The 18th Shade Of Summer (Fractured Script Series #1)

CHAPTER 17

Days have passed since the exam.

I should be celebrating—I am happy. I passed. After everything, I really did it. If Akiro were here, I know he’d be proud. He’d probably smile in that way he always does—half proud, half playful—and say something like “See? Told you you’d ace it.”

Maybe he’d cook something again, like he promised. Or take me to that restaurant he kept bringing up but never got around to. Maybe we’d just walk aimlessly, the way we used to, getting lost in streets I still haven’t learned the names of—those little places that somehow felt like ours even though they weren’t.

But he hasn’t come back.

Not yet.

There’s been no music. No knock on the door. Not even a new sticky note slipped under the frame.

It’s been a week now. And everything’s starting to lose its color.

I didn’t notice it right away. I kept telling myself he just needed time. That he’d show up soon, holding some ridiculous souvenir or new story to distract me. But as each day passed, the silence started to settle in. Not loud, not dramatic. Just... constant and heavy.

I don’t really know what to do with myself anymore.

I tried sketching again. Thought maybe it would help quiet my thoughts. But the moment I picked up my pencil, my hand just froze. Every line I made felt like a shadow of something missing. Every blank space reminded me of him. How he used to peek over my shoulder. How he once told me my drawings made everything feel alive.

Now, everything just feels empty.

He left, but in my mind, he’s still everywhere.

I still hear him in the corners of the room. Still look toward the hallway like he might walk through it. Still catch myself thinking, What would Akiro say about this? before remembering he’s not here to answer.

But I’m still holding on—to that promise.

He said he’d come back. Said it like a fact, not a maybe. And I believed him. I still do.

Tonight, I’m just lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling like it might write something in return. My thoughts drift to what we could do if he came back.

Maybe try a sport we’re both terrible at, just to laugh at ourselves. Maybe a spontaneous night at a karaoke bar—singing off-key until we’re both breathless from laughing.

I keep making lists in my head—things to do, places to go. Not because I’m planning, but because it’s the only way to make this waiting hurt a little less.

The sun’s setting again. I can see its light behind the curtains, soft and golden, spilling across the floor in that slow, deliberate way that makes everything look a little sadder than it is. Or maybe it’s just me.

I didn’t think he’d be gone this long.

And what scares me isn’t the waiting—it’s the not knowing. There’s no return date. No specific day to mark on a calendar. Just this endless space where time stretches and I keep hoping he’ll walk into it.

I miss him.

I miss him in the quiet.

In the questions.

In the moments I want to tell someone something stupid or small or beautiful, and realize he’s the one I want to tell.

And until he comes back, I don’t know what else to do—except wait.