The door swings inward on a soft scrape, and her voice meets us before the antiseptic smell does.
"Come in," Kaori says.
There she is..
She's sitting upright, two hospital pillows trying to make her look taller than the blankets make her feel. A white bandage crosses her hair like a too-tight ribbon. Paler—so pale the pink in her lips looks painted on. The smile she gives us is small and patient, the kind that asks us to help it pretend this room isn't the kind that keeps people.
"What'd you bring me?" she adds, tipping her head, playing at spoiled.
Tsubaki slips in first, clutching a pastel box like a courier on a mission. "Pastries," she says, trying for bright and almost getting there. "Fig tart. Canelés."
Watari squeezes in past me with a grin that wobbles at the edges. "And me. Did you miss me?"
"A little," Kaori says. "Like... the size of a melon pan."
I close the door gently until it clicks. The room seals around us with that hospital hush that makes small noises louder—the crinkle of paper, the whisper of curtains.
She's smaller against the sheets. I can't tell if it's the light or the white or the way the gown tries to erase her shape. There's a coil of clear tubing like a lazy snake, an IV taped neat at the bend of her arm. The pink bunny plush I gave her earlier in the spring leans against her hip, bead eyes unblinking.
"Fit as a fiddle," Kaori announces, lifting her free hand like a toast. "Totally fine. I'm just in here for more testing. That's all."
Tsubaki's mouth twitches. "Testing," she echoes.
"Mm-hm. Since I bonked my head, they're poking and prodding. Brain scans. Lights. They make you follow a finger and you want to bite it. All very impressive." She continues " last time we figured I could skip a few scans, we're gonna take it slow this time"
Watari stage-whispers, "She's making it sound like an amusement park."
"It's not," Kaori admits, and then, lighter: "But we're pretending today, okay?"
I don't say anything. It wouldn't help to say I can count the hours on her face. The part of me that does math on other people's bodies starts to measure the distance between what she says and what the room says. I tell that part to sit in the corner and be quiet.
"Anyway," she says, eying the box the way a raccoon eyes a treasure bag, "what'd you bring me?"
"Food," Tsubaki says, relieved to have a task. She opens the lid; a sweet smell pushes back the lemon-clean of the room. "Fig tart. The bakery lady put extra fruit because she's in love with you."
"Who isn't?" Watari says too fast, then laughs at himself to make the too-fast sound intentional.
Kaori wiggles her fingers. "Fork, please. I need to taste life."
Tsubaki passes it with a flourish. Kaori cuts too big a bite and chews like a chipmunk, puffing her cheeks, closing her eyes like this is a minor epiphany. "Mmm. Medicine," she says. "Write that down, nurse," she adds to the wall, like the building is taking notes.
Tsubaki laughs, real for a second. She fixes the napkin on Kaori's lap, brushing crumbs away like she can brush away anything else that doesn't belong here.
"And," Watari says, squaring up like a magician about to pull a second dove from a hat, "these."
He unzips his backpack and produces a stack of books that makes the mattress dip: hardcovers, dog-eared paperbacks, scores with cracked spines. The pile lands with a soft thump against Kaori's thighs.
"Wha—" Tsubaki blinks. "Watari. Are these all from the school library?"
He attempts innocence and falls short. "I did a public service. I liberated knowledge. She's stuck in here—she needs stuff to read or she'll memorize the wallpaper."
"You didn't even check them out, did you?" Tsubaki demands. "There are cards. Systems. You can't just—"
"Eh? no I just took them"
Kaori flips a cover. The pocket in the back peeks out, the little card with its grid of stamped dates like a ladder you can climb back to the hands before yours. She doesn't read the names yet. She just touches the paper, then the edge of the book, like she might warm it by holding.
"Thank you," she says, "I'll read half a page and fall asleep on it, but thank you."
Watari puts a hand over his heart. "Your intellectual growth is my personal project."
"You just like praise," Tsubaki mutters—affectionate muttering, the old kind.
Kaori watches us while we watch her, measuring how well she's keeping the air the right temperature. Her smile wobbles once, barely, then steadies.
"So," Watari says, trying to pick a path. "You scared us."
"I scared myself," Kaori says cheerfully, because she will not let the floor drop under the sentence. She lifts the fork and mimics a wobble. "Very elegant. Then boom, ow. The blood went like—" She opens her fingers, letting an imaginary spray erupt. "Psshhhhh! Dramatic. Zero stars. Would not recommend."
"Kaori," Tsubaki says, scandalized and relieved at the same time.
"What? It's true. I was disgusted." She wrinkles her nose, cute in a way that hides the ache for half a second. "Mom and Dad freaked out. They got me here in, like, two seconds. Then doctors and lights and questions and... here we are." She spreads her fingers. "A suite with a view." The view is the neighboring wing's windows.
"How are you feeling?" Tsubaki asks. Safe question. The one that pretends it has a simple answer.
Kaori taps the fork against her teeth, thinking. "Tired," she says finally. "But good-tired, like after a festival where you ate too much and danced badly." She taps her temple. "And a bit headachy. But they say I get a fancy picture of my brain. If they find nothing, I'm suing."
"You can't sue them for not finding something," Tsubaki says.
"Watch me."
The joke lands. For a blink, the room feels like a hallway outside our classrooms, chatter covering the floor like a rug. I let the sound wash over me and try to relax my hands. They stay tight. I look anywhere but the tape at her arm.
She catches me anyway. She always does.
"What's that face?" she asks, too light to be an accusation, too direct to ignore. "The one where you're doing math on my soul."
"I'm not," I say. I squeeze the words into a shape that passes as a joke. "Math and I aren't speaking."
"Liar," she says, gentle. She closes her eyes for another fig-bite epiphany and exhales through her nose like it helps keep the room where she wants it.
There's a knock; a nurse glides in with the practiced quiet of people who stand at doors for a living. Twenties, hair clipped back, a little cartoon pin to make kids smile. "How are we doing?" she asks, pluralizing us into her into we.
"Perfect," Kaori says. "I'm fixing your budget by ordering the whole pastry case."
"You'd be surprised how many pastry-related miracles I've seen," the nurse says dryly. She checks the IV, marks the chart, adjusts the flow. "Ten more minutes on this one. Then a break."
"See?" Kaori says when the nurse leaves, like she's won a point. "Just testing."
We talk about small things. It's the only way to do big things sometimes—walk around them until they're less impossible. Watari complains his coach called his penalty kick "lucky." Tsubaki groans about the copy machine jamming only for her. I tell a story about the cat by the bike racks that pretends to belong to everyone. None of it is important. All of it is.
When the machine beeps politely, the nurse returns, switches the bag, smooths the edge of the blanket like tucking order into a mess. Kaori watches with a sudden seriousness, then grins at us as the nurse leaves, as if to say See? Still me.
Visiting hour is generous until it isn't. The nurse glances at the clock on her way past and says nothing, which is how you know time is short.
"We should let you rest," Tsubaki says, and the sentence looks wrong wearing her voice. She wants to argue with the clock.
"I am resting," Kaori says, patting the mattress. "This bed and I are dating."
"Gross," Watari says, stretching with an exaggerated groan. "Okay. We'll come back tomorrow with contraband and fan mail."
"Bring good pens," Kaori orders. "I want to draw mustaches on the compliments."
Tsubaki leans in to fix a strand near the bandage without touching the bandage—a move you only learn on someone you've known since six. "Text if you need anything," she says, quieter. "We're not far."
"I know," Kaori says, looking up at her like there's a joke she could make and choosing not to. "Thanks."
Watari nudges the pastry box into perfect reach like a mother bird arranging twigs. "Doctor's orders," he says.
"Doctor Who?" Kaori asks.
"Me." He points both thumbs at his chest.
She snorts. "Quack."
I hover by the bed because the door has turned into a cliff. The others move toward it; my feet don't.
"I'm gonna visit a lot," I hear myself say, too raw, too fast. "Okay? That's... that's not a problem, right?" He will not make the mistakes of the past. Absolutely not.
Watari blinks. Tsubaki's eyes flick to my face and away like she's protecting something. Kaori's hand stills on the blanket. For a half second, the smile slips. Then she finds it again and tucks it on.
"Y-yeah," she says, softer than the room. "Obviously. Visit a lot."
"Okay," I say, and don't know where to put my hands, so I put them in my pockets. "Okay."
We leave like people backing away from a shrine—bodies bowing even if our heads don't. Watari waves too much. Tsubaki tucks a corner of the sheet like the last thing she can fix should be fixed. At the door I look back. Kaori lifts the fork like a little flag.
"See you," she says.
"See you."
I look at her one last time. She gives me a brave smile. I smile back.
We walk off down the corridor
—
Inside, the quiet lands like a glove. Kaori sets the fork down, leans back, lets the smile soften. The books sit in a tidy stack. She draws the top one onto her lap.
There's the white pocket in the back, the little card. She looks at the stamped dates, the careful handwriting of strangers, then at the names: one at the top, in blue ink. Another below. Then: Kousei Arima, in the same hand she's seen on Post-its and lunch lids.
She rubs her thumb over the letters. The paper doesn't change, but something warm moves under her ribs. Her mouth pulls into a small private smile that belongs to no one else.
A knock; the nurse again, timing her entrance to Kaori's breath. "Kaori-chan," she says, gentle with the -chan. "Ready for more IV?"
Kaori sets the book aside on the hill of blankets, turns her face toward the drip. "Yeah," she says, tired but even. "I'm ready."
—-
The air outside was warm
At lunch I'm staring at my phone like it told a joke and refused to explain the punchline.
"Oh," I say, around a mouthful of rice.
Nao leans over my tray. "What do you mean, 'oh'? With you it's either 'what,' 'ugh,' or 'I will end you.' Show me."
I flatten the phone on the table so she can't see the screen. Making your best friend work for information is one of life's small joys. "Text from senpai."
"Saitou-sama?" Her eyebrows jump. "You haven't broken up yet?"
I jab her with a chopstick—not hard, just enough to make a point. "Of course not."
"Why not?"
"Why not...? It's not like I suddenly hate him." I spear a piece of pickled radish like it personally offended me. "He's nice."
"Nice," Nao repeats, every syllable a little courtroom verdict. "Do you like him?"
I don't answer right away. I lift my bento lid like a different answer might be hiding under the tamagoyaki. "I always admired him," I say finally. "He's steady. He shows up. He's good at what he does. It's simple."
"Mm-hm." That sound means she's about to move a chess piece I forgot was on the board. "So... what about Arima-kun?"
The rice nearly goes down the wrong pipe. I cough once, thump my chest, laugh too loudly so the heat in my face sounds like part of the joke. "Why would you bring Kousei into this?"
"Because it's a question." She blinks innocently. "Do you like him?"
I freeze. Kouseis face comes through my mind. she remembered him a small embarrassed boy. And she thought of Kousei now. Different. The eyes were two different people.
I swat her shoulder with the back of my hand. "Ha ha!,hilarious!," I say in the voice I use when I'm absolutely not okay. I shovel rice in to dam the conversation. Chew, swallow. "Kousei is more like a little brother," I declare, and I can feel the sentence harden into a wall between me and something I'm not ready to look at.
"There it is," Nao says, leaning back. "The little-brother claim." She continued " the Cookie-cutter. Excuse I'm so tired of it." She points a chopstick at my nose with disturbing accuracy. "Are you convincing me? Or yourself?"
I glare the way a pitcher glares before throwing a fastball through a window. She zips her mouth with two fingers and mimes throwing away the key.
The glare melts. My eyes drop to the little octopus sausage my mom tucked into the corner, and something under my ribs gives. "I'm worried about him," I admit, without looking up. "That's all."
Nao's teasing falls out of her voice. "Yeah?"
"It doesn't feel like he's present anymore," I say. "Like I'm talking to someone through glass. His mouth moves. I know the words. But there's a layer in between. He smiles and it doesn't... reach." I notice I've torn my napkin into white confetti. "I can't stop worrying."
Nao nods slowly. "He does look rough," she says. "For whatever that's worth."
"It's worth something," I say. "I just don't know what to do with it."
She steals a strip of egg with raccoon delicacy. "He'll be okay," she says—the line you say when you don't know the shape of a problem. "We'll bully him into okay."
I snort. "I've been bullying him into okay since we were eight." My phone lights: Festival tonight? from Saitou. My thumbs type Yeah before my brain catches up. I add a smiley I don't entirely feel and put the phone face down.
"Date?" Nao grins.
"Not a date," I say automatically, then softer, "Maybe a date."
"Send me a yukata pic or I will perish."
"Drama queen," I tell her, but the corner of my mouth tips up all the same.
The cicadas sing slowly
——
The festival strings warm moons down the street. Paper lanterns sway, stalls elbow each other for space, and the air is a loud argument between grill smoke, batter, and syrupy shaved ice. Kids bustle past with clacking plastic masks. Somewhere a taiko pattern tugs at people's pulses.
I smooth a wrinkle only I can see on my yukata—dark blue with white flowers that look like they'll blow off if I breathe too hard. Two stubborn clips hold my hair up and are already plotting their escape. Festivals make you feel too dressed up and not dressed up enough at the same time. It's a talent.
"You're really tan," I blurt when Saitou appears with two cans of tea and a grin.
He checks his forearm and laughs. "Soccer. Also, the sun is a bully."
"Fight it," I say, deadpan.
"Tried. It won." He hands me a tea and looks at my face like he just found a thought he used to like. "You look... pretty," he says, ears going faintly pink.
"Thanks." I try not to show how much it lands. Kousei would never say that, my brain mutters without permission, and I scold myself for dragging one boy into the square where another is standing.
We drift into the stream of people. The takoyaki stall hisses; the vendor flips the little golden spheres so fast it looks like a trick. "Two," Saitou orders, and the vendor winks like a man giving a discount to a cute couple whether or not we've discussed that word.
We walk while eating, juggling skewers and napkins, trying not to scorch our tongues. "Hot," I say through a bite. He nods with cheeks full—international language for I burned my mouth but it was worth it.
By the goldfish scooping, small kids negotiate with physics—paper nets dissolving, faces falling and then lighting back up when the vendor slips a fish into a bag anyway. Saitou points at a boy with his mask on the back of his head. "That was me," he says. "I always picked the sad-looking ones."
"Why?"
"Felt like they deserved a second chance."
I roll my eyes but the sentence warms me toward him in a way I don't resist.
We try the ring toss and each land one wonky throw. Neither of us wants the prize. At the edge of the temple grounds, the noise fades to a pleasant blur. Fireflies stitch electric stitches in the bushes. I let the quiet rub at the part of my mind that's been buzzing all day.
"Thanks for coming," he says, a little shy.
"Thanks for asking." The night wraps around me like a friendly towel. Somewhere in my head Nao is still demanding a yukata photo so she doesn't perish. I make a mental note to oblige.
We stop at the wooden plaques. I take the stubby pencil and stare at the blank wood. What do I write? That Kousei sleeps without looking like he's searching for the off switch? That Kaori's scans find nothing, nothing, nothing? That the brain in me can rest for five minutes without feeling like I've failed someone?
Saitou doesn't ask. He writes his own wish and hangs it where the others clack softly when the air moves. I write something short and chicken-scratch it so no one can read it unless they're a detective.
"See?" I tell myself as we walk again, adjusting the sleeve that keeps sliding. "Kousei would never say something like that." He wouldn't call me pretty in front of a skewer stand. He wouldn't put a hand on my back to guide me past a kid with a sparkler like it's the most normal thing in the world. He would never—
Would never, or hasn't?
His face comes back to mind. Tired half lidded smile. Ruggered appearance like he never took a second to himself. A stare that can make you feel funny.
I shake it off. Saitou tells a story about his coach tripping over a cone; I laugh and mean it. Lantern halos hover over the street. The night looks like all the summers we promised ourselves when we were little and didn't know what the word worry could do to a person.
Under the glow, the image of a white room sits like a stone in shallow water. I don't pick it up. I let the stream run around it.
"More takoyaki?" he asks, hopeful.
"Always," I say, because normal is also a way you love people.
We walk back toward the stall with two empty cans and a comfortable silence. I tilt my face to the lights, to batter and sauce and smoke, and let myself just be in it. For one neat square of time, I stop counting. And later, at my window, I'll probably stare at a slice of sky and wonder if Kousei is sleeping or watching shadows move across his ceiling. I'll be annoyed that I'm wondering, and annoyed at myself for being annoyed. I'll put my phone face-down and refuse to text Are you okay? because that will make it worse.
But right now, Saitou drops a too-hot takoyaki and pretends he meant to, and I laugh, and I don't feel guilty for the length of that laugh.
——
I stand in front of Kaori's hospital room.
I hated this hospital. I always felt despair here. Pain. This was a tomb.
I put my hand out
I knock so lightly it could be the air conditioner clicking on. No answer. I ease the door a few centimeters and say, "Hello?"
Something paper-bound flicks at my face.
"Kyaaa!" Kaori shrieks.
The notebook slaps my cheek and pinwheels to the floor like a stunned bird. She's got both hands over her mouth, eyes huge over the white bandage. "Oh—oh no—it's just you," she says, voice dropping three keys at once. "You were so quiet! I thought you were some—some—pervert!"
I step inside, shut the door with my heel, and stoop to pick up the notebook. My hands are shaking. Calm down. Don't spook her. I set it on the rolling tray, lean over, and gently pinch both her cheeks between forefinger and thumb.
"Ow—ow—ow—I said I was sorry!" she protests, cheeks flushing when I let go.
A breath escapes me—more air than laugh—and sit next to her on the bed. She scoots an inch, ceremonial space-making, and the pink bunny tumbles; she props it back with a small, automatic pat.
"So restless," she says, narrowing her eyes like a detective. "It's suspicious."
"Hospitals aren't my forte," I mutter.
"Shocking," she deadpans, the right corner of her mouth tugging up.
She's paler than yesterday, and smaller. The bandage curves around her hairline; a faint shadow bruises her temple where skin meets cotton. The IV line traces from the crook of her elbow to the clear moon on the pole. Her fingers—warm-looking, soft-looking—rest on the blanket. I want to hold them and not let go for a week. Don't be weird. Breathe.
"Watari-kun was just here," she says, like we're keeping a ledger. "He made me promise to read at least three of the fourteen books he stacked on my lap. He also said he's very handsome and would I please confirm it to the nurses."
"Bold," I say. "Assuming they can read delusion."
She snorts; the sound is small and perfect. Then her head tilts. "We missed the gala," she says softly.
"Yeah," I say, because I can't say I knew we would.
"All that practice." Her gaze falls to the sheet like thread count is important. "And you didn't even want to in the first place. I wasted your time."
"Don't," I say, too quickly.
"It's true," she insists, the insistence trembling. "You were doing me a favor and I couldn't even show up. I pushed and pushed and then I—" Her free hand sketches a little broken circle, as if the word collapse won't fit in her mouth. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
I stare at the notebook's bent corner to collect myself. If I look at her eyes I'll break. When I do look, they're shining and fixed on anything that isn't me.
My hand moves before my brain votes. I set it over hers. Her fingers go still under mine, and something unclenches in my chest so hard it almost hurts.
"You didn't waste anything," I say, voice rough. "And I didn't do you a favor. I wanted to be there because you were there."
She risks a glance up. The shine tips and spills. She turns away, embarrassed by her own tears like crying is a rude noise. I tighten my grip like that can keep the shaking in place.
"We'll play again together," I say, and the words come out like a vow I've already written somewhere else. "I swear on my life."
She blinks fast. "Don't swear big like that," she whispers. "You always do that. It scares me."
"I know," I say. I'm the idiot who throws forever across a river and then jumps in after it. "I'm doing it anyway. We'll do it again, Kaori. I swear." My throat narrows; the last swear scrapes coming out. "I swear."
Her mouth trembles. "Okay," she says, tiny. "Okay."
I lean forward before the rest of me can object and fold her into my arms. It isn't careful; it's both arms and a go-still and breath I forget to take. My cheek finds the curve of the bandage; I adjust by instinct so I don't press it. She makes a small surprised sound, then buries her face against my shoulder and clutches back like I'm not allowed to leave. Please don't let go first. Please don't.
"Sorry," I murmur into her hair, which smells like hospital soap and something gentler that refuses to be erased. "I—sorry."
"For what?" she asks, words flattening against my jacket.
"For... being me," I say, and want to bite the sentence back.
"Idiot," she says, so tender the word works like gauze. "Don't apologize for holding me when I need it."
I don't let go. If I do I will count the distance until I can hold her again. The IV pump clicks under its breath. The monitor draws the small, steady doodle of staying. Her breath stutters, then lines up with mine, small aftershocks tapering. I feel the warmth of her ear through my shirt and want to stay exactly like this until morning. I could sleep in this chair. I could—Stop. Don't scare her.
After a while she speaks into my shoulder. "Were you very mad?" she asks. "When I didn't show. I kept looking at the clock and saying 'I'll make it, I'll make it,' and then the room tilted and the floor came up and—" She breathes, tries again. "Were you mad?"
I let the question sit so I won't lie. "No," I say quietly. "I was... not surprised."
She draws back half an inch to read my face. "Not surprised?" There's no accusation—just the need to see what I'm carrying.
"You've been running hot for a while," I say. "I could feel the edges. Sometimes you sprint at a wall and pretend it's a finish line." I try a smile and don't quite make it. "Sometimes you make it. Sometimes you don't."
"That's very poetic for a boy who hates metaphors," she says, a little amused despite herself.
"I hate bad ones," I say. "That one's okay."
"Mm." She sniffs, swipes the heel of her hand under one eye. "You didn't play alone, right?"
I shake my head. "No."
"Ok." Relief flickers, small and fierce. "I know you could have. I just... I don't want you to have to."
"You're allowed to want that," I say, and I mean I didn't want to, not without you, not again, never again.
Her gaze slides to the bunny. I follow. The bead eyes stare past us, accusing no one. Two bunnies, two springs, two versions of my hands offering something soft to a girl who makes loud things gentle. I can't carry both memories at once, so I do the only thing I can: I adjust the bunny so it faces us, like a witness I'm inviting on purpose.
"You name him?" I ask.
"Mr. Bunny," she says, dead serious.
"Creative."
"I was tired."
I let myself smile. "He looks like he knows secrets."
"He does," she says. A beat. "He knows you're nicer than you pretend."
"Slander…"
She leans into me again—half-hug, half-lean. My arm finds her shoulders without asking permission. Don't leave. Don't move. "Thank you for the books," she says lightly, as if paying a small debt that matters a lot. "I saw your name on the card."
"Watari took the credit," I say.
"He always does. It's part of his charm." She hesitates. "I like when your name shows up in my room."
Something in my chest knocks and sits down. Keep breathing.
A soft knock; the nurse edges in with a practiced smile. "Sorry to interrupt. Just a quick check."
We loosen but don't separate. The nurse checks tape, counts pulse, consults the pump. "Any pain?"
"Just from being scolded by my friend," Kaori says, cutting her eyes at me.
"Documented," the nurse says dryly, jotting like she might. "One more bag after this, then nap or book club." She winks and slips out. The door leans shut on her quiet.
Alone again in the circle of machine sound, I exhale like I'd been holding a plank. Kaori tilts her head, studying me.
"Hey," she says softer. "You didn't look at me when you first came in."
"I did," I say, then amend, "Not for long."
"Why?"
A joke rises and I let it die. "Because sometimes when I look at you I see... too much," I say. "And if I see all of it I forget how to breathe."
Her face doesn't go pity-soft or brave-hard. It goes steady. "Okay," she says. "Then look a little at a time."
I do, because she asks: the bandage's clean edge; the curve of her cheek; the stubborn humor staged at her mouth even when her eyes are tired; the pulse at her wrist under tape. Square by square so I won't drown.
"You'll visit a lot?" she asks—echoing my own awkward promise from yesterday, but easy now, like permission is a blanket she can pull to her chin.
"Yeah," I say. "A lot. Every day if they let me. If they don't, I'll sit in the hall like a stray cat."
She laughs through her nose. "You'll get adopted."
"By the vending machine," I say. "We'll be very happy together."
"And if I'm boring and just sleep?"
"I'll guard your sleep from dangerous librarians."
"And if I'm cranky and say mean things?"
"I'll bring a lawyer."
"And if I'm..." She searches for a word that isn't pretty enough to say. "If I'm not very brave that day?"
I squeeze her hand. "I have extra," I say. I don't, but I'll make it.
She swallows—the kind that resets a person. "Okay."
We let silence be something warm. I count the seconds like beads because the counting keeps me here and not two months from now, or two years ago, or on a rooftop in another life. Every so often she asks a nothing question—"What color was the sky when you walked over?" "Do you think the bike-rack cat misses us?"—and I answer like the world depends on accuracy. Maybe it does.
Eventually I stand. The chair legs make the shy screech I hate. My hands don't want to leave her hand. "I'll come tomorrow," I say, and the sentence doesn't wobble.
"I'll be here," she says, making it sound like a plan we invented together.
At the door, I turn because leaving without one more look feels like stepping off something without checking the drop. "Kaori?"
"Hm?"
"We'll play again," I say—less oath now, more calendar entry I will carve into stone. "Together."
She lifts Mr. Bunny and makes his bead eyes nod solemnly. "The committee accepts," she says, then softer, "I want that."
"Me too," I say. Don't hug her again. If you do, you won't leave. I put my hand on the door, take it off, put it back. "Text me if you need anything. Or if you don't. Or if you're bored. Or if you want to hear about the cat. Or if—"
"Kousei," she says, smiling. "I'll text."
"Right." I clear my throat. "Right."
The hallway air is colder and flatter. I breathe it anyway like practice. On the way to the stairs I pull out my phone, type Etude later? Something we can sing through, then delete it because plans are not promises and I already made one. Another message: I'll be back after school. Don't let Mr. Bunny bully you. I send that one.
I take the stairs. Moving is easier than standing. Outside, afternoon shakes down toward evening. I tilt my face up to the pale slice of sky the buildings allow, and the same thought returns, stubborn and bright: We'll do it again. I swear. I fold it up and put it in my pocket like something I can touch with my hand when the light goes weird.
The wind outside hits my face