The sun had barely risen above the skyline when Shinichi's alarm screamed itself hoarse. A shrill, panicked tone—one he had intended to replace for weeks now but hadn't, out of either laziness or masochistic resignation.
His hand fumbled from beneath the blanket like a drowning man grasping for air, finally silencing the device with a practiced, graceless slap.
Silence returned to the room. Soft morning light filtered through the window blinds, casting pale lines across the futon where Shinichi lay in reluctant defeat.
His body was warm, his thoughts foggy, but he knew the illusion of comfort would evaporate the moment he blinked too long.
He didn't move yet. Instead, he stared at the ceiling, tracing imaginary constellations across the faint cracks, letting his mind wander—not out of purpose, but habit.
Ever since Hinoka and Koizumi had re-entered his life, sleep had become a battlefield.
Not that anything dramatic had happened—not really. But the presence of both girls so close, so present, had reshaped his once-still world into something restless.
Their voices echoed in his mind long after they'd said goodnight. Their laughter lingered like scent on fabric. Their memories, once neatly folded in childhood drawers, now spilled across every thought.
And so, each morning began the same: with too little sleep, too much on his mind, and a frantic realization that he was going to be late again.
Shinichi bolted upright. "Class starts in forty minutes—!"
He scrambled into his clothes, half-falling into his pants while brushing his teeth at the same time. Rice cooker? Broken. Bread? Moldy.
He grabbed an energy bar and his backpack, mentally crossing out "prepare breakfast like a functioning adult" from today's unrealistic to-do list.
Just as he opened his door, a hand holding a steaming bento box appeared from the right.
"Morning," Koizumi said softly, her expression unreadable but her gesture unmistakable. "You forgot this yesterday."
"I—" Shinichi blinked. "I didn't know you even made one for me yesterday."
She looked down. "I… assumed you would forget breakfast again."
He took the box carefully, warmth seeping through the container into his fingers. "Thanks, Koizumi."
She nodded and turned without another word, disappearing into her apartment with the same silence she arrived with.
Shinichi hadn't even taken two steps forward before the opposite door burst open.
"You're late!" Hinoka's voice rang out like a trumpet, startling two birds off the power line above. "I told you we'd leave at seven!"
"We never agreed on that," Shinichi argued, shoving the bento into his bag. "You just shouted it through the wall and assumed I was listening."
Hinoka marched out, her hair tied in a high ponytail, a bag slung over one shoulder, and the aura of someone who had already conquered three battles before breakfast. "Details, details. Let's go."
And just like that, he was flanked again—between a storm and a whisper, a sunbeam and a shadow. He walked faster, then slower, then faster again, as if trying to outpace the confusion steadily pooling in his chest.
Seiran University's courtyard was bustling when they arrived, its stone pathways lined with vending machines, cherry trees in the early stage of bloom, and students who had already adapted to the chaos of college life like fish to water.
Shinichi was not one of them.
While Hinoka disappeared into the economics building like a general inspecting her troops, Shinichi wandered toward the literature department, still unsure whether his schedule was leading him to Room B-303 or B-033. Both existed.
He had confirmed. Both also hosted entirely different classes at the same hour, and he had, on multiple occasions, entered the wrong one only to pretend he "was auditing."
His first class today was Comparative Narrative Structures in 20th Century Prose—a name that felt designed to scare away anyone without a deep love for dense metaphors and forgotten authors.
Shinichi found the room, barely, and slipped into a seat at the back just as the professor began.
And yet, even surrounded by shelves of theory and peers buried in annotation, Shinichi's mind wandered.
A part of him still lingered outside, where Koizumi's quiet bento had warmed his hand, and Hinoka's yell had forced him awake. A part of him still sat at that kotatsu, between two futures disguised as childhood friends.
He barely registered the lecture.
...
...
Later that day, as he walked through the courtyard with a book tucked under his arm, Shinichi heard a familiar voice from behind the vending machine.
"You didn't tell him you made that for his favorite anime," Hinoka said.
There was a pause.
"I just wanted him to eat," Koizumi's voice replied.
"You really haven't changed, huh?" Hinoka added. "Still trying to win his heart by feeding him like a lost cat."
Shinichi froze behind the tree.
"I'm not trying to 'win,'" Koizumi said.
"No?" Hinoka's tone sharpened. "Then why act like it's still childhood? You think just being nice is enough?"
Another pause.
"I think," Koizumi said quietly, "that if I act any differently, he won't recognize me anymore."
The words cut through Shinichi sharper than he expected. Not just because of what they meant, but because of the fragile honesty in Koizumi's voice. That wasn't competition. That was fear. Nostalgia weaponized by time.
He should have walked away. Should have pretended not to hear.
Instead, he backed away, heart pounding, unsure of what he feared more—what he'd heard, or what it meant.
That evening, the atmosphere at the apartment was tense. Hinoka banged her pots louder than necessary. Koizumi's piano remained silent.
Shinichi, too afraid to disturb either, locked himself in his room. But silence was never just silence anymore. Every note not played, every word not said, was louder than noise.
Around ten o'clock, a soft knock came from his door. Koizumi.
She stood with her cardigan wrapped tightly around her again, as if shielding herself from a cold only she could feel.
"I made too much miso," she said. "Do you want some?"
Shinichi nodded. "Yeah. I'd like that."
They sat in silence, sipping from bowls. Outside, the city hummed—cars passing, distant laughter from college dorms, the faint whoosh of wind through the alleyways.
Koizumi looked up. "I'm sorry if things have felt… strange lately."
He hesitated. "You mean since you and Hinoka started a cold war in my apartment?"
She smiled faintly. "It's not a war. Just… complicated peace."
He looked at her, really looked—at the way her fingers trembled slightly, at the tiredness behind her soft smile, at the quiet plea in her eyes for things to stay the same, even if nothing could.
"I don't know how to act either," Shinichi said. "I'm still figuring things out."
Koizumi nodded. "That's okay. I'll wait."
"For what?"
Her answer was soft.
"For you to remember."
He didn't ask what she meant.
Because deep down, he feared he already knew.
...
...
The next morning, Hinoka dragged Shinichi out to the park for jogging. She didn't mention Koizumi. Didn't mention yesterday. Just smiled too brightly and challenged him to a race around the fountain.
Halfway through, he collapsed on the grass, gasping.
Hinoka lay beside him, arms behind her head, watching the clouds.
"I'm not gonna lose to her," she said simply. "You know that, right?"
Shinichi turned his head. "Lose what?"
Hinoka's smile faded into something serious.
"You."
And just like that, she stood, brushing off her jeans, and jogged ahead.
Shinichi remained lying on the grass.
The sky was clear. The clouds drifting. The wind soft.
But inside, his heart churned with something stormier.
They had both returned into his life.
And neither planned on leaving quietly.