The sound of the lecture echoes in the distance. The sound of chalk on the blackboard. The sound of pages turning. Someone let out a small yawn. The classroom was the same as always.

I was the only one who wasn't anywhere.

They say that people leave behind a continuation of someone else.

We are different.

No matter how much love we pile up. No matter how much we whisper of the future.

In our spring, nothing sprouts. No flowers bloom. No fruit is borne.

Even so, I want to touch you.

The world does not call this love. If so, I don't need a name for it.

So, I want to remain inside you. Even as a wound. Even as a crime.

If the thing that never disappears until the end is me, then that is enough.

The bell rings. Chairs are pulled back all at once, and the classroom gradually empties.

I slung my bag over my shoulder and slowly stood up.

I pass through the entrance. The familiar school gate. The familiar car.

And the one person standing beside it.

Our eyes meet.

Just that was enough to quietly unravel something deep in my chest.