That's how long it's been since Hana Miura stepped in front of Atsumu Miya by the gymnasium doors, loud enough for half the school to hear, and asked him out like it was some kind of performance.

Three days since he stood there, hands in his pockets, and gave an answer that wasn't really an answer at all.

The hallway stretches out before me, empty except for the two of us. The last of the sunlight filters through the windows at the far end, casting long shadows across the scuffed floor tiles. Somewhere in the distance, a janitor's cart rattles.

Atsumu's been fidgeting with the strap of his gym bag for the past thirty seconds. His usual swagger is nowhere to be found—replaced by something smaller. Something almost like guilt.

I don't say anything.

The silence stretches long enough for him to realize his mistake.