The smell of antiseptic always felt heavier than it should.
It wasn't just a smell—it was something that settled into your lungs, something that clung to your clothes and stayed with you long after you left. Aoki Kokoro sat quietly on the cold plastic chair, his back straight, his hands loosely clasped together as if he didn't quite know what to do with them.
Hospitals were strange places.
People came here carrying invisible weights—fear, hope, regret—and left either lighter or completely shattered. But for Aoki, it had always been something else entirely.
Routine.
Once every month, without fail.
He would walk through the same sliding glass doors, greet the same nurse with a polite nod, and sit in the same waiting area under the same dim white lights. It was almost comforting in a way—predictable, quiet, uneventful.
At least, that's what it had always been.
"Aoki Kokoro."
The nurse called his name softly.
He stood up without hesitation.
"Yes."
"Doctor is ready for you."
He nodded once and walked toward the cabin, his footsteps echoing faintly against the polished floor. The door opened with a gentle push, and as soon as he stepped inside, it closed behind him with a soft click.
A small, enclosed world.
The doctor sat behind his desk, flipping through a file, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose. He looked up briefly and gestured toward the chair in front of him.
"Have a seat."
Aoki sat.
"How have you been feeling lately?" the doctor asked, his tone calm and practiced.
"Normal," Aoki replied. "Nothing unusual."
"No dizziness? Fatigue? Any discomfort?"
"No."
"That's good."
The doctor nodded and continued scanning through the reports. The soft rustle of paper filled the room, blending with the faint hum of the air conditioner.
Aoki's eyes wandered.
They always did.
He wasn't particularly curious—just observant. The white walls, the neatly stacked files, the faint reflection of light on the metal instruments. Everything was clean, controlled, almost lifeless.
And then—
Something caught his attention.
A single paper, slightly out of alignment with the others.
It wasn't much.
Just enough to be noticed.
Aoki didn't intend to read it.
But his eyes moved on their own.
**"Estimated survival: 3–4 months."**
For a moment—
Everything stopped.
The air.
The sound.
Even his thoughts.
Three to four months?
The words didn't feel real. They looked like something from a story, something distant and unrelated to the world he lived in. But they were right there, printed clearly, undeniably real.
His chest tightened slightly.
Who… was this about?
His gaze slowly shifted upward.
A name.
And the moment he read it—
His heartbeat skipped.
It was familiar.
Too familiar.
"…Sensei," Aoki said quietly.
The doctor paused, looking up.
"That report…" Aoki continued, his voice careful, "it's not mine, right?"
The doctor followed his line of sight. For a brief moment, something unreadable crossed his expression before he calmly moved the paper aside.
"No. It isn't yours."
Aoki let out a small breath.
"I thought so."
But he didn't look away.
"…The person," he added, "she's my age, isn't she?"
Silence.
The kind that stretched just a little too long.
"…Yes," the doctor said.
Aoki's fingers tightened slightly.
"How can someone our age…" he hesitated, "…have something like that?"
The doctor leaned back slightly, exhaling.
"It's rare," he said. "Extremely rare."
Aoki listened.
"Her body doesn't regulate properly during sleep," the doctor continued. "When she falls asleep, her blood vessels become unstable. The pressure causes internal ruptures."
Aoki frowned.
"…Ruptures?"
"Bleeding," the doctor clarified. "From the eyes, nose, ears, even the mouth."
Aoki felt a chill run through him.
Every time she sleeps…?
"That means… she can't even rest properly," he murmured.
"No," the doctor said quietly. "Sleep becomes a trigger. Each episode results in severe pain and significant blood loss."
Aoki swallowed.
"And on top of that," the doctor added, "she has a hereditary condition. Sudden sleep episodes. She can lose consciousness anytime."
The words settled heavily.
A girl.
His age.
Living like that.
Dying like that.
"…Does she know?" Aoki asked.
"Yes."
"And she still goes to school?"
The doctor nodded.
Aoki couldn't understand it.
Why?
How?
If it were him…
Would he still sit in a classroom like nothing was wrong?
Would he laugh?
Would he pretend?
Or would he just… disappear?
Before he could think further—
*Click.*
The door opened.
Both of them turned.
A girl stepped inside.
Her movements were slow, careful, as if each step required effort. Her uniform was neatly worn, but her sleeves were slightly rolled, revealing faint marks along her arms.
Needle marks.
An IV line was still attached to her hand.
Her skin was pale.
Not the kind of pale that came from staying indoors—but the kind that came from something deeper, something fragile.
And yet—
When her eyes met Aoki's—
She smiled.
"Aoki?" she said, tilting her head slightly. "What are you doing here?"
Time froze again.
Aoki stared.
It was her.
Emi Takahashi.
His classmate.
The quiet girl who sat near the window.
The one who rarely spoke.
The one people ignored.
The one who always looked like she didn't belong anywhere.
"You…" Aoki whispered.
Emi blinked, then let out a small laugh.
"That's a strange reaction," she said. "Did I do something weird?"
Aoki stood up slowly.
"You're smiling," he said.
"…Is that bad?" she asked lightly.
"How can you smile?" his voice trembled slightly. "After knowing your condition…"
Silence filled the room.
The doctor said nothing.
Emi's smile remained for a moment—
Then slowly faded.
"…You saw it," she said softly.
Aoki didn't deny it.
He couldn't.
Her fingers tightened slightly.
"I didn't want anyone to know," she whispered.
Her voice shook.
"I didn't want people to look at me like I'm already… gone."
A tear slipped from her eye.
Then another.
"I didn't want to be pitied," she continued. "Or treated differently."
Her breathing grew uneven.
"I just wanted things to stay normal. Even if it's fake… even if it doesn't last…"
Her shoulders trembled.
"I didn't want to disturb anyone's happiness."
Aoki felt something break inside him.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just… quietly.
Like a thread snapping.
"I won't tell anyone," he said.
His voice was firm.
No hesitation.
Emi looked up at him.
"…Promise?"
"I promise."
She stared at him.
As if trying to see whether he meant it.
And then—
She smiled again.
Through tears.
"…Thank you," she said.
The room fell quiet.
But this time—
It wasn't heavy.
It was fragile.
Aoki looked at her properly now.
At the marks on her arms.
At the pale color of her skin.
At the way she stood, as if she could collapse at any moment.
And yet—
She smiled.
Like everything was fine.
Like nothing was wrong.
"…Takahashi," he said.
"Hmm?"
"Do you have any plans after this?"
She blinked.
"…No."
"Then… come with me somewhere."
"…Eh?"
"Anywhere," he said. "It doesn't matter."
She looked confused.
"Why?"
Aoki hesitated.
Because you're going to die.
Because you only have months left.
Because no one should be alone like this.
But he didn't say any of that.
"I just feel like it," he said instead.
Emi stared at him.
Then—
She laughed softly.
"You're strange," she said.
"Maybe."
There was a pause.
Then she took a small step forward.
"…Okay."
And just like that—
Something began.
Not with a grand moment.
Not with a dramatic confession.
But with something simple.
An invitation.
Two high school students walking out of a hospital together.
One carrying an ordinary life.
The other carrying an ending.
Aoki didn't know what he was doing.
He didn't have a plan.
He didn't know how to help her.
But he knew one thing.
He didn't want her to be alone.
Not anymore.
As they stepped out of the hospital, the sunlight felt almost too bright.
Emi squinted slightly, raising her free hand to shield her eyes.
"It's warm," she murmured.
Aoki glanced at her.
"Yeah."
She took a deep breath.
"As if nothing's wrong," she said with a faint smile.
Aoki didn't reply.
Because for her—
Everything was wrong.
And yet—
She still stood there.
Still smiling.
Still pretending.
And somehow—
That made him feel something he couldn't explain.
Something painful.
Something gentle.
Something that would stay with him.
For a very long time.
That day—
A simple, ordinary day—
Marked the beginning of something neither of them could escape.
A story that would be short.
But unforgettable.
A story of borrowed time.
And fragile happiness.
A story that began—
With a name on a piece of paper.