The first day of college is supposed to be exciting. For Haruto, it was just another ordinary morning.

He kept his head low, blending into the crowd of new students rushing across the lush green campus. With his black hair neatly parted in the middle and eyes that rarely held anyone’s gaze, Haruto wasn’t used to standing out — and he liked it that way.

But everything changed in a moment.

Under a blooming cherry blossom tree near the courtyard, he saw her — a girl with long, chestnut brown hair that shimmered like it had been kissed by light. She wore a soft cream coat, and around her neck was a deep burgundy scarf. Her brush danced across the canvas as if painting came as naturally to her as breathing.

Haruto couldn’t look away.

She seemed untouchable, like a scene from a dream. But something about her presence pulled him in. The girl looked up, caught his gaze for just a second, and smiled — not politely, but warmly. Genuinely.

He looked away, heart racing.

From that day forward, Aoi became his silent muse.

Haruto started sketching in secret, trying to capture that moment beneath the cherry tree. Somehow, his hand knew what to do. Art that once seemed impossible now poured from him like second nature. His grades improved. He picked up his old guitar and found melodies waiting at his fingertips. His voice, once quiet, began to carry when he sang.

And slowly… they became friends.

Aoi was more than just beauty and talent. She had a mind that danced between books and brushes, a voice that soothed every room she entered, and a kindness that always found a way to lift others up. Haruto spent the whole first year falling deeper and deeper — not into a crush, but into love.

But he kept it hidden.

Until the last day of the first year.

They sat side by side on a bench outside the library, the evening sun painting the sky in shades of orange and gold. He could barely hold the words in anymore.

“I like you, Aoi,” Haruto said softly. “I don’t know if I’m saying this right, but… you’ve changed everything for me. I see the world differently now. I feel alive when I’m around you.”

Aoi looked at him, eyes gentle, but unreadable. Her smile was soft — too soft.

“Haruto… I’m really glad I met you,” she whispered. “But… I need to focus on my career right now. I hope you understand.”

His chest tightened, but he managed a smile. A real one.

“I do,” he said. “I’ll still be cheering for you.”

They kept talking after that. They laughed, painted, studied — just like always. Everything felt okay. Not perfect, but okay.

Then the messages stopped.

One week. Two weeks. A month. No replies. Silence.

Haruto’s worry turned into unease. He asked around, but no one had answers — until he spoke to her closest friends.

Their expressions changed the moment he asked.

One of them placed a hand gently on his shoulder.

“Haruto… Aoi’s gone.”

He blinked, not understanding.

“She passed away last month. She had a rare illness… she knew she didn’t have much time left. That’s why she said she wanted to focus on her career. But the truth is… she loved you too. She just didn’t want to hurt you.”

The world froze.

No air. No words. Just a sharp, aching silence.

That evening, Haruto returned to the cherry blossom tree where it all began. He sat beneath the branches as petals fluttered down around him like snow. He took out his sketchbook and flipped to a drawing of her — her scarf, her smile, her light.

He didn’t cry.

He just sat there, letting the silence speak.

And the chapter closes with him whispering to the wind,

“I wish I had told you sooner.”

---To be Continued..

It had been three days since Haruto found out.

Three days since the words “She’s gone” shattered the delicate world he built around her smile.

The cherry blossom tree still stood tall, petals floating through the spring air as if nothing had changed. But everything had.

Haruto sat beneath it, holding the sketchbook that had become a diary of feelings he never dared to speak aloud. On each page, there was Aoi — laughing, painting, lost in thought, adjusting her scarf — memories frozen in graphite and color.

He flipped through them slowly until one page stopped him.

It wasn’t a sketch.

It was a letter.

A small folded note, taped between two pages.

It was her handwriting.

> To Haruto,

If you’re reading this… then maybe I couldn’t say it in person. Maybe I didn’t have the time. I don’t know what kind of face you’re making right now — maybe angry, maybe sad. I just hope… you’ll forgive me.

There’s something I never said. I knew about my illness long before college began. I wanted to live life like I never had before — to feel normal, even if just for a while. I didn’t want anyone to pity me or treat me like I was fragile.

But then I met you.

You didn’t try to impress me. You didn’t try to fix me. You just… saw me. And I started to hope. I wanted to stay. I wanted more days under the trees. More songs. More paintings. More time.

But I was scared. Scared that if I let you in, you’d be the one hurt most when I had to go.

That’s why I said I wanted to focus on my career. It was a lie — one that broke my heart to say. Because the truth is… I loved you too.

You made me feel like I wasn’t just fading. You made me feel alive.

Please keep painting. Keep singing. Keep living.

That would make me so happy.

– Aoi

The page blurred as his tears began to fall.

He didn’t cry loudly. He just let them slip, quietly, into the grass, the petals, the past.

Later that evening, Haruto stood in front of a mirror in his dorm, guitar in hand. His fingers hesitated on the strings. The room was silent — but her voice echoed in his mind:

"Keep singing."

That night, he performed at the college open mic — something they once talked about doing together. The stage lights washed over him, his nerves shaking in his chest.

“This one’s… for someone who saw colors where I only saw gray,” he said into the mic.

The crowd fell quiet.

He sang a song called “Her Colors”, filled with raw notes and quiet truths. Every lyric told their story. Every strum was a heartbeat. When he finished, the room stayed silent for a moment… then burst into applause.

But he didn’t hear it.

He was still somewhere beneath that cherry tree, hearing her laugh in the wind.

Over the weeks that followed, Haruto returned to painting — not because of the pain, but because of what she had given him: a gift. A vision. A reason.

He painted her scarf into every piece. Sometimes in the background. Sometimes tied to the wind. It became his silent tribute.

One painting, however, stood out.

It was titled “The Girl Beneath the Blossoms.”

It captured the moment he first saw her, exactly as he remembered — her eyes filled with light, brush in hand, surrounded by falling petals.

It would be displayed in a local gallery — his first ever exhibit.

As he stood in front of it, a quiet smile touched his lips.

She was gone.

But her colors remained.

And he would carry them forward.

---To be Continued...

The gallery is quiet now.

The last few visitors had gone, leaving only the soft echo of their footsteps behind. Haruto stood in front of his painting — The Girl Beneath the Blossoms — long after the lights dimmed, arms folded, his face expressionless.

They had praised it. All of them Called it “brilliant,” “haunting,” “a masterpiece.”

But none of them knew the truth behind it — the ache in every brushstroke, the sorrow buried beneath the color. None of them saw the ghost that lingered behind the girl’s smile.

Only Haruto knew.

He didn’t seek attention. After the exhibition, he declined interviews, turned down agents. He spent his days walking campus alone, head low, sketchbook in hand. Not out of shyness anymore — but habit. It was easier to be silent than to answer the question in everyone’s eyes: Who was she?

One evening, he wandered into the old music room. Dust clung to the piano keys, the walls lined with faded posters of past concerts. He remembered her voice here, humming while he tuned his guitar. He hadn’t touched it since she passed.

But something made him pick it up.

The strings were out of tune, rough against his fingertips. He plucked a few chords — slowly, uncertainly. Then, without thinking, he began to sing.

His voice cracked in the first verse.

But in the second, it softened.

And by the chorus, it soared.

Not loud. Not powerful. But full of something real.

A janitor was walking by and paused at the door, listening with quiet awe. By the end of the song, Haruto was still staring at the guitar — as if it had spoken to him.

That night, he didn’t sleep.

He painted until dawn — then wrote a song on the back of the canvas.

He called it “Even If She’s Gone.”

It wasn’t meant for anyone else. Just him. But the music professor found a recording of it by accident, and within a week, the university asked Haruto to perform it at a charity event.

He said no.

Twice.

Then… he said yes.

The hall was full when he walked onto the stage. Spotlights bathed him in gold. He couldn’t see the audience — only shadows, silence, and his own breath hanging in the air.

He didn’t speak.

He just sang.

And when he finished, there was no applause at first.

Just stillness.

Then the room erupted.

It should’ve felt good. Pride. Joy.

But all Haruto felt was quiet. Like a gentle nod from the past — as if Aoi had heard it too, wherever she was.

From that night, he began to gain attention — not as a boy who lost someone, but as a rare voice, a rising artist. Offers poured in. Studios. Galleries. Recordings.

He accepted only what felt true to him.

He remained distant, always calm, always quiet.

He didn’t open up.

Not even once.

People thought it was mystery. But it wasn’t.

It was memory.

Years passed. And the boy once inspired by love became a man celebrated for it.

But in his quiet apartment, the burgundy scarf remained on a shelf, folded carefully. He never told anyone who it belonged to.

He just kept creating.

Because somewhere inside him, Haruto had made a promise:

“I’ll keep painting. I’ll keep singing. I’ll keep living. For both of us.”

---To be Continued