I have been wondering—
What makes me fly?
What makes me soar above others?
Was it my beauty? My talent? My knowlege?
Or was it my family? Friends? Fiance..?
It's like... How can you let me fall—
— // — // * * *
Tap tap tap
The rain had ended at dawn.
Its smell lingered though—sharp, fuzzy, clean. It clung to the air outside the road, seeping in through the tiny gap at the frame and was gushed around by the short gentle breeze of air.
I had woken early, too early. My alarm hadn't rung yet, but the ticking of the wall clock had. The same endless rhythm that made my chest tighten with each second. It wasn't the noise that unsettled me—it was the reminder that time was moving forward whether I was ready or not.
My hands stilled halfway through brushing my hair.
I watched the girl in the mirror staring back at me. A white blouse neat, a black and red ribbon tied, expression blank. Not a crack in the surface. That was good. No one needed to see more than that.
No one ever could.
The umbrella leaned against the wall by the door. Mother used to say a girl should always carry one, not for the rain, but for the unexpected. I reached for it, fingers brushing the smooth lacquered handle. Unexpected. The word carried too much weight these days.
Leaving home quietly—as if silence could shelter me.
* * *
The streets were wet but busy. People rushing to work, students biking past, the occasional car splashing water into the gutters. I walked at my own pace, steady steps, shoulders relaxed. Or at least, I tried.
And then it happened.
The bike came fast around the corner—tires screeching, rider unannounced.
I froze.
My chest locked, breath gone, legs stiff as stone. The world tilted, vision narrowing—like another time, another place, where metal and speed and blood had left me broken.
Am I... gonna fall again?
I-I don't want to fall... Please.
The trauma has cemented inside my head. I don't want to experience it again—but as the bike closed by, I merely closed my eyes and let out a short, silent whimper.
Screech~
I waited for the sensation to kick. The way I fell. The way my knees buckled. The way my body laid flat on top of the hood of that car...
But I never fell.
The screech ended in silence. No impact. No pain. No shattering of bones like last time.
I opened my eyes.
The boy had stopped the bike inches from me—front tire twisted sideways, his shoe braced against the ground to keep the frame from collapsing. The chain rattled once, then stilled.
He was breathing hard, but his gaze wasn't wild or frantic. It was steady, sharp, too sharp for someone our age. His hand came out, firm, holding my arm just enough to keep me upright.
It was soft.
It lingered to my heart.
"Careful," he muttered flatly. No excuse, no apology. He flatly said I should be careful.
I should have snapped. Should have been angry. But I wasn't. I couldn't. My heart was too busy clawing against my ribs, dragging me back into memories I thought I had buried. My knees weakened, breath caught somewhere between a sob and silence.
"Are you hurt?"
He noticed. His eyes narrowed—not in pity, but in recognition. As if he knew that kind of tremor, that kind of fear.
All I could do is shake my head slowly. Not too much, not even enough to be perceived. But as my eyes traveled into his... I remembered.
... But wait.
You..?
The world blurred. People passed, bikes rode on, the city hummed like nothing had happened. And yet, in that sliver of time, it was only him and me.
"I…" My throat ached around the words. "I'm fine."
I wasn't. But I said it anyway.
His grip loosened, slow, deliberate. "Watch where you're going."
I could see it in his eyes. It was too blank. There were no circles under his eyes, he has no eyebags, no visible injury, and yet... It was blank. People with blank, expressionless eyes are the most troublesome—people who have given up, people who lost their soul, depressed, broken. Yet, his eyes fluttered.
Before I could even ask—without waiting for thanks or apology, he straightened his bike, kicked the pedal, and rode off. No hesitation, no backward glance. As if I was just another passerby in his day.
But he wasn't just another boy.
The imprint of his hand lingered on my arm. The steadiness of his voice lingered in my ears.
I stood there long after he had disappeared into the gates ahead, pressing my palm over the umbrella's smooth handle until my shaking stopped.
Only then did I walk again.
* * *
Tap tap tap
The small stubs of my heels tapped against the sheet vinyl of the college floors. It sped up, as I recognized I am already late.
By the time I reached the lecture hall, the professor's voice was already droning inside. A tide of monotone words. Economics. Supply, demand. Things that mattered to them. Things that no longer mattered to me.
I stood at the door for a second too long, hand on the frame. My heart had already steadied, but my body still remembered the jolt from earlier—the grip that pulled me back, the way the boy's voice lingered even after he left.
I smoothed my sleeve once, twice. Straightened my umbrella under my arm. Then I pushed the door open.
The hinge groaned. Dozens of heads turned.
"Miss Kurohona. You are late." The professor's tone was flat, irritated, but she gestured to an empty seat without pause.
"Forgive me, Professor... Someone bumped into me..." The excuse left my lips with practiced calm. My voice never wavered, even when my pulse threatened to.
My eyes swept the hall once. I was only looking for a seat—at least that's what I told myself. And then I saw him.
Second row from the back. Pen in hand, posture rigid, eyes older than they should be.
The same boy.
The same eyes that stared blankly.
The same hand that had pulled me away from the street.
For half a second, my composure cracked. A flicker of recognition, though not of his face—not exactly. Something deeper. Something heavier. Like seeing a reflection in glass you didn't know you were standing in front of.
I forced my gaze forward, masking the hesitation, and walked. Steps measured, unhurried. Out of all the seats, I chose his. I had to.
He didn't speak at first. Just shifted slightly, as if my presence unsettled him. That was fine. It unsettled me too.
I sat, laid out my notebook, aligned my pen. Breathed once. Twice. Steady again.
Then, without looking at him, I asked the simplest thing I could.
"Do you have the notes?"
His reply was clipped, almost wary. "The lecture is halfway done—and yes."
Good. His voice carried the same weight as before. Older than it should be. I could feel the question in him already, the suspicion, the same gnawing recognition that clawed at my chest.
I began writing. Neat strokes, steady lines, every page in order. If my hand trembled, no one could see it.
But inside, my thoughts whispered the question I couldn't silence:
Why him?
Why now?
And why does it feel like I've already met this man in another life?
Was my memories blurring? Did I happen to meet him before I fell?
The professor droned on, chalk scraping against the board. Her words wove into graphs and models, predictable lines and clean equations that pretended the world was neat, logical, measurable.
I knew better.
I leaned slightly toward him, my voice low but deliberate.
"Tell me. Do you believe all this?"
He blinked, caught off guard. "What?"
I tapped my pen against the curve on my notebook. "That demand curves are predictable. That people are rational. That everything can be calculated like a machine."
The students nearby shifted, confused by the question. It wasn't the sort of thing that belonged in this lecture. But I didn't care.
His answer came quickly, almost like instinct.
"No. People aren't rational. They're desperate. And desperation isn't on the graph."
My pen stilled.
For a moment, something inside me lurched—the same way it had when his hand caught me earlier. Recognition, not of his face, but of the way he spoke. The same understanding I had carried, the same heaviness I had tried to bury.
I turned back to my notebook, but the words blurred. All I could see was the shadow of his answer.
Desperation.
The clock ticked. The lecture dragged to its close. Chairs scraped, laughter rose, the hum of youth filled the hall. But I stayed where I was, finishing the last stroke of a character on the page before tucking everything neatly into my bag.
"Vincent, right?" I asked, almost as an afterthought, though my pulse betrayed me.
He turned, eyes guarded. "Yeah?"
I gave a faint nod. "Arishu."
And that was all. No smile. No extra word. I left before he could ask more, before I could betray myself.