"But… wasn't it me?" the secretary said hesitantly, finally breaking the moment.
Koharu paused, fingers resting on the edge of her suitcase. She didn't turn around.
"It doesn't matter," she replied calmly. "You gave her my chocolate. And my tissue."
The secretary blinked. "So that means—"
"That it's mine," Koharu said, matter-of-factly.
She resumed packing, folding clothes with careful precision, as if the conversation were no more important than choosing what to wear. Behind her, the interview replayed softly—Sakura's voice, grateful and warm.
The secretary stepped closer. "But she remembers the incident. She remembers me. I was there. I handed it to her."
Koharu finally looked up.
Her gaze was sharp. Cold. Smiling—but not kindly.
"If you say that again," Koharu said quietly, "I'll let you win this argument."
The secretary's heart skipped.
"But then," Koharu continued, meeting her eyes, "you'll have to find a new company."
The room went still.
"H—huh? No," the secretary said quickly, forcing a nervous laugh. "I didn't mean it like that. I was only… a way to her. For you."
She smiled, too fast, too wide.
"I understand. It was yours."
Koharu studied her for a long second—then turned back to her suitcase.
"Good," she said.
The secretary let out a slow, shaky breath once Koharu wasn't looking.
I nearly got fired, she thought, wiping her palms on her skirt.
Behind them, Sakura's voice echoed again from the laptop—soft, sincere, unaware.
Koharu closed her suitcase and glanced at the screen, her expression gentler now.
"She remembered," she murmured. "That's enough."
But deep inside, possession tightened its grip.
Because in Koharu's mind, memories—like gifts—belonged to whoever claimed them first.