I don't mean to lie.
That's the worst part.
It just… happens.
Mika is tying her shoes by the door, hair still damp from a rushed shower, backpack half-zipped like always. She looks up at me, eyes bright.
"Can you come to the school festival tomorrow?" she asks. "They're doing this dumb play and I'm a tree."
I blink. "A tree?"
"Don't laugh," she says, offended. "It's an important tree."
I almost smile.
Almost.
"What time?" I ask.
"After lunch," she says. "You promise?"
There it is.
That word.
Promise.
My chest tightens, but the feeling doesn't go all the way through anymore. It stops halfway. Like it hits a wall that wasn't there before.
"Yeah," I say. "I promise."
The lie slides out smooth. Too smooth.
She grins. "Good. Don't be late."
She runs out the door.
I stand there long after it closes.
Don't be late.
I think of my parents in the dream.Of Luna's warning.Of futures that don't scare me anymore.
"…I shouldn't have said that," I whisper.
—
Luna finds me that night on the bridge.
I don't ask how she knows where I'll be.
She always does.
"You lied today," she says, stepping beside me.
I stare out at the dark water below. "Did you feel it?"
"Yes."
"Is it that obvious?"
She shakes her head. "No. That's why it's dangerous."
I close my eyes. "It was small."
"All first lies are."
I sigh. "Mika asked me to promise something."
Luna stiffens slightly. "And?"
"And I said yes."
Silence.
The river keeps moving.
"That promise creates a fixed point," she says carefully. "If you break it—"
"I know," I interrupt. "Something bad happens."
"Or," she continues, "you rewind to keep it."
I turn to her. "And lose more."
"Yes."
I run a hand through my hair. "Then what was I supposed to do? Tell her no?"
Her voice softens. "You were supposed to hesitate."
I laugh quietly. "Guess I'm bad at that now."
She studies me, eyes sharp, searching.
"You didn't feel guilt," she says.
I open my mouth to deny it—
And stop.
"…I felt something," I say slowly. "Just not as much as I should've."
That's when her expression changes.
Fear.
Not for the timeline.
For me.
"This is how it accelerates," she says. "First you lose fear. Then guilt. Then meaning."
"And then?" I ask.
She meets my eyes.
"Then you lie easily."
The word settles heavy between us.
"I don't want to become that," I say.
"I know," she replies.
"But wanting isn't enough anymore."
I look at her.
At the girl who can end me with a thought.
At the only person who still looks at me like I'm human.
"Stay," I say.
She blinks. "Ren—"
"Just—stay tonight," I add quickly. "Don't watch from a distance. Don't be an Executioner. Just… be here."
The wind tugs at her coat.
She hesitates.
Really hesitates.
"That's a boundary," she says. "If I cross it—"
"I know," I whisper. "You become my anchor."
"And my mission fails."
"Or changes," I say.
She looks away.
Time stretches thin.
Finally, she exhales.
"…One night," she says. "That's all."
Relief flickers in my chest.
It should be stronger.
I walk her home.
Not holding hands.
Just close enough to feel the warmth she gives off.
At her door, she stops.
"This doesn't make you safer," she says. "It makes you harder to kill."
I nod. "I'll take it."
She studies my face one last time.
"Ren," she says quietly. "If you start lying to me too…"
I meet her gaze.
"I won't," I say.
The second lie almost forms.
I swallow it down.
She nods once and steps inside.
The door closes.
I stand there alone under the streetlight.
Two lies in one day, a distant part of me notes.
That should scare me.
Instead, I just think about tomorrow.
About Mika's play.
About being late.
And about how easy it would be to fix that—
If I had to.