What Others Don’t See

In the morning, Aika awoke with a metallic taste in her mouth. The events of the previous night returned to her in disjointed fragments — Himeko sitting at the foot of her bed, watching her sleep with that unsettling tenderness that never seemed to leave her. Her memories blurred together, swirling like ink in water. Had she actually invited Himeko to spend the night ? She wasn’t sure anymore. Only the faint, familiar scent lingering on her pillow confirmed that the nocturnal visit had, somehow, really happened.

On her bedside table, the red scarf was carefully folded, like a gift patiently waiting to begin a new day.

At school, Aika observed Himeko with new eyes. She scrutinized the reactions of her classmates, the teachers — anyone who might confirm or disprove her growing doubts. But it was always the same: people’s eyes slid past Himeko like she wasn’t there, their conversations flowed uninterrupted, as if she were nothing more than a passing breeze.

During literature class, Ms. Tanaka called roll. Aika listened closely, her heart pounding. Himeko’s name was never spoken. Yet she was there, seated beside her, calmly doodling floral patterns in her notebook — flowers whose petals looked strangely like droplets of blood.

At lunchtime, instead of joining Himeko as she usually did, Aika pretended she had to stop by the infirmary. She quietly followed her mysterious friend down the corridor, heart hammering in her chest. Himeko walked with a light, almost weightless step, crossing the schoolyard toward the main exit.

Keeping a safe distance, Aika trailed her all the way to Yume Park. The amusement park appeared once again in its withered, decaying version — faded colors, rusted structures, yellowing grass poking through cracked pavement. A faint mist floated among the abandoned rides, cloaking everything in the fragile dream of something broken.

Hidden behind a shuttered shooting booth, Aika watched as Himeko approached the carousel with its chipped and peeling wooden horses. A solitary figure sat atop one of them — a girl Aika vaguely recognized. It was Mei Hayashi, a senior who had recently endured public humiliation at the cultural festival. Her love confession had been cruelly rejected in front of the entire school, filmed and shared online.

Mei was crying silently, tears carving bright trails down her pale cheeks. Her shoulders trembled under the weight of restrained sobs.

Aika watched as Himeko approached her with that feline grace she now knew so well. The movements were exactly the same as they had been with her — the gentle approach, almost shy, followed by the seamless settling of a comforting presence.

"I understand your pain," Himeko murmured in that velvety voice that had once soothed Aika.

Mei looked up, surprised at first, then strangely relieved to see someone had noticed her. Himeko sat beside her on the still carousel, her fingers brushing Mei’s neck with a familiar, unsettling attention that sent a chill down Aika’s spine.

"No one should have to suffer this much," Himeko continued, gently wiping away Mei’s tears. "Love shouldn’t hurt like this."

But Himeko’s expression — Aika had never seen it like that. Beneath the usual kindness was something darker. Something hungry. It sent a deep, primal shiver through her. It was the gaze of a predator contemplating its prey — but cloaked in genuine affection. It should have warned her. And yet… it was captivating. Like a trap so beautiful, you wanted to fall into it.

Mei seemed mesmerized. Her eyes grew glassy, as if a fog were settling over her thoughts. She nodded slowly at Himeko’s words, her body relaxing under the mysterious girl's soothing influence.

"Come with me," Himeko whispered, helping her down from the wooden horse. "I’ll show you a place where pain doesn’t exist."

Hand in hand, they made their way toward the haunted house ride.

That’s when a mother and her little boy — holding hands and smiling — walked directly through Himeko’s body without even noticing her. The child stopped, puzzled, and pointed toward Mei, who was still speaking aloud, seemingly to no one.

"Mommy, why is that lady talking to herself ?" he asked.

The mother glanced casually in Mei’s direction. "Don’t look, sweetheart. She must be crazy."

Aika nearly cried out in horror. From their point of view, Yume Park was alive, colorful, and full of joy. The rides were spinning cheerfully, music echoed through the air, and the booths offered sweet treats under dazzling smiles.

They walked away, leaving Aika frozen. The scene confirmed her worst fear: two realitvies existed simultaneously. In one, the park was normal, vibrant. In the other — the one she shared with Himeko, and now Mei — it was abandoned, decayed, and haunted.

She followed the two figures to the haunted house ride. From her hiding spot behind a rusted support pillar, Aika watched as they boarded a small wagon that slowly disappeared into the tunnel’s darkness. Her heart beat so loud she thought it might give her away.

Time stretched unbearably.

Eventually, a lone figure emerged from the tunnel. Himeko — alone — holding a finely decorated box, like an antique jewelry case, cradled delicately in her arms. Of Mei, there was no trace.

Almost at once, cries of alarm erupted from the “normal” side of the park. A crowd gathered near the public restrooms, people pointing in horror at something on the ground. Moments later, the wail of police sirens pierced the air.

Amid the chaos, Himeko slowly turned her head toward Aika’s hiding place. Their eyes met across the distance. A soft, almost motherly smile curved Himeko’s lips. She raised the ornate box to chest height, as if to show it to Aika, and gave a slow, graceful nod.

Aika stumbled backward, tripping over broken debris. Her breath was ragged, her hands trembling. She had just witnessed something unspeakable — and yet, a part of her, one she didn’t want to acknowledge, found something in that horror... beautiful.

She fled the park, running blindly, leaving behind Himeko and her enigmatic smile. But deep down, she knew she couldn’t run forever. Not when some part of her desperately wanted to know what was inside that ornate box — and why Mei had looked so peaceful as she vanished into the dark.