The rooftop door clicked shut behind Hiroto Minami as he stepped into the sun. The heat hit him like a soft, invisible wall — not unbearable, but heavy, the kind of summer warmth that made your clothes cling to your back and time feel like it had taken a nap.
The city shimmered beneath the sun, rooftops and windows glowing in the haze. Down below, the school was alive with the hum of anticipation. The last day before summer break.
Hiroto shielded his eyes and spotted his friends already sprawled out on their usual spot on the concrete.
"Oi! Took you long enough!" Daiki Suda called, waving a half-eaten popsicle. His blazer was tossed aside, tie looped around his head like a sweatband.
"I had to return my English textbook," Hiroto said, trudging over.
"Excuses," muttered Ren Takao, reclining like a bored prince, his arms behind his head. His shirt was untucked and he'd apparently declared war on uniform regulations sometime in May.
Kenta Mori looked up from his paperback novel. "We were just discussing your tragic love life," he said, deadpan.
"Again?" Hiroto sighed, sitting cross-legged beside them. The rooftop radiated warmth beneath him.
"No, not again," Daiki said, pointing his popsicle dramatically. "This is an intervention."
"Why do I feel like I'm about to get bullied?"
"Because you are," Ren said, smirking.
"See," Daiki began, licking his popsicle, "we realized something shocking."
"Terrifying, really," Kenta added.
"Unforgivable," Ren chimed in.
"You," Daiki said, leaning in like a conspiracy theorist, "have now completed three years of middle school and an entire term of high school… without talking to a single girl."
"That's not true," Hiroto said defensively.
"Name one," Ren challenged.
Hiroto opened his mouth.
Daiki held up a finger. "And not just 'Hi' or 'Here's your pencil.' A real conversation."
"Well…" Hiroto paused. "There was that time in gym when Ayaka asked me if I had an extra water bottle."
"Transaction," Kenta said, not looking up.
"She spoke. I responded. That's a conversation!"
Ren chuckled. "A vending machine gives responses too. Doesn't make it dateable."
"I don't get why you guys are obsessed with this," Hiroto muttered.
"Because it's weird!" Daiki said. "You're fifteen. Hormones! Crushes! Unrequited glances from behind textbooks! None of this rings a bell for you?"
"Not really."
Ren let out a low whistle. "He's like a monk."
"With Wi-Fi," Kenta added.
"I just don't see the point," Hiroto said, lying back on the concrete, arms behind his head. The sky was that deep, piercing blue that looked fake if you stared too long. "Romance seems… unnecessary."
"You're saying this in July," Ren said, "during the peak of the most anime-romance-friendly season on Earth."
"Exactly!" Daiki sat up. "Summer break starts tomorrow. Fireworks, summer festivals, shaved ice, yukata-wearing girls who trip and fall into your arms. And you're gonna spend it all cooped up grinding Celestial Soul VII?"
"Have you seen the new expansion?" Hiroto asked.
Daiki groaned. "You're hopeless."
Hiroto shrugged. "Games make sense. Romance doesn't."
Kenta closed his book. "You're saying you've never had a crush?"
Hiroto thought for a moment. "…Does Saber count?"
Ren snorted. "Fictional crushes don't count unless they can ghost you."
"That's the best part," Hiroto said. "They don't. 2D girls don't ignore you out of nowhere or send mixed signals. They're consistent. Logical."
"Okay, so you don't want a real girlfriend," Daiki said. "That's fine. Tragic, but fine. What about just, like… talking to girls? You know, social development?"
They fell into silence, the kind only found on summer afternoons — lazy and weightless. The wire fence rattled softly in the breeze. Somewhere below, a bell rang, signaling the end of cleaning duty.
"I'm not broken," Hiroto said after a while.
"Didn't say you were," Daiki replied.
"I just don't get why everyone treats romance like it's the final boss of high school."
"Because for most people, it is," Ren said.
Kenta nodded. "Or at least a major side quest."
"Well, I'm fine without it," Hiroto said. "Relationships seem complicated. You have to guess how people feel. Worry about saying the wrong thing. Remember birthdays. That's exhausting."
Daiki tapped his temple. "See, this is what happens when you optimize your stats for MP regen and not charisma."
"Charisma is a dump stat," Hiroto muttered.
Ren chuckled. "Tell that to literally anyone who's been in love."
They stayed up there longer than usual, despite the heat. It felt like the end of something — not just the term, but a chapter. Tomorrow, the school would be quiet. The halls would echo with emptiness, and students would scatter across the country for festivals, cram school, and beach trips.
Kenta stood first. "I'm off. My brother's dragging me to some cousin's barbecue."
"I still need to pack," Daiki said, standing. "We leave for Okinawa at dawn."
Ren got up with a stretch. "See you losers in September."
"You're not even gonna check in online?" Hiroto asked.
"I'll have bad signal," Ren replied. "Plus, I'm trying to do the whole 'real life experience' thing. Who knows, maybe I'll fall in love at a summer market."
Daiki gave him a mock salute. "Godspeed."
They filed out one by one, tossing final jokes over their shoulders. Hiroto stayed behind, lying flat against the concrete. The sky stretched endlessly above.
He stayed there until the sun started to slip behind the buildings.
...
..
.
By the time Hiroto made it home, twilight had already soaked into the streets, painting the concrete in muted blue. The Minami house sat tucked between two apartment buildings, dim porch light flickering like a bug trap about to give out. Hiroto stepped in and slid the door shut behind him with a soft clack.
His father sat at the dining table, glasses sliding down his nose as he picked through a stack of mail with a sort of grim determination only an adult could master. Bills, coupons, and a suspiciously thick catalogue fanned out before him.
"You're late," he said without looking up.
"Rooftop," Hiroto muttered, too tired to explain further.
His dad finally looked up and held out a pale envelope. "This came in the mail today. Weird name. Thought it might be for you at first, but…"
Hiroto took it. The paper was stiff, a little worn at the edges, like it had been handled too many times. The name on the front wasn't his.
"Aka Yahana?" Hiroto read aloud.
"No idea. But our address is right there," his dad said, pointing. "There's a return address, though. Some town out in Gifu, I think. Oyamamura?"
He blinked. "Not mine."
"I know. But look—our address. Right there."
Hiroto turned it over. There it was, printed neatly: his family's address, apartment number and all. And just above that, a return address:
> Y. Takahara
97-3 Sakura-no-Hata, Oyamamura, Gifu Prefecture
He didn't know anyone from Gifu. And definitely not a Y. Takahara.
"Probably a mistake," his father said, already half-distracted by the news on TV. "Maybe a mistake on the address? You can toss it."
Hiroto didn't. He took the letter with him, dropped it on his desk, stared at it for a few minutes while his monitor cycled through sleep mode animations… then opened it.
Inside was a single page, folded with care. A faint floral scent clung to it, and the ink was slightly smudged, like it had been written quickly—or with shaking hands.
*
> Aka,
I don't expect you to read this, and I doubt you'll forgive me. That's fair.
*I said things I shouldn't have. Left things I never should've let go. I'm sorry.
For not saying it before. For everything.
I won't write again. This is just what I needed to say, in case there's a part of you still out there that can read it. I miss the sound of the wind through the cedar trees. I miss your voice most of all.
—Yumi
*
Hiroto stared at the letter for a long time.
He didn't recognize the handwriting. Or the name. Or the voice of the letter — that quiet sadness, like someone had been mourning something for years without ever telling anyone. It wasn't meant for him. He wasn't this Aka. He'd never lived in Oyamamura. Never known a Yumi.
He folded the letter back up slowly and slid it into his desk drawer. Buried it under old school handouts and a notebook he never used. Then he shut the drawer and didn't think about it again.