When Sakuma Haruto was five, he met a girl at the sandbox, watching ants.
Her name was Yamada Ryo. She barely spoke. Her eyes were gold, beautifully.
From the edge of that sandbox in kindergarten, he was already beside her. Haruto can’t quite remember when it started, when he simply grew used to the silent girl who was always crouching, watching ants. Ryo didn’t speak, so he didn’t either. Whatever she looked at, he looked at. She never said thank you, and he never needed her to.
Then one day, Ryo picked up a bass, and light appeared in her eyes. Then she joined a band, and suddenly there were people who understood her music. People who spoke her language.
And Haruto realized he was standing at the edge of her world, holding nothing but a guitar he couldn’t even play well.
He didn’t chase after her. He just waited at the school gate when her rehearsals ran late into the night. He just made her a meal when she had no money to eat. He just nodded whenever she said “Come pick me up.”
Until the two of them had grown so used to each other. Until neither of them could say the word “like.”
Until, at the next intersection, that beautiful blue-haired girl asked him—
“Will you always be here?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I like you.”
He had been at this intersection, from the very beginning.
