The two girls froze in place.
Especially Rukia—her mind instantly blanked, the sight of the Student Council President before her blurred, as if swaying in the haze of a dream.
It was Rangiku Matsumoto who recovered first, blinking as she asked again, "What did you just say?"
Shin raised his cup, that usual gentle smile curling across his lips.
"I said I like her."
Boom.
The words struck Rukia like a star exploding inside her skull.
Even now, as the adopted daughter of the Kuchiki Clan, she was keenly aware of who she was beneath the silk robes and noble title. The status was a veil—ornate, but hollow.
But the President—Tachikawa Shin—he was someone too distant to reach. Someone she revered, admired, someone she saw as impossibly high, like a star set in the firmament.
And just now… What had he said?
Was he drunk?
He'd only had two drinks.
Her body swayed slightly where she sat, Rangiku's arm slung over her shoulder, but the world felt like it was slipping sideways. This didn't make sense. This wasn't real.
Rangiku stared hard at Shin. Then, suddenly, she burst out laughing—bright, clear, and delighted.
"Well, damn! Didn't expect to witness such a lovely confession tonight."
Shin took another sip of sake, expression serene, like what he'd said hadn't shaken the room to its core. As if it was nothing at all.
And it was that very calmness—so composed, so effortlessly poised—that made Rukia doubt what she'd heard. Had she imagined it? Had Rangiku too misheard?
How could the President say something like that and remain so calm?
Was he joking?
Was this some cruel prank?
She couldn't think. Her thoughts clashed and tangled like a thousand voices screaming at once inside her skull. Her eyes widened, her whole face locked in stunned disbelief.
"And you?" Rangiku turned to look at Rukia.
Me?
What about me…
What do I feel about the President?
Rukia's mind swam. A flicker of clarity returned—just enough to feel her face burn red hot.
Why was Rangiku asking her? Why was she expected to respond?
She wasn't prepared for this. She and the President—weren't they just student and superior? Their relationship was warm, friendly, maybe even close… but she had always thought that was because he was just kind.
Yes, maybe there were a few moments that felt like something more. But she had always believed that was just Shin being Shin. A bit easygoing. A bit informal.
She never thought he felt that way about her. She didn't dare think that.
She kept her head low, unable to lift her gaze.
Because she knew he was looking at her now. She could feel the weight of it—and that weight was terrifying. Crushing.
She wanted to run.
She had never wanted to flee so badly.
But then Shin chuckled lightly again.
"Why are you asking her?" he said.
Rangiku blinked. "Because now it's her turn to respond."
Shin tilted his head. "But I didn't ask her anything."
"...Eh?"
Rangiku looked genuinely puzzled.
That was a confession, wasn't it?
Had she misunderstood? Or had he misspoken? Or had she just stuck her nose where it didn't belong?
She frowned slightly, thinking it over.
"You do want to know whether she accepts or rejects you, right?"
Shin smiled faintly. "Matsumoto-san, that's a strange question. You asked me how I feel. I answered. I wasn't talking to her. I wasn't asking anything of her. I simply responded."
His words were like a riddle.
Rangiku stared at him, tapped her temple as if to clear her drunken fog. Maybe she'd had too much. Maybe that's why his meaning was eluding her.
"Wait…"
But Shin continued, still speaking evenly:
"What I said wasn't a request, or a demand. I think Rukia is an excellent person—a wonderful girl. And so, I like her. That's all."
"…"
Rangiku sat in stunned silence for a long moment.
Then she suddenly got up—her balance a little off.
"I'm drunk. Definitely drunk. You two carry on."
With that, she staggered toward the doorway of the izakaya.
"Take care, Matsumoto-san," Shin said as she left.
And then the quiet.
Shin and Rukia were alone.
A strange, almost sacred stillness settled between them.
Shin continued drinking and eating as if nothing had happened. Slowly, Rukia's chaotic heart began to still, drawn into his unhurried rhythm.
She peeked up, just slightly.
He was pouring himself another cup.
Rukia whispered, "President, how much have you had?"
"Worried I'll get drunk?" he smiled back at her.
She didn't understand how he could still smile like that—so calmly, so gently. That smile pierced her, made her feel like she had done something wrong.
Avoiding his gaze, she murmured, "What you said earlier… What did it mean?"
"Was it unclear?" he asked.
"…"
No. It was perfectly clear.
It wasn't a proposal. It wasn't a request. It wasn't an expectation.
It was just… a feeling.
A simple truth, stated plainly.
It was too pure.
Could a feeling really be that pure?
And was she… was she worth something that pure?
Or maybe he just admired her. Maybe "like" was too strong a word. Maybe he was exaggerating.
Rangiku had clearly interpreted it that way—but if that wasn't what he meant, shouldn't he clarify?
"You're not eating?" Shin asked suddenly.
She had no appetite. None.
"I… I'm not hungry."
"I see." Shin flagged down the owner and paid the bill, then rose to his feet.
"Let's go."
"Ah? Oh—okay."
They stepped outside.
As the curtain fell behind them, the warm scent of wood and sake was left behind.
A familiar touch came down softly on her head.
Her whole body tensed. She felt she should step away, create space. Maintain distance.
But she didn't move.
Because the touch was gentle.
More gentle than usual. Softer. Almost reverent.
"Let's go," he said again.
The stone-paved road shimmered under moonlight. Their footsteps echoed through the quiet street, waking the dozing stars perched along the rooftops.
Far in the distance, faint lights flickered like stranded jellyfish caught in the tide of night. A gust of wind blew through a tower of empty bottles, producing a soft, hollow tune before disappearing beneath the eaves where the moonlight hung in threads.
Rukia looked up just as clouds crossed the sky.
The scattered stars beyond turned into silver dust, slipping through the sieve of the heavens into the deep navy vault above.
She walked in a daze, watching the road glisten faintly beneath her feet, like the residue of a tide's retreat—a thin, shimmering memory of water left behind.
And in that moment, she saw her shadow unravel, spun by the breeze into delicate threads, reaching up and tying themselves softly to the brightest star in the sky.