The school festival preparations began, and with them came a forced proximity that felt like both a gift and a death sentence.
The class had voted for a traditional cafe, and Shiori, despite the growing tremor in her hands, had volunteered for the costume committee. She spent her afternoons surrounded by bolts of fabric and the rhythmic thump-hiss of the steam iron.
"Ren, stand still," she murmured, her voice thin.
She was kneeling at his feet, pinning the hem of his hakama. Ren was looking over her head, scrolling through his phone, perfectly balanced and perfectly indifferent. From this angle, she could see the sharp line of his jaw and the pulse at his throat. He looked like a statue—beautiful, cold, and immovable.
"Is this really necessary?" Ren asked, not looking down. "I'm just a server. Nobody's going to look at my feet."
"I'll look," Shiori said, the words slipping out before she could catch them. She quickly adjusted a pin, her fingers grazing his ankle. "Everything has to be perfect, or the Class B cafe will outshine us."
Ren let out a short, huffing laugh. "You're the only one who cares this much, Shiori. You're exhausting yourself for nothing."
For nothing. The words felt like a physical blow. She sat back on her heels, the room suddenly spinning. The smell of the steam iron was becoming suffocating, thick and metallic.
"I'm not doing it for nothing," she whispered, but the sound was drowned out by the chatter of other students across the room.
That night, the "fluff" took a turn into the domestic. They stayed late to finish the menu boards. The school was nearly empty, the hallways echoing with the ghost of the day's energy. They sat on the floor of the empty classroom, sharing a convenience store bento.
"Here," Shiori said, holding out a piece of tamagoyaki with her chopsticks. "You didn't eat lunch."
Ren looked at the egg, then at her. For a second, his gaze softened. He leaned forward and took it from her chopsticks, his lips nearly brushing the wood. It was an intimate gesture, the kind that would make any girl's heart race.
Shiori's heart did race, but not with joy. It raced with a frantic, stuttering rhythm that made her vision blur.
"Shiori?" Ren's voice sounded far away. "You're pale. Like, actually white. Are you eating enough?"
"I'm fine," she lied, her standard script. "Just the lighting in here. These fluorescent bulbs are cruel."
She stood up to reach for a marker, but the floor didn't stay beneath her. It tilted, a violent lurch that sent her stumbling toward the chalkboard.
Ren was off the floor in a second, catching her by the elbows. It was the first time he had ever initiated a touch with such urgency. His hands were warm—terrifyingly warm—against her cold skin.
"Sit down," he commanded, his voice uncharacteristically sharp. "You're done for tonight. I'll walk you to the station."
"I can finish the lettering—"
"I said sit down." He pushed her gently into a chair. He looked annoyed, but beneath the annoyance was a flicker of something else.
Not love—just the concerned look one gives a flickering lightbulb before it finally burns out.
They walked to the station in silence. The air was crisp, and the deep ink of the night sky felt like it was pressing down on them. Ren walked a little closer than usual, his arm occasionally brushing hers.
He thought he was being a "good friend." He thought this was a sweet moment of care. He didn't realize that every step he took beside her was a step she was stealing from her own future.
At the ticket gate, Ren lingered for a moment. "Take tomorrow off, Shiori. The cafe won't collapse without you."
"I'll be there," she said, forcing a smile that didn't reach her glassy eyes. "I'm the chaser, remember? I don't stop."
Ren watched her go, a small frown deepening the lines of his face. He felt a strange, nameless tug in his chest, but he shook it off. She'd be there tomorrow. She was always there.
He turned and walked home, already thinking about the game he wanted to play before bed, leaving Shiori to lean against the train door, her hand clamped over her mouth, praying the blood wouldn't come until she was behind closed doors.