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RIKU X SAKUYA

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PAPER CRANES

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Word count: 896

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The orphanage was never quiet.

Children laughed, cried, and screamed as they ran down the narrow hallways, their small feet pounding against the creaky wooden floors. It smelled of old books, damp blankets, and the faintest trace of the bread the caretakers baked every morning.

For Sakuya, the orphanage had always been home. He had arrived when he was just a baby, abandoned at the doorstep with nothing but a thin blue blanket wrapped around him. He never knew his parents, never even remembered what it was like to be held by them.

But for Riku, the orphanage was only temporary.

Riku had been brought in at the age of six, clutching a stuffed tiger too tightly for comfort. His parents had died in a car accident, and for weeks, he didn’t speak to anyone. But then, Sakuya found him—a quiet boy sitting in the corner of the room, staring at the peeling wallpaper with vacant eyes.

"You like tigers?" Sakuya had asked, pointing at the stuffed animal.

Riku had barely nodded.

"Cool. I like birds. I can make them out of paper. Wanna see?"

And just like that, they became best friends.

Sakuya had a strange habit—whenever something bad happened, he folded a paper crane. He wasn’t sure why, but the act of carefully creasing the paper, forming wings and a tail, made him feel like things would be okay.

When Riku had first seen him do it, he’d thought it was stupid. But over the years, he began helping, clumsily folding the paper until his fingers could move with the same ease as Sakuya’s.

Whenever Riku had nightmares, Sakuya would leave a paper crane on his pillow.

Whenever Sakuya felt lonely, Riku would place a paper crane on his desk.

It was their way of saying, I’m here for you, even when words failed.

The first time Sakuya felt his heart break was when Riku got adopted.

It was so sudden. One day, a couple walked in—kind smiles, soft eyes. They spent an hour talking to Riku, and then just like that, he was chosen.

Sakuya was happy for him. He really was. But when night fell, and the reality sank in, he felt a terrible weight pressing against his chest.

"You're really leaving?" he whispered, staring at Riku as he packed his tiny bag.

Riku hesitated. "I… I guess so."

Sakuya nodded, forcing a smile. "That's good. You're gonna have a family."

But when Riku saw the way Sakuya’s hands trembled, he grabbed his wrist.

"Come with me."

Sakuya’s heart ached. "I can't. They only want one kid."

The silence stretched between them, heavy and unbearable. Finally, Riku took a deep breath and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket.

It was an old letter—a letter he had never sent.

"When we grow up, let’s leave this place together."

Sakuya stared at the words, barely breathing.

"You promised," Riku whispered.

"I know," Sakuya said. "But some promises… can’t come true."

The next morning, Riku was gone.

And Sakuya was alone.

After Riku left, everything changed.

Sakuya stopped folding paper cranes.

The orphanage felt colder, emptier, even though there were still children running through the halls. He still smiled, still laughed, still played with the younger kids—but something inside him was missing.

Riku sent letters at first. But Sakuya never replied.

Maybe he was angry. Maybe he was just too sad to respond. Either way, the letters eventually stopped coming.

Sakuya never got adopted.

By the time he turned eighteen, he packed his own bags and walked out alone, stepping into a world that had no place for him.

He got a job washing dishes at a tiny restaurant, saving every penny for a future he wasn’t sure he wanted. He never talked about Riku again.

Until one rainy evening, when someone walked through the door.

Sakuya looked up from the sink. And there he was.

Riku.

Older, taller—but still the same.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, Riku held out his hand. And in his palm was a single paper crane.

"You never answered my letters," Riku said quietly.

Sakuya swallowed, his throat tightening. "I didn’t know what to say."

"You could’ve said anything. You could’ve yelled at me. I would’ve listened."

Sakuya clenched his fists. "It hurt too much."

Riku sighed, stepping closer. "It hurt me too, you know."

Sakuya blinked rapidly, trying to push back the emotions threatening to spill over. "Why are you here?"

"Because I never forgot you," Riku admitted. "I kept looking for you. I told my parents about you. I wanted to find you."

Sakuya let out a breathless laugh. "You’re an idiot."

"Yeah," Riku said. "But I’m your Idiot Best Friend."

And for the first time in years, Sakuya felt whole again.

They sat on the floor of Sakuya’s tiny apartment that night, folding paper cranes together, just like they used to.

"You know," Riku said, "I meant what I wrote in that letter. I still want to leave this place together."

Sakuya paused, staring at the paper in his hands.

Then, slowly, a small smile formed on his lips.

"Okay," he whispered. "This time, let’s go together."

And just like that, the two boys who had once lost each other found their way back home.

Together.

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