Haru
February 26, 2026 at 5:36:10 PM
github:
@h9mura
song recs >_> ?:
Cornaru forever
Corny liked to sit by the old train platform after school, sketchbook balanced on her knees, pretending she was drawing the scenery when she was really just waiting.
Waiting for Haru.
Haru was sunlight in human form — warm brown eyes, wind-tangled hair, a laugh that made strangers turn their heads. She transferred in at the start of spring, just as the cherry blossoms bloomed, and somehow the entire season began to feel like it belonged to her.
Corny noticed her on the first day.
Not because Haru was loud.
But because she wasn’t.
While everyone else buzzed around introducing themselves, Haru stood by the window, fingers grazing the light as if she could hold it. Corny sketched her without meaning to. Just a quick outline. Just curiosity.
It became a habit.
Haru eventually caught her.
“You’re drawing me again,” Haru said one afternoon, leaning over Corny’s shoulder.
Corny nearly dropped her pencil. “I— It’s just practice.”
Haru studied the page. It wasn’t just practice. It was detailed. Tender. Like Corny had memorized the curve of Haru’s smile.
“You make me look… softer,” Haru murmured.
Corny swallowed. “That’s how I see you.”
And something changed.
They started walking home together after that.
At first it was small things. Shared earbuds. Hands brushing and not pulling away. Lingering goodbyes that stretched like the horizon at sunset.
Haru loved the ocean. Corny preferred quiet libraries. So they compromised — seaside bookstores, where salt air slipped through cracked windows and pages fluttered like wings.
One evening, during golden hour, Haru dragged Corny down to the beach.
“Take your shoes off,” Haru insisted, already running toward the tide.
Corny hesitated — then followed.
The waves were cold, the sky ablaze with pink and amber. Haru spun in the shallow water, laughing, arms wide.
“Corny!” she called. “You’re always watching life from the edges. Come here.”
Corny stepped closer.
Haru reached for her hands.
And this time, Corny didn’t pretend it was an accident.
The world felt impossibly small in that moment — just the two of them, fingers intertwined, the sea whispering around their ankles.
“Can I tell you something?” Haru asked, breathless.
Corny nodded.
“When you look at me… I feel brave.”
Corny’s heart stumbled.
“When you look at me,” she whispered back, “I feel seen.”
The confession hung between them, fragile and luminous.
Haru closed the distance first.
It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t rushed.
Just a gentle press of lips, salt and warmth and trembling honesty.
Corny’s hands tightened in Haru’s shirt like she was afraid the tide might steal her away.
It didn’t.
They became something unspoken but undeniable after that.
Notes tucked into lockers. Fingers laced under desks. Haru calling her “my artist” with a teasing grin. Corny pretending to complain but secretly drawing hearts in the margins of her notebooks.
The school eventually found out.
Whispers came first.
Then stares.
Then silence.
It hurt.
Corny, who had always been shy, wanted to retreat back into her sketchbook world. But Haru — brave, radiant Haru — squeezed her hand in the hallway and refused to let go.
“Let them look,” Haru said quietly. “They’re just jealous they don’t have what we have.”
“And what do we have?” Corny asked.
Haru smiled.
“Cornaru.”
Corny blinked. “You named us?”
“Obviously,” Haru grinned. “It sounds legendary. Like a star.”
Corny laughed — really laughed — and leaned her forehead against Haru’s.
“Then let’s be legendary.”
Graduation came too quickly.
Summer cicadas hummed loudly the day Haru received her acceptance letter to an art university by the sea. Corny had been accepted too — different department, same campus.
They sat on that same old train platform where it all began.
“I was scared,” Corny admitted. “Back then. Of what people would say. Of what it meant.”
Haru intertwined their fingers like she always did.
“And now?”
“Now,” Corny said softly, “I’m only scared of a world where you’re not beside me.”
Haru leaned in, brushing a kiss against her temple.
“Then we’ll build one where we always are.”
The train arrived with a rush of wind and possibility.
Corny closed her sketchbook — filled cover to cover with Haru — and stood.
The future stretched ahead of them like the ocean at low tide.
Wide.
Endless.
Theirs.
And as they stepped onto the train together, hands clasped tight, Cornaru wasn’t just a ship name whispered between two girls anymore.
It was a promise.
Replied on: February 26, 2026 at 5:41:16 PM
wow haru i cant believe youre not using your writing skills #cancelled ;-; ;-; ;- ;- ;;- ;- ;- ;- ;- ;- ;-; -;-;;-;- ;-;- ;- ;- ;-;- ;- ;-;- ;- -