If we were strangers, why did I remember the way he used to smile—smile like the world wasn't closing in on us?
I sat in the library, flipping pages of a history book without reading a single line.
A chair scraped against the floor behind me.
"Don't look now," Kazuma whispered, "but tall-dark-and-tragic just walked in."
"Why would I look?"
"Because you've been stalking him with your eyes for two weeks."
I groaned and buried my face in my arms. "It's not like that."
Kazuma laughed softly. "Then what is it like?"
I had no answer.
Because I didn't know what this ache was. It wasn't a crush. It wasn't curiosity. It was something older. Something deeper. Like my bones remembered him.
And it scared me.
The school was holding a group project presentation in the gym next week. Our class was assigned themes about historical connections across timelines.
The irony stung.
When the teacher paired us into random groups, I barely breathed as names were called out.
Then—
"Tsukihara Ren and Shinomiya Naoaki. Group Five."
The world slowed. Ren looked up from his desk. Our eyes met.
He didn't smile.
But he didn't look away either.
Later that afternoon, we sat in the quiet art room discussing the project.
He flipped through pages of source material while I mostly stared at him, forgetting my own name.
His fingers were long and graceful, and his profile looked almost carved—delicate, but sharp. He wasn't someone you forgot.
And yet, everyone acted like they didn't notice him much.
Maybe he was erasing himself on purpose.
"So," I said, breaking the silence. "You don't talk much."
Ren glanced up. "You talk too much."
I blinked. "That's... fair."
He turned another page. "What made you volunteer for the topic of 'Repetition in History'?"
"I didn't. I think the teacher chose for us."
He frowned. "Figures."
There was a pause, quiet and tense.
Then I added, "I think things do repeat. Not just events. People too."
He stopped flipping the page.
"Like reincarnation?" he asked slowly.
"Maybe. Like... someone you were meant to meet. Over and over again."
Another silence.
When he finally spoke, his voice was lower.
"Then maybe we were never supposed to meet again."
I froze.
He stood abruptly, collecting his things. "I'll work on the slides tonight. Don't wait for me."
He left.
I should've let him walk away. But I couldn't.
"Wait," I called, catching up in the hallway.
He stopped, not turning around.
"I know this is weird, but…do I remind you of someone?"
A pause. Then, quietly, "You talk in your sleep."
I blinked. "What?"
"You said a name once. In class. During a nap." He turned slightly, his eyes unreadable. "It wasn't mine. But it felt like you were talking to me."
My heart stopped.
He walked away before I could say anything.
That night, I dreamed again.
There was fire this time.
Screaming.
And a hand pulling away from mine.
When I woke up, I whispered into the dark, "I don't even know your name."
But I did.
If we were strangers… why did I miss you like this?