The stars hung overhead with a piercing clarity that night. The sky was quieter, less cluttered by clouds, and the crisp air wrapped itself around us, sharp and biting. It was the kind of chill that scraped against your skin and made everything feel more tangible—more real. Like the world was suddenly wide open, full of things unspoken, the kind of night where words seemed to matter more than they ever had before.
Aoi lay beside me on the dry grass, her arms tucked behind her head, her cardigan sleeves rolled up to her elbows. We hadn't gone back inside after our conversation, and somehow, that felt right. The open sky above us seemed like the only place that didn't require explanations or justifications, where silence could be held without it feeling strained.
"It looks smaller," I said, my voice quiet, but full of that strange weight that came with realizing how much time had passed.
She turned her head slightly, her gaze still on the dark expanse above. "The sky?"
I shook my head. "No. The garden. The house. Everything. It's like it used to be huge—like the world stopped right here, at these walls."
Aoi gave a soft, almost wistful laugh. "That's because you were smaller."
I smiled faintly at that. "Maybe."
The night stretched between us, quiet, yet filled with so many things that neither of us knew how to say. The kind of pause that settled in your chest and made you realize how little you really knew about the person lying beside you, even after all these years.
"Do you remember…" she began, so quietly that for a moment I thought I might have imagined it. "That night we camped out here and made that promise?"
My heart tightened. I turned my head to face her.
"Promise?" I asked, my voice softer than I intended.
Aoi turned her head, now fully focused on me. Her eyes were full of something ancient, something that I couldn't name. "You were ten. I was nine. We snuck out with a blanket and glow-in-the-dark stickers, remember?"
The memory bubbled up, a soft laugh escaping me. "Oh yeah. You were so mad because yours didn't glow as much."
She smiled, but the lightness didn't reach her eyes. "You said we'd never be apart. That we'd always live in the same house, forever. You made me pinky swear."
"Right." I let out a long breath, the memories mixing with something else now, something heavier. "You even cried when Mom tried to make you go inside."
Aoi's voice softened, growing quieter, almost fragile. "You held my hand and told me not to cry. You said that as long as we could see the same stars, we'd never really be far apart."
I chuckled lightly, hoping to ease the weight in her words. "I was such a dramatic kid."
But Aoi didn't laugh. She didn't even smile.
Her eyes were on the stars now, but I could see that she wasn't truly looking at them. She was somewhere else. Somewhere between then and now. Her voice, when it came, was barely audible, a whisper swallowed by the night.
"I didn't forget it," she said, and the words seemed to crack in her throat. "Not once."
The air around us stilled, holding its breath.
There was something in her voice, something raw, like she was letting out a secret that had lived inside her for years. It wasn't a childish sentiment, nor was it just a memory. It felt more like a confession—a quiet plea she had kept hidden away. She wasn't talking to the boy she had once known, but to the person beside her now. And in that moment, I realized that for her, that promise still meant everything.
I shifted, suddenly hyper-aware of how close we were. Not touching, but close enough to feel the warmth between us, mingling with the cool air, a delicate tension that seemed to hum in the stillness.
"It was just a kid thing," I said, my voice barely a murmur, careful, tentative.
She turned her face back toward the stars, but I knew she wasn't really seeing them. "Maybe for you."
Her words lingered between us, a taut thread stretched thin, vibrating with meaning. They held a weight that hadn't been there before, like they were building to something neither of us was ready to confront.
I stared up at the sky, watching the stars scattered across the dark canvas, distant and quiet. They were unchanged, just as they always had been—silent witnesses to everything that had come before and everything that was yet to come. But tonight, they felt different.
They felt closer. Heavier. Like they were watching us, too.
And suddenly, the distance between us seemed impossibly vast, despite the closeness of the night.