All content in this novel is for fictional and entertainment purposes only. Any resemblance to real persons or events is purely coincidental. This story may include emotionally heavy or distressing themes. Reader discretion is advised.
Sleep is just like death.It swallows you whole and refuses to let go. There's no sound here. No thought. No awareness—just a heavy nothingness pressing down on me. It feels like drowning in an endless ocean. Cold. Silent. Limitless.
I can't move.I can't speak.My eyelids feel sealed shut, like someone stitched them closed.
Somewhere—faint and distant, like a memory spoken underwater—a voice calls my name: "Mio~"
Soft. Familiar. Angelic. Too gentle to be real. Too warm to belong in darkness. Who?
The word leaves my throat like crushed gravel. My voice doesn't sound like mine—more like someone halfway between life and whatever comes after. I try to open my eyes. They barely twitch. My lashes feel heavy, like iron wires dragging me down.
The voice giggles—a light, musical sound that feels like sunshine through stained glass.
"It's me, silly. Don't tell me you've already forgotten. We haven't seen each other for so long…"
Forgotten? The thought pierces the dark like a weak spark. There's something familiar about her—something tucked deep beneath layers of fog and time.
"Am… I asleep?" I ask—or think I ask. It's hard to tell if any sound leaves me.
"And it's good that you are."
Her voice drifts closer—or maybe I'm rising toward it.
"If you hadn't… you'd probably be in the hospital again."
Hospital? Again?
The shadows pulse around me, tightening like a heartbeat. Her tone softens—sad, almost scolding.
"You really need to take better care of yourself, Mio. You look thinner than last time…"
Last time. How many last times have there been? Her words drift away—fading like watercolor left in the rain.
"Wait…" My voice cracks. "What are you saying? I can't… hear you…"
She's telling me something, but it slips away before I can grasp it.
"—rasaki. Shirasaki!"
GASP
My name slams back into me like a chalkboard eraser to the face.
I jerk upright, breath sharp in my throat. My vision blurs before snapping into focus. I clutch my chest, my breathing rising sharply, desperately, like I've surfaced from deep underwater. A cold sweat chills my back.
"Woah! Are you okay?" A face hovers close—too close.
"Huh… Takumi-san."
My voice is weak, breathy—embarrassingly fragile. Takumi's eyes widen, as if he wasn't prepared for an actual dramatic awakening.
"Seriously, Mio," he sighs. "You were out cold. I thought you stopped breathing for a second."
I blink at him, still half caught between dream and waking.
My throat is tight. My hands are trembling before I force them still under the desk.
"…Like you're any human yourself," I mutter.
His forehead wrinkles in offense."Ugh—excuse me for worrying!"
"Shut up… what time is it anyway?" I grumble, rubbing my eyes.
"Oh wow," he scoffs, moving his hands to his hips. "So now you're just gonna boss me around the second consciousness returns? How unruly."
Before I can answer, a sharp, sugary voice cuts in."Takumi–kun!"
Great. It's her.
Kanzaki Airi—pink hair clips, overly curled bangs, lip gloss glittering like she's auditioning for an idol group instead of attending homeroom. Her uniform skirt is exactly one centimeter shorter than the school allows. I'm surprised she gets away with it all. Literally, the whole school adores her. Well, the whole school except for me, anyway. I'm no fool.
She sashays over and hooks her arm through Takumi's like he's a prized handbag or something."Oh, come on, Takumi-kun," she says with a pout. "Don't hover over her like she's some fragile princess. She can check the time herself."
Her eyes flick toward me. "Right… Shirasaki-chan."
I stare back with a blank expression. I don't get why she hates me. I don't want your prince charming. I barely even know you.
Airi leans closer to Takumi and lowers her voice—still loud enough for half the room to hear. "You're the class rep—not her personal caretaker."
Takumi stiffens as his ears redden."I wasn't—! I mean—she just looked—Ugh, never mind."
Airi beams triumphantly, tugging him toward the door."Well, the bell's going to ring soon. Come sit with normal people, okay?"
Takumi glances back awkwardly before disappearing into the chattering room. I simply rest my chin in my palm and stare out the window while the whole class is chatting away in there own stupid fantasies. Cherry blossom petals drift lazily past the glass. Their beautiful but there're only temporary. Just like dreams. Just like memories. Just like people. And no matter how many times I try to remember…that voice follows me. The dream felt sharper than usual this time.
I've had it for as long as I can remember — always the same voice, the same uniform, the same brooch with the carved lily.
Always her. Always just out of reach.
No face nor name. I don't remember ever meeting someone like her. And yet — some stubborn part of me insists that I did. Or that I should have.
The classroom door slides open.
"Good morning everyone! Take your seats now."
Our homeroom teacher, Fujimoto-sensei, is the kind of guy who has the aura of someone being held emotionally hostage by teenagers.
Chairs scrape against the floor. The air shifts into routine. My desk sits in the worst spot possible: the front seat in the farthest left row. The perfect angle for the teacher to notice every breath I take. It's not everyday you get so lucky.
Mr. Fujimoto starts writing equations across the board, chalk tapping rhythmically.
My thoughts drift, not to academics but how ridiculous people can get. Everyone here is obsessed with connections. They act like being liked is a personality trait. Like affection is currency. It's stupid. Why bother getting close to people who will eventually leave? Hope makes humans delusional. I know that from first hand experience.
I sigh softly, watching the blossoms fall outside."Shirasaki, please answer the question on the board."
I don't respond. I don't feel like responding.
"Shirasaki Mio," Fujimoto-sensei says, firmer this time.
Still staring at the window, I answer flatly:"X = –5/2."
There's a long pause. The class turns their gazes to look at me in astonishment, but I couldn't care less about being your amusement toy.
"…That is correct. Good job. Wouldn't expect anything less from my star pupil."
If I were your star pupil, then you could cut me some slack and keep me away from all your bull crap. Before Mr. Fujimoto resumes teaching, the intercom crackles to life.
📢 "First-year student Mio Shirasaki — please report to the principal's office."
📢 "I repeat: Mio Shirasaki, please report to the principal's office."
Great. What is it this time? Waking up from nightmares clearly wasn't enough excitement for one morning.
Whispers break out immediately. A few curious heads turn my way. Someone in the classroom whispers,"With that attitude, the principal's office is practically her second home, don'tcha think?"Another snickers,"She probably failed PE last year. I almost never saw her run laps."
You jackass—it's because I have asthma that you almost never see me run laps. You know this, and yet you're still dead set on making a fool out of yourselves.
Takumi flinches as he looks my way again, like he wants to speak up—then Airi tugs his sleeve and glares, so he swallows the urge.
I never asked for your concern.
"Everyone, settle down. Shirasaki, grab all your stuff and head on over," Fujimoto-sensei says, gesturing toward the door.
I shove all my belongings into my bag and stand. The floor feels unnecessarily loud under my shoes as I leave the classroom.
The hallway is unusually bright—sunlight bouncing off the polished floors that are too clean.Fake perfection makes my teeth itch.
When I reach the principal's office, I barely touch the handle before the muffled sound of a woman's voice reaches me—followed closely by the calm, measured tone of the school's principal, Mr. Kenji Sakamoto.
Mr. Sakamoto is a man in his mid-forties, always impeccably dressed in a tailored charcoal suit that never seems to wrinkle. His hair is neatly slicked back, a few strands of silver visible at his temples—adding to his air of authority rather than age. He is known for being fair but strict—never raising his voice, yet never needing to. His words alone carry enough weight to silence a classroom.
Even through the closed door, there is a seriousness to his tone, as though every syllable were carefully chosen before being spoken.
"Ah—there you are."
The voice comes from behind me so suddenly that I practically jump. Turning, I find myself face-to-face with the assistant principal, Mr. Haruto Tanaka—young, only twenty-four, and noticeably out of place beside the stern image of his superior. Mr. Tanaka carries a different kind of presence—energetic, earnest, and almost too eager.
His suit jacket is a little wrinkled, his tie just slightly crooked—not sloppy, but lived-in, like he's already jogged across half the school solving problems before first period.
Despite his youth, his passion makes him memorable, even if he isn't intimidating.
He gives a reassuring nod toward the office door."No need to be nervous. It's nothing serious, I promise," he says. His attempt to calm me only makes my heart beat faster.
I swallow hard and push the door open, my hand trembling slightly. Inside, the room smells faintly of polished wood and old books. Principal Sakamoto sits behind his desk, but he's far from the only one in the room.
She's here. My mother, Shirasaki Naomi.
Hair perfectly styled. Expensive perfume. Posture sharp enough to cut glass. Arms crossed. Expression flawless, frozen, porcelain. Her gaze lands on me, assessing me as though she's checking for damage.
"There you are," she says, voice cool and precise. "You sure took your time."
"I came straight here," I mutter.
"Mm." She dismisses my statement like it's unnecessary air.
I hate how hard she is to approach. How untouchable.
Her gaze shifts slightly, but never softens, never acknowledges anyone. She doesn't need anyone to coddle her. And she doesn't need me.
If she's here personally, then it's gotta be something important—otherwise she wouldn't be here at all.
"Anyways… we were discussing your situation."
My situation? Since when do I have one?
"You, your father, your brother, and I — will be leaving Tokyo this weekend. We will be staying in Hakone."
Her voice is crisp, businesslike—as if she's reading from a calendar entry.
"I have already spoken with your principal."
I nod stiffly, keeping my eyes neutral."But why?… I just started school."
That single phrase hangs in the air.
Her gaze sharpens—a warning glint beneath her calm composure."There are personal family matters that require our presence," she replies smoothly, giving me no explanation, though her eyes flick toward Principal Sakamoto and Assistant Principal Tanaka—people who clearly already know more than I do.
Principal Sakamoto folds his hands on his desk."Your mother has informed us," he says, voice gentle but authoritative. "You will be excused from classes starting Friday. Your assignments will be prepared in advance to ensure you don't fall behind."
Assistant Principal Tanaka adds quickly,"If you need extensions or support afterward, just let us know. Your circumstances are… delicate."
Delicate? Why are my circumstances delicate? Did someone die? Is someone sick? Is this about my asthma?
No—her posture, their tone—it's heavier than that.
"Then I trust there won't be any objections," she says—not to them, but to me.
She doesn't wait for an answer—because there isn't one she will accept. Saying no is pointless. Questioning her is pointless. Everything was already decided long before I stepped into this room.
My jaw tightens."…Yes. I have no objections," I say quietly.
Her eyes skim over me—not with affection, but with the cold glare of someone saying, you have served your purpose well.
"Good," she says, getting up from her seat and turning toward the door. "Then we're finished here."
The door closes behind her with a soft click.
Assistant Principal Tanaka breathes out—relieved or nervous, I can't tell.
Principal Sakamoto gives me a long, steady look. I don't think it's pity. In all honesty, I wasn't worried about that at all."If there is anything you need, dear," he says carefully, "my office is always open for you."
I bow out of habit and give him a simple "Thank you" as I turn to leave.
The hallway feels too bright when I step back into it. It's too quiet. My reflection glides beside me on the glossy floor as I walk down the empty corridor. I can even see my uniform in it. My mother always gives me a big-ass lecture even if I put my tie on the wrong way. To me, these uniforms are suffocating. Some see a perfect student. Some see a perfect daughter. But all I see is a perfect lie.
Every step echoes like it's trying to remind me I exist… when I'd rather not.
The corridor is empty now, windows lining the walls like silent witnesses. Most students are already in class; the air hums softly with distant chatter and the dull buzz of the overhead lights. The faint smell of disinfectant lingers—sharp and clean.
I'm halfway down the corridor when hurried footsteps slap against the floor behind me."Shirasaki-san! W–Wait!"
I stop—barely—and turn just enough to see Assistant Principal Tanaka jogging toward me, out of breath. His tie has twisted to the side, a strand of dark hair stuck to his forehead, like he ran his hands through it one too many times.
He slows a few feet away, careful not to come any closer than necessary.
His posture straightens instinctively—professional, but clearly flustered.
He gives a small, sheepish smile."I called your name many—"
"…Are you following me, sir?" I cut in.
My voice is flat, unimpressed. I couldn't care less about whatever speech he's trying to deliver. All I want is to get back to class before people start any nonsense.
"W–What? No! I just… I walk fast. In the same direction! Accidentally!" He gestures vaguely down the corridor, as if that explains anything.
"So… you called my name out accidentally too?" I add, giving him a disgusted look.
"That… I just… I wanted…" He stalls, hands lifting helplessly before dropping again. "I, uh—"
He exhales, clearly frustrated with himself.
"You know you're twenty-four, right? You shouldn't go around ogling high school girls like that. People might mistake you for a pervert, y'know." I plant a hand on my hip, staring him down.
"I'm not interested in such things. I prefer women over girls," he mutters, just barely under his breath.
"Excuse me?"
"Nothing! Nothing, forget I said anything," he blurts. "It's just that—sigh… I just wanted to say sorry. If that felt overwhelming."
The tension shifts, just a little.
"Oh… you mean the meeting." My hand drops back to my side. "It's nothing, really. I'm used to it."
My eyes drift to the floor tiles. Tiny cracks in the waxed surface. My reflection barely shows in the shine. I feel a strange warmth creep up my neck for no real reason.
"I think you handled it really well."
"Did I?" I murmur, looking back up at him.
"You did," he says, nodding—too earnestly, like a nervous habit. "I just… wanted to make sure you're okay. Parents can be, um… intimidating."
His eyes widen suddenly."Not that your mother is intimidating! I mean, she is, but not—okay. Bad wording. Very bad wording."
He runs a hand through his hair, trying to recover.Smooth as sandpaper.
I raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. "You're new at this, aren't you?"
"Yes," he admits instantly.
That wins a small, unwilling smile out of me."It's alright. Thank you, though." I return my gaze to the ground, but my voice is softer now.
A beat passes. He clears his throat and offers a small, nervous smile."You know," he begins, "when I was in high school, I knew this girl. She wasn't at the top of the class or anything, and honestly? I don't think she ever turned in homework on time."
He laughs quietly to himself."But she always tried her best. Even when things were complicated at home. She kept showing up. Something about her made me want to do my best too."
His smile softens—warm and earnest."I guess what I'm trying to say is… you remind me a little of her."
His words hang in the air between us, too gentle for the hallway we're standing in.
I just stare at the floor, clenching my teeth while letting the silence stretch a second too long.
Hah. You serious? Nothing about my mother allows "trying."Must be nice to have the freedom to "try" at all.Everything is a demand that needs to be done with precision. She expects perfection carved into my bones or something.
My face doesn't change. It never does.Not enough to look like I care, but enough for the words to sting more than they should.
His smile falters just slightly as he catches the shift in my expression.
The bell rings in the distance. Well, there it goes—ringing as if it's a war zone.
"Well—what I'm saying is…" He gestures vaguely, like he's sculpting the air."If you ever need anything, and I mean anything… I'd be happy to lend a hand."
I nod once, because rejecting kindness takes more energy than accepting it."Thank you… I should, uh… get back to class," I say.
"Yes. Of course. And Shirasaki-san?""Yes?"
He's grinning like an idiot again. There's nothing professional about this guy."…Good luck. I know you can do it, so give it your all!"
I nod once."Okay."
He waves too enthusiastically and heads down the opposite hall, nearly tripping over his own feet.
I release a quiet breath I didn't realize I was holding and continue walking.
My footsteps echo once more as I head down the corridor—but this time, they don't sound quite as heavy.
---------
A bright yellow WET FLOOR sign blocks the way back to my classroom.
Of course it does.
A thin sheen of water stretches across the tiles, reflecting the harsh ceiling lights like broken glass. Somewhere down the hall, a custodian's cart rattles, a mop squeaking across the floor in lazy, stubborn strokes.
Well.That's my cue to go around.Always go around the problem.
I inhale, pivot on my heel, and take the longer route.
The detour carries me past the science wing. The air smells faintly of rubbing alcohol and chalk dust—sharp, clinical, familiar. Laughter spills out of an open classroom, bright and careless, worlds away from the tight knot still sitting under my ribs.
You remind me a little of her.
I shove the memory of Tanaka's words aside and focus instead on the steady click of my shoes against the tile. Lockers blur into long silver stripes on my left and right.
The chatter fades behind me.The air grows heavier—quieter—the kind of quiet that feels made of paper instead of sound.
Outside the library door sits a cardboard box filled with old books. Some are warped, some sun-faded, some so old the titles have peeled away.
Before I can walk past, the library door slides open with a gentle shff.
"Ah—Mio-chan! How are you this fine morning?" a familiar warm voice calls.
Mrs. Tachibana stands in the doorway, small and soft and wrinkled in the most grandmotherly way possible. Her silver hair is tied back with a tortoiseshell clip, and her reading glasses hang from a delicate chain. The gold wedding band on her finger glints under the hallway light — three years widowed, but still wearing it like a promise she refuses to break.
I bow. "Good morning, Mrs. Tachibana."
"You're always so polite," she beams. "But where are you headed off to? Shouldn't you be in your classroom, dear?"
"I was called to the office," I answer simply.
She chuckles. "Ah, that explains it. Well, alright then."
Her smile softens into something bright and warm.
"You're still the only student who treats the library as a library and not a nap room."
"That's because it's… a library," I reply flatly.
She laughs, wrinkles folding like soft paper. "Exactly right."
My eyes drift to the box at her feet. "Are those being thrown away?"
"Oh yes," she sighs. "The principal wants to make space for new materials. Some of these haven't been touched in years."
Before I can speak, a maintenance worker appears behind her — a big guy with arms like tree trunks and the expression of someone in constant fear of disappointing authority.
"Tachibana-san—these go too, right?" he asks, straining under the weight of a huge box packed with yearbooks.
"Yes, dear. All of them. Set them out here."
She steps aside.
He nods, steps forward—
—and catches his foot on the doorway.
"Oh—! Crap—!"
The box tilts.Gravity wins.
Yearbooks crash to the floor, exploding across the hallway like a landslide of backlogged memories.
"I—I'm so sorry!" he yelps, bowing over and over. "I didn't mean to! I swear I'll clean it up! Just—please don't tell—"
"Oh dear," Mrs. Tachibana fusses, bending slightly. "Are either of you hurt?"
"I'm so sorry, miss," the worker blurts to me, still bowing. "I didn't see you. I swear I didn't—"
Oh, don't mind me. I'll just walk through walls now.Clearly I'm a friendly ghost passing through.
"It's fine," I sigh, crouching to help. "Really."
My fingers close around the edge of a hardcover. Dust blooms up, making me want to sneeze. The yearbook is heavier than it looks, its pages swollen from time and humidity.
It's older than the rest. Its cover faded. Its corners soft.
"It's not fine," the worker groans, kneeling. "I almost took you out—Tachibana-san, I swear I—"
"Oh hush now," she scolds gently. "Books are sturdier than people. And thankfully," she adds with a smile toward me, "someone around here still values them."
I don't answer.
When I lift the book, it falls open—like this exact page has been waiting for air.
Faces stare back at me—smiling, frozen, untouched by time.
A class photo.Rows of bright-eyed students in neat uniforms. Signatures in messy ink. Hearts scribbled in margins.
Promises written by teenagers who had no idea how fragile promises were.
Then—my eyes stop. A gap.A clean, rectangular space where someone should be.Not ripped. Not scratched. Just… gone.
I flip a page. Another group photo. Another blank space. Identical shapes. Identical erasures.
As if someone took the time to erase a person from every memory. A heaviness sinks into my chest. It feels like staring at my family photo… without me in it.
Mrs. Tachibana steps beside me, voice soft."Oh… that one. It's been here for as long as I remember. Poor thing. The older books fall apart easily."
"Do you know anything about this?" I ask, tapping the blank space.
"About… what, dear?"
"The missing person. Someone should be here. But they aren't."
"Oh, that."She squints, then shakes her head gently."I'm not sure. Probably just a printing error, dear."
"Mm. I was just curious."
I close the yearbook and hand it to the worker."It's okay," I tell him again. "And you can stop bowing now."
"I—I could've gotten you really hurt because of me!!" he squeaks.
"Right. Well."I rise to my feet."I'll head back to class."
But my fingers feel cold. And those blank spaces cling to my memory like shadows.
As I walk away, Mrs. Tachibana calls, "You're welcome in the library anytime, Mio-chan."
"…Thank you," I say quietly.
My feet feel heavier. My heartbeat too loud. And that empty space—that perfect, surgical absence—refuses to leave my mind.
It feels intentional.Like someone didn't just erase a student.They erased a life.
----------
By the time I reach the stairwell leading toward the school gate, my chest feels tight again—like something invisible is coiling around my ribs, squeezing just enough to remind me I'm never fully alone inside my own mind.
Going home now would be a mistake. Mom would take one look at me, notice a wrinkle in my uniform, and decide I'm a defective product that needs recalibration.
Nope. Definitely not going that way.
I turn away from the station path and drift toward the river instead.
----------
The riverbank is nearly empty this time of day.
A few middle-schoolers kick a soccer ball badly.An elderly man feeds pigeons like they're long-lost friends.Wind pushes the water downstream in slow, glassy ripples.
I sit on the lowest step of the concrete embankment, hugging my bag loosely to my side.
For a moment, it's just me and the sky.
But my mind refuses to stay quiet.
The blank space in the yearbook.A perfectly rectangular void staring back at me.
Who would go through all that trouble to erase someone? And why?
The dream.Her voice—soft, warm, familiar. Calling my name from a place I couldn't reach.
I press my hand to my chest. My heartbeat flutters like it's trying to answer her.
A sigh slips out before I can swallow it.
Something feels unsettled in the air—like the world is holding its breath, waiting for me to notice a pattern I'm not ready to see.
I stare at the drifting clouds, my thoughts chewing on themselves.…Why do I feel like I'm standing at the edge of something bigger?Something reaching for me?
I shake the feeling off, pick up my bag, and stand."I need sugar," I mutter. "Or distraction. Preferably both."
----------
By the time I reach the shopping district, the sun has dipped low, washing the storefronts in amber light.
The air smells like grilled dough, cheap perfume, and capitalism.
Crowds swirl around me—students chatting, office workers dragging their feet, tourists taking pictures of things locals stopped caring about decades ago.
My senses are assaulted immediately.
Claw machines!Rows of blinking neon gremlins calling out to me like seductive demons.They even have Mochi the cat from my favorite TV show.
No. I am stronger than this.
One plushie slides down the prize chute in slow motion as I walk by.…One wouldn't hurt, though. I am barely stronger than this.
Wait—is that…? I sniff the air like a dog. That's Taiyaki!
A stall blows a warm, sweet cloud of red-bean-scented temptation directly into my face.
I hold my breath like I'm passing a toxic chemical spill.Nope. Not today.
I refuse to get trapped in a spiraling food coma and wake up broke.
But I guess just one wouldn't hurt.
Fresh melon pan.
The sign glows at me from across the street like a siren.
"Limited batch! Freshly baked!"
I glare at it.
The melon pan glares back.
A battle of willpower between a girl with no self-control and a bread with too much power.
My stomach growls. Who am I to judge.
"Four melon pans, please," I say to the shopkeeper.
"Why of course! Coming right up!" he grins.
Well. That was one heck of a distraction.
I bite into one melon pan as I walk, warm and sweet and exactly what I needed. The paper bag rustles in my hand. The sky has darkened a little more than I expected.
"It's almost getting dark… I need to head home," I mutter.
I start speed-walking like a criminal fleeing the scene — which, honestly, is the energy I'm radiating after panic-buying four melon pans.
But as I round the corner, the weight in my chest returns.
Heavier. Colder. Like something is following me.
I quicken my steps, clutching the warm melon pan bag like it's a lifeline. The sky is tinting toward evening, the streetlights flickering one by one in pale yellow halos.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I don't really want to see who that is....
My phone buzzes a few more time.
Ugh! There's only one person who texts this aggressively.
I check the screen.
HIRO:
Where r u man
Mom's not home yet...I think she is still at work.
Maybe I don't know....
…That's unusual. She's probably caught up in something.
Before I can reply to him, another message pops up:
HIRO:
Dad made teriyaki chicken!!
It smells like heaven here!!
Get home fast or else there won't be any left for you~
What the hell does he think I am, four?
I type back:
MIO:
Walking home. Maybe don't breathe near the food until I get there.
He replies instantly.
HIRO:
I'll try but can't promise anything. air is risky.
I smile into my sleeve. Just for a second. Just long enough to forget the weight in my chest.
Another buzz.
HIRO:
Also can sneak in some ice cream on your way?
We ran out
I roll my eyes
MIO:
I wasn't born to indulge your bad habits.
His response is immediate:
HIRO:
TRAITOR.
I tuck my phone away, the smirk fading quickly.
The moment my eyes lift—my breath catches.
A girl stands across the street. Not just any girl.
She's wearing an old-fashioned school uniform—one I don't recognize. Her blouse is neatly pressed, her skirt longer than modern styles, her hair tied back with a simple ribbon.
She stands too still. Too quiet. Like she's waiting.
Her posture—the outline of her silhouette—tugs at a buried place in my memory.
My heartbeat stutters. It can't be, but she looks—She looks like—the dream.
My fingers curl around my bag strap. The girl lifts her head.
Our eyes almost meet—A car passes.
And she's gone.
Not "walked away" gone.Not "lost in the crowd" gone.Gone like she was never there at all.
The air feels colder. My pulse slams painfully in my throat.
I take a step forward—then stop.
Don't be stupid.People disappear behind cars all the time.People vanish into crowds all the time.
My stomach twists. The blank space in the yearbook. The dream. The girl who shouldn't exist.
My phone buzzes again. I jump.
HIRO: Mom's home. She's asking where you are. Forget the ice cream—just hurry.
I inhale slowly, forcing my pulse to settle.I'm just tired. It's nothing at all. I just need to get some sleep. That's all.
I grip my bag tighter and head home.But every few steps, I glance over my shoulder. Just in case.
By the time I reach our house, the sky is bruised purple, and the streetlights hum like tired insects. Each step toward the door feels heavier, like gravity is doing too much today.
Home sweet interrogation chamber.
The door swings open.
Mom stands there—immaculate and terrifying.
Her eyes sweep over me in one precise scan.A security check that would make even airport staff sweat.
"You're late," she says calmly. "Where were you?"
I blink. "The library. I wanted to do some research on Hakone before we leave. I've never been there before, so…"
"There's no need," she replies smoothly. "I've already prepared everything."
Ah. So this is how I die.
She steps aside."Dinner is ready."
"Mhm. I can smell it. Teriyaki chicken?" I smile—a practiced thing meant to disguise the tight knot of nerves beneath it. The sweet scent of Dad's cooking is almost comforting, and I tell myself to breathe. Nothing more.
"Hiroshi told me Takumi came by to return your math notebook."
Right. I left that on my desk.
A blur of brown hair and bad decisions slides into the hallway.Hiro.
"Well, look who's alive," he grins, handing me the notebook."And—uh—here's your ice cream."
"Uhhh… no. I don't remember asking you for ice cream," he adds quickly, laughing in a forced, crooked way.
"You texted me," I say, holding up my phone.
Mom leans in and squints."That is your profile picture, Hiroshi. What do you think about this, dear?"
Dad walks in wearing that you went behind my back after I explicitly told you not to look. The one that means there is no escape. Good luck, bro. Time to prepare your funeral.
Hiroshi freezes.
"Dad, I swear that was a typo!"
"How," I ask sweetly, "do you typo ice cream?"
Silence.
"Well—uh—I meant to write 'ice' and—and somehow—cream happened?"
Just stop talking. You're embarrassing yourself. No one is buying that excuse.
Mom claps her hands once."Alright, that's enough. It's time for dinner. Mio, go wash up—I have something I need to talk to you about. We'll talk after dinner."
I flinch. "What did I do wrong?"
"You're not in trouble. It's nothing serious," she says, already turning and walking into the living room.
Which is exactly what people say when it is. I don't like the words she's using.
I lean closer to Hiro and whisper, "No, seriously—what did I do?"
"Breathe. I don't know," he whispers back.
I sigh. "I'm going to change and wash up."
----------
I drop my bag and collapse onto my bed, staring at the ceiling. What a day.
Lying there, motionless, I can't help but wonder—was it all a dream?
That girl looked like the one in my dreams.She even wore the same old-fashioned school uniform.
"…I just want to sleep."
"MIO! DINNER!" Hiroshi shouts like a drill sergeant.
"I'm coming! I just need to wash my face!"
"JUST HURRY!"
It's better not to think about it too much. Maybe she was just cosplaying, and we happened to cross paths. That's all.
"For today's menu!" Dad announces loudly, for no reason at all. "Teriyaki chicken, perfectly glazed! Fluffy white rice! Miso soup! Homemade tsukemono!"
I don't know why he's yelling.We can hear you perfectly fine.
Hiroshi pokes the pickles. "Do I have to eat this? I don't like this."
"If you don't," Dad replies flatly, "your risk of developing several diseases increases."
"…Never mind. Thank you."
We eat in silence for a moment.
Halfway through the meal, Mom asks,"Mio. How was school today? Anything happen after I left?"
I shrug. "It was fine. Nothing happened. Why?"
Mom tilts her head. "It's nothing—but you look pale. Do you have a cold?"
"No. Not a cold. I just need some sleep."
She sips her miso soup.
I am not fine at all, considering how you showed up and decided everything for me.
"Remember," she says, setting the bowl down, "we leave for Hakone on Friday morning. I expect you to pack your things tonight."
"Tonight?" I blink. "It's Monday."
"Yes. And?"
I resist the urge to face-plant into my rice.
Hiroshi attempts an escape. "Mom—can I have more rice—"
"You haven't even touched it yet."
"…Later then?"
Mom lets out a long sigh and places her chopsticks down.
"This trip is important. Your grandmother needs you to be there. I will not tolerate any tantrums." Her gaze sharpens. "That includes you, too, Hiroshi."
He shrinks like a scolded puppy.
My stomach tightens. I quietly push my food around my plate.
Then Mom adds, softer,"Mio… don't look so tense. Everything will be fine, okay?"
Which is exactly what people say before things go wrong.
I don't feel like answering, so I just nod and get it over with.
Dad stands. "Seconds, anyone?"
She pushes her chair back, "Do we have more eggs?"
"Yes."
"I want more gyeran-mari." Her voice is light.
They disappear into the kitchen, leaving very awkwardly.
Hiroshi waits until both of them are out of earshot before leaning in and whispering,
"So what's the real reason you came late—"
I cut him off with a sharp whisper. "What's it to you?"
He tilts his head. "Hmm. Does the melon bread bag have anything to do with it, traitor?"
His mouth twitches like he's trying not to smile, suddenly more serious than usual.
I kick him under the table. He yelps softly and kicks me back, all offense and no volume.
And for a moment—just a moment—I almost smiled.