The morning sun spilled through the car windows, warm and golden, making the city streets glow with life. I glanced over at her, and she caught my eye, smiling — that soft, familiar smile that had been with me since we were six.
"Are you nervous?" I asked, pretending to be calm, though my chest was tight.
She laughed, a gentle sound that always made my heart stumble. "A little. But only a little. I'm with you, after all."
I reached over instinctively, taking her hand in mine. The warmth of her fingers, the softness of her touch, grounded me. We had been holding hands like this for years, in every challenge, every silly game, every promise. Today was no different, except now it was permanent.
The car hummed along the quiet street. The world seemed peaceful, ordinary, perfect. And I was so blissfully unaware of how fragile it all was.
Then, a flash of movement.
A truck, barreling toward us from the side street, tires screaming, metal groaning. My instincts kicked in before I fully processed it. I grabbed her tighter. "Hold on!" I shouted, my voice raw with panic.
She turned to me, eyes wide. "We… we're always together, right?" she whispered, a faint smile brushing her lips.
Her hand squeezed mine, and in that instant, all the memories of our life together flashed before me. The playground where we had met, the first time she had trusted me with her secrets, the countless nights we had laughed over our otome game, debating which route was the "right" one. All of it — every tiny, precious moment — condensed into a single heartbeat.
"I promise," I said, even as the world seemed to tilt and shatter around us. "Always together."
The impact came before I could breathe. Metal screamed, glass shattered, and the world exploded into chaos. The car jolted violently, throwing us against each other, but my hand never left hers. Her small body pressed against mine, fragile and warm, and I could feel her heart racing as mine threatened to stop.
Time slowed. I felt every second stretch, a cruel, beautiful eternity where I could think, remember, regret, and love all at once. I remembered the first time I had seen her laugh, the first time she had held my hand, the first time I had realized I couldn't imagine life without her. And now, as the world tilted and broke around us, I realized just how true it had always been.
"I… I don't want to leave you," I whispered, my voice breaking.
She squeezed my hand again, a faint smile on her lips despite the pain and fear. "We're always… together…" Her words trembled, and then her eyes fluttered closed.
The next moments were a blur of sirens, screams, and chaos. People were running, shouting, calling for help. My vision swam with flashing red and blue lights, hands reaching for us, voices calling our names. But all I could see was her. My chest ached with every breath, every thought consumed with one impossible truth: she couldn't be gone. Not now. Not ever.
Paramedics lifted us, and the world turned into sterile white lights and beeping monitors. I could feel the warmth of her hand slip, just slightly, and panic clawed at me. "No! Don't go!" I screamed, my voice cracking. My tears fell freely, mixing with the sterile smell of antiseptic and the faint metallic tang of blood.
I could hear my family rushing toward the emergency room, their voices frantic, distant, echoes of a life I was losing faster than I could grasp.
Her small chest stopped rising. Her hand loosened in mine. I could feel it before I even looked — the stillness, the unbearable calm after the storm of our lives.
"She's gone," a voice murmured, gentle but sharp, and my world collapsed into silence.
I shook her gently, desperate. "No… please… stay with me… don't leave me…"
Her lips curved in a faint, fragile smile, as if to comfort me even now. "Always… together…" Her eyes closed completely, and my hand fell limp in the sterile light.
I tried to move, to scream, to fight for her, but the darkness creeping into my vision was relentless. They told me later that I had survived, but only barely. Only enough to feel every agonizing moment of her absence. I could hear the doctors' voices, the machines beeping, the hurried footsteps, but none of it mattered.
I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. I couldn't exist in a world where she was gone.
"I don't… want to live… without her…" I whispered, barely conscious, tears streaming down my face. My head fell back against the hospital bed, every ounce of my being filled with regret, loss, and an aching, impossible love.
And then, the world faded.
White light, soft and blinding, stretched out before me. It wasn't pain. It wasn't fear. It wasn't despair. It was… something else. Something familiar, yet impossibly distant.
I felt her hand brush mine, light as a feather, warm as the memory of every touch we had ever shared. I could feel her heart, not stopping, not gone, but calling to me across some strange divide.
The world I had known — our Tokyo streets, the sunlit morning, the laughter, the otome game, the car, the hospital — all of it dissolved. And in the emptiness, I felt a stirring. A pull. A heartbeat. A star.
Somewhere, somehow, we were together. And even if I could not see her yet, even if I could not speak to her yet, I knew.
Always.
Together.