Rito's eyes opened slowly to the pale light of morning, his body drenched in sweat. His throat was dry, his head heavy, and even breathing felt like work.
Fever… great.
He shifted under the blanket, but the ache in his body only deepened. Closing his eyes again, he let the warmth pull him in—and that's when the memories began to stir.
Not dreams. Not illusions. But fragments of another self, another life. Faces he had never seen, yet somehow knew. A room unfamiliar, yet familiar at the same time. Hours spent watching… something. Stories. Characters. A boy whose life wasn't so different from his own, caught in embarrassment after embarrassment.
At first, Rito tried to brush it off as fever delirium. But the more the images unfolded, the more natural they felt. Like finding an old photo album in the attic—you don't remember when the picture was taken, but you know it's yours.
By the time he opened his eyes again, chest rising with a shaky breath, the memories had settled inside him. They weren't intruders. They were his.
"…So… that's who I was," he whispered hoarsely, staring up at the ceiling.
There was no shock, no frantic disbelief. Only a strange acceptance, as if a missing piece of himself had been returned. The boy from another world… and the boy called Yuuki Rito—they were the same now.
His fever still weighed on him heavily, but in the quiet of his room, he felt something shift. His life was no longer just what it had been yesterday.
And yet, for now, all he could do was close his eyes and let the fever run its course.
When Rito opened his eyes again, the fever had lessened, though his body still felt weak. Something cool pressed against his forehead. He blinked upward to find a small, damp cloth resting there, sending a gentle chill through the heat of his skin.
"…Ah." He let out a breath, sinking back into the pillow. The simple touch of the cold cloth was strangely comforting, like someone had been watching over him.
For a while, he simply lay there, listening to the faint sounds of the house—the clatter of dishes from the kitchen, the occasional call of a bird outside. Normal. Ordinary.
And yet… not.
The memories from yesterday hadn't faded with sleep. They lingered, quietly weaving themselves into him, clearer than ever. Another self, another life… and the undeniable truth:
He was a reincarnator.
The thought didn't shock him anymore. It wasn't a fantasy or some dream he wanted to deny. It was simply… a part of who he was now.
But as he stared at the ceiling, a heaviness settled in his chest—not from the fever, but from the clarity those memories brought.
In his previous life, he had known loneliness. He remembered sitting alone, scrolling through screens, laughing at stories he could never be part of. Friends came and went. Opportunities slipped away. And love? He had never managed the courage to say what he felt, not even once.
And in this life, as Yuuki Rito… wasn't it the same?
Barely able to hold a proper conversation without stumbling. Barely able to make friends outside of a small circle. And Haruna… the girl he had liked for so long but never once managed to confess to.
The realization stung. The two lives overlapped too neatly, like different verses of the same song.
"...Pathetic, huh?" His lips curled in a weak smile.
The door creaked softly, and Rito turned his head just enough to see Mikan step inside. She carried herself with the same quiet composure as always, a small towel draped over her hand.
Her eyes softened when she noticed him awake.
"Oh, you're up," she said gently, setting the towel on the tray she carried. Without hesitation, she walked over and sat down beside his bed, her gaze steady, calm.
For a moment, she didn't speak. She only looked at him, that silent, unshakable gaze of hers that often made him feel more like the younger sibling than the older brother.
"…How's your fever?" she finally asked, reaching out to adjust the cloth on his forehead. Her hand was cool and practiced, like she had done this countless times before.
Rito blinked at her, still hazy from fever and from the storm of thoughts earlier. Somehow, her presence made it easier to breathe.
"…It's… better, I think. Thanks, Mikan." His voice was quiet, almost hesitant.
Mikan gave a small nod but didn't smile. Instead, she studied him, her expression unreadable. "You had me worried. You were burning up yesterday. Don't push yourself."
The words were simple, but the weight behind them pressed on Rito's chest. He let his eyes linger on her—his little sister, who always seemed more mature, more capable, and more reliable than him.
Before, he might have just laughed it off, embarrassed. But now, with the clarity his other memories gave him, he couldn't ignore the truth: he had leaned on her too much. Always the one being cared for, never the one giving back.
"…Sorry," he murmured. "For making you worry all the time."
Mikan blinked, surprised by the sudden apology. For a moment, her composure faltered, and a faint softness touched her face. But she quickly shook her head, placing the tray on the nightstand.
"That's just like you," she said quietly, almost like a sigh. "Saying things like that when you're sick."
Still, she left the cloth where it was and didn't move away, staying by his side in silence.
And for once, Rito didn't look away.
The silence stretched, broken only by the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. Mikan adjusted the cloth on his forehead once more, then tilted her head slightly, studying him.
"…Do you have an appetite?" she asked at last, her voice calm but carrying that note of gentle insistence she always had.
Rito hesitated. His throat was dry, his stomach still heavy from the fever… but the concern in her eyes made it impossible to brush her off.
"…Maybe a little," he admitted.
Without another word, Mikan stood up and left the room. Her footsteps were light and precise, and soon she returned with a tray in her hands—rice porridge, miso soup, and a glass of water. Simple, but carefully prepared.
She set the tray down on the nightstand, then pulled her chair closer. Lifting the bowl, she stirred the porridge lightly before scooping up a spoonful.
"Here," she said, holding it out toward him.
Rito blinked. "…You're… going to feed me?"
Mikan gave him a look—half exasperated, half amused. "You're still weak, aren't you? Don't be stubborn."
Before he could argue, she brought the spoon closer, waiting patiently. With no choice, Rito leaned forward and took the bite. Warmth spread through him—not just from the porridge, but from the quiet care in her movements.
Spoonful by spoonful, Mikan fed him, her expression calm and steady. She didn't say much, but every little action—the way she blew gently on the porridge to cool it, the way she wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin—spoke more than words ever could.
Rito found himself watching her more than the food. His memories from another life stirred again, reminding him of all the times he had eaten alone, the cold quiet of those days. And here… his little sister was sitting by his side, fussing over him with a care he had never known before.
"…Thanks, Mikan," he murmured softly, his voice almost lost beneath the sound of the spoon clinking the bowl.
She paused just for a moment, meeting his gaze. Then she smiled—faint, fleeting, but warm.
"Eat properly first," she said, handing him the next bite.
And he did.