The morning air was crisp, carrying the faint, salty scent of the sea from the coast nearby. I stood at the end of the driveway, adjusting the strap of my bag. It felt heavy—full of textbooks for a life I hadn't actually studied for.
I looked down the street. The architecture was a beautiful, confusing mix of traditional Japanese gates and modern Western-style homes. It didn't feel like a game anymore. It just felt like home. A home I didn't remember, but my feet knew exactly where to go. My body seemed to have its own map, navigating the turns before my mind even processed them.
"Eugene! Wait up!"
I flinched. The voice was loud, clear, and full of a forced energy that made my chest ache. I turned to see Sayori jogging toward me.
She was a mess. Her blazer was crooked, her red ribbon was slightly lopsided, and she was breathing hard. This wasn't a 2D drawing; I could see the faint shine of sweat on her forehead and the way her eyes crinkled with genuine relief when she saw I hadn't left yet.
"You... you actually waited," she panted, stopping in front of me. She leaned over, hands on her knees, catching her breath. "I was so sure you'd gotten fed up and walked ahead."
"I told you I'd wait," I said.
I froze. Why did I say that? The words had slipped out so casually, my voice thick with a familiarity I shouldn't have possessed yet. It wasn't me speaking—not entirely. It was the "Eugene" of this world, the one who had known this girl his entire life, surfacing through muscle memory.
Seeing her like this—alive, breathing, messy—was overwhelming.
Sayori straightened up and squinted at me. Her smile didn't fade, but her eyes searched mine with a sharp, intuitive worry. "Are you okay? You're making that face again."
"What face?"
"The 'I'm-thinking-about-scary-adult-things' face," she said, reaching out and playfully flicking my forehead. Her fingers were warm. "You've been weird since the weekend. You didn't text or come over... Did you stay up too late playing games again? You know that's bad for your brain!"
"Just a little tired," I lied. Though, in a way, I didn't. My mind was exhausted from trying to reconcile two different lives.
"Well, I have the perfect cure for being tired!" She hooked her arm through mine, pulling me along as we started walking toward the school. "You need to socialize! And I know just the place. My club is—"
"The Literature Club," I finished for her.
Shit. I had been so lost in thought that the "Player" side of me had spoken over her.
Sayori paused, her eyes widening. "Wait, did I tell you already? I was so worried I'd forgotten to mention it! See? This is why we're best friends. We're on the same wavelength."
She laughed, but I noticed the way her grip on my arm tightened slightly. I didn't recall the game version of her being this physical... she was overly clingy, her hand clutching my sleeve as if she were afraid I might vanish the moment she let go. It felt desperate.
"I'll come check it out, Sayori."
"Really?" She beamed, and for a second, the sunshine seemed to gather around her. "You're not just saying that to make me shut up? Because I can keep talking! I have a whole list of reasons why poetry is great for your soul."
"I'm sure you do," I said, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through my nerves.
As we walked through the gates of Kizuna Academy, the familiar sights of the game appeared—the fountain, the lockers, the bustling students. It was jarring to see the "extras"—hundreds of students with real faces and voices that the game had never shown.
I waved Sayori goodbye as we reached the split in the hallway. We weren't in the same class, even though we were the same age. Sayori had been forced to repeat a year after her grades collapsed. I looked at her retreating figure, the bright red ribbon bouncing with every step. I didn't need a game guide to know that "laziness" wasn't why she failed. The heaviness in her eyes told me everything I needed to know about the depression she was hiding.
I turned toward my own classroom, my heart heavy. Meeting her was one thing. Meeting her would be another.