When The Lines Begin To Blur

It didn't happen all at once.

It crept in—quiet, subtle, cruel.

Kuruha began to change.

Her warmth, once effortless and radiant, faded into silence. The light in her ocean-blue eyes dimmed, like the sun sinking behind a stormy sea. Where there used to be laughter and teasing, now there was only distance. Coldness. An emptiness I didn't know how to fill.

I found her on the couch one afternoon, curled up, hugging her knees, her long blue hair cascading like a curtain that hid her face—and her heart.

I sat beside her, slowly, like approaching a ghost I wasn't sure could still see me. Without thinking, I reached out and wrapped my arms around her, just like I always used to.

But this time… she pushed me away.

"Why are you so clingy?" she said, not even looking at me.

Her voice was flat. Foreign. It didn't sound like Kuruha.

My breath caught in my throat.

"Kuruha…" I whispered, "Did I… do something wrong?"

She stood up and crossed her arms. "No. I just don't want to be around you all the time. It's suffocating."

The words hit harder than any slap. My heart felt like it cracked.

Just days ago, she'd kissed me goodnight under a sky full of stars.

Now she could barely stand to look at me.

"But I thought… I thought we were okay," I murmured.

She turned, eyes blank.

"Maybe that was your mistake."

Then she walked away—no pause, no explanation. Just left me sitting there… with nothing but silence.

The days after felt like walking through fog.

I still tried—God, I tried.

I waited at the school gates.

Brought her favorite snacks.

Sent gentle messages: "Are you okay?", "Do you want to talk?"

They were all left on read.

At school, she laughed with classmates, smiled at teachers—but when her eyes met mine… they looked past me. Like I was just another face. A stranger.

One afternoon, I finally stopped her in the hallway.

"Kuruha," I said, voice shaking. "Please… can we talk?"

She glanced at me like I was bothering her.

"I'm busy."

I reached out, gently grasping her wrist.

"Just a minute. Please."

She pulled away like my touch burned.

"Why are you making this so hard?" she snapped. "Didn't I already tell you? Stop clinging to me."

My chest caved in. I forced the words out. "I miss you…"

She looked away.

"You didn't do anything," she said quietly. "That's the problem."

And she was gone again.

Even so, I kept trying.

I stood by her classroom door just to say good morning. I left small notes in her locker, just little reminders of what we had. I waited in the rain once—outside her clubroom—just hoping for a word.

But every time…

Silence.

Or worse, indifference.

One day by the shoe lockers, I whispered, "Do you remember when we used to sit on the rooftop and watch the sunset together?"

She paused.

Then: "That was just something we did. It's not that deep."

Just like that, she erased it all.

Another time, I left a small blue-thread heart in her desk. Handmade. Just like when we were kids.

She didn't even look at it.

She just tossed it in her bag—like trash.

And still, I searched for her in every crowd. Waited for a smile. Hoped she'd remember us.

But she never looked back.

The next morning, I walked to school alone.

No teasing voice. No warmth beside me. Just the sound of my own footsteps—and the weight of everything left unsaid.

Then I bumped into someone.

"Sorry," I muttered.

"It's alright. Are you okay?"

I looked up—and froze.

Aliyah Fujikawa.

The student council president. Calm, composed. Mysterious. With long black hair and violet-blue eyes that seemed to see through people.

She studied me. Not just glanced—looked.

"You don't look okay," she said softly.

I tried to smile. "Just tired."

She didn't press.

Instead, she gently adjusted the strap of my bag.

"Be careful where you walk," she said, her voice like silk. "Especially when you're carrying that kind of weight."

She wasn't talking about the bag.

Before I could respond, the bell rang. She gave a small nod and walked off.

And for the first time in weeks, someone had seen me.

But my eyes still searched for Kuruha.

She sat by the window, back straight, her light blue hair catching the sun. But there was no glance. No smile. Nothing.

"Good morning," I said gently.

She turned, barely.

"Morning," she replied, voice flat.

And that was it.

I returned to my seat, drowning in a silence I used to think was peace.

Now it just felt like a goodbye stretched too long.

Lunchtime came.

I didn't move.

Across the room, Kuruha laughed.

Not with me.

With someone else.

She looked happy.

And I was a ghost.

So I slipped out. Wandered until I reached the back stairs behind the gym. Alone.

I sat down.

Head against the wall.

Eyes closed.

Remembering.

Her smile. Her hand in mine. The way she used to say my name like it meant something.

Now?

She couldn't even look at me.

And I still couldn't hate her.

That's what made it worse.

Because I still loved her.

That afternoon, I saw her again—walking fast, quiet, trying not to be noticed.

So I followed.

At a distance. My heart aching with every step.

She stopped at a small café.

I hid behind a vending machine.

And then I saw it.

She walked inside.

Straight to another boy.

And hugged him.

Not a friend-hug.

A close, warm, I-missed-you hug.

I couldn't breathe.

Was this why she left me?

Was he the reason?

I stepped back.

But instead of walking away… I entered the café.

Sat in the corner, hidden.

Watched.

She laughed.

She smiled.

She looked like she belonged there—with him.

I waited for her to notice me.

To feel guilt. To flinch.

She never did.

She never looked my way.

And I sat there.

Invisible.

Watching the girl I loved… fall into someone else's world.

And all I could think was:

She didn't even say goodbye.