet dorm rooms and sunlit afternoons.
Of whispered secrets and almost-kisses.
Of Kayo's voice calling his name—soft, uncertain, real.