Satoru grew up with everything—wealth, charm, effortless brilliance. His family was powerful, influential. Yours was comfortable, modest, warm. The difference never mattered to you.

To you, he was just Satoru.

The boy who used to cry when he scraped his knees. The boy who hid behind you when neighborhood kids picked fights. The boy who would complain dramatically whenever a girl rejected him—though that rarely happened.

Ironically, you were always the one giving him advice whenever he liked someone.

“Maybe try being less arrogant?” you’d suggest half-heartedly. “Or stop smiling like you already know she’ll say yes.”

Truthfully, your advice barely mattered. With that face, that height, that ridiculous wealth—what girl wouldn’t fall for him?

You never felt threatened by it. Never jealous.

Because to you, Satoru was nothing more than a best friend.

Maybe even someone you felt responsible for. Someone you needed to protect.

As you grew older, the height difference became obvious. Satoru shot up tall and broad-shouldered, while you only grew to about his chest. Whenever you stood in front of him, your head barely brushed the middle of his sternum.

Yet somehow, you were always the one protecting him. You were smaller than him, yet you always stood in front of him when trouble came—just like when you were kids. You scolded him, defended him, wiped dirt from his cheek with annoyed affection.

From his angle, all he saw was the top of your head and your determined little frame standing between him and the world.

You never realized how deeply those small gestures rooted themselves in his heart.

Satoru didn’t know exactly when it happened.

Maybe it was the way you always looked out for him. Maybe it was how your eyes shone when you laughed. Maybe it was because you were beautiful—yes, undeniably so—and he would never deny that.

Or maybe it was because no matter how much he grew, how much taller, stronger, richer he became—

You still treated him the same.

Like he was just Satoru.

The realization came quietly. No fireworks. No dramatic confession.

Just a slow, dangerous awareness that whenever you smiled at someone else, something in his chest tightened.

And he didn’t like it.

The night of his farewell party before leaving for the U.S. was colder than usual. The barbecue felt heavier somehow, laughter thinner.

You cried more than you expected to. Tears slid down your cheeks under the dim backyard lights.

“Idiot,” you sniffed. “Don’t forget to eat properly over there.”

Satoru didn’t say much.

He rarely did when things mattered.

Instead, he reached out and gently ruffled your hair, palm warm against your head. His touch lingered a second longer than necessary.

“I won’t,” he said quietly.

He didn’t tell you that he would count the days until he saw you again. He didn’t tell you that the thought of you crying because of him made his chest ache.

Satoru was a man of actions. Though no word says love, every action is love. Satoru had fallen hopelessly in love with his best friend.