The Weight of the Unspoken

People like to believe that they hold the reins of their own fate—that their choices shape the paths they walk. But sometimes, it feels as though you’re merely a passenger, watching life unfold behind a pane of glass, powerless to alter what’s coming.
     I’ve learnt that the hard way: fate doesn’t ask for permission.
     More often than not, the choices I thought were mine had already been set in motion. Yet life moves forward, oblivious to the past that clings like a shadow to your every step.
     For most, life is a series of small, deliberate decisions.
     But not everyone gets that luxury.
     Some of us have already made the biggest choice we’ll ever make—and now we live with the consequences.
     If there was a moment I could undo, I would in a heartbeat.
     Alas, I’m no Subaru—and life doesn’t come with save points.
     No matter how far I try to run, the past always wins.

It has taken me long enough, but I’d like to take a moment to reflect on the highlights of my senior high days—when the goddess of fortune (or misfortune, depending on your sense of humor) handpicked me for a once-in-a-lifetime limited event.
     One that would change my life forever.
     It is said that every one in ten thousand individuals will experience something so extraordinary in their lives that irrevocably changes them in some way.
     Personally, I’d put the odds closer to one in a hundred thousand—or a million, maybe. Something statistically impossible.
     Not that the numbers matter.
     What mattered is that it happened: Winning the worst lottery imaginable.
     If you must know, one does not simply walk away unscathed from a “prize” like that—
     Not when fate is involved.
     If there were a competition for how fast someone’s life could unravel, I’d probably win it hands down.

During the summer of my junior year in high school, I had experienced several perilous moments. Notably, a harrowing brush with death that I very narrowly escaped. And if not for the good graces of the people around me then, I wouldn’t be standing here today.
     For that, I’m profoundly grateful.
     Now, this might sound a little far-fetched, but hear me out…
     I think I actually died.
     Not figuratively but literally.
     No exaggeration—I truly believe death claimed me, even if only briefly. This isn’t some occult story about astral projection or being spirited away.
     In hindsight, I wish it were. That’d be easier to explain.
     But no, it’s simpler than that: I suffered from the absence of something vital: Life.
     Mine, specifically.
     Unbelievable, isn’t it? And yet, here I am, trying to make sense of it all.
     Whatever really happened, one thing remains true: I’m here now.
     Somehow, I clawed my way back from the void.
     A comeback more spectacular than anything my local soccer club’s managed in years, to be honest.
     With all due respect. They try their best. I apologize for the strays fired.
     But I digress.
     Let’s not dwell in the abstract when reality’s about to hit like a truck.
     No point rambling about what’s done and gone. If I’ve learned anything, it’s this: Life ought to be lived without regrets.
     Now that we’ve reached the end of this little preface, thanks for listening to my soliloquy.
     Don’t worry—the story’s far from over.
     In fact, we’re just about to begin.
     Let me take you back to where it all started.

It had been over half a year since my younger sister and I moved back to our hometown.
     The same rusted street signs and aging shophouses lined the road to school—stripped of the warmth that once made them feel like home, unchanged after all these years.
     If not for the shade they provided from the blistering heat of the summer sun, morning commute would’ve been nothing short of torture.
     The streets were just beginning to stir as early risers trickled into view.
     I lifted the sleeve of my button-down and wiped a trickle of sweat from my temple before it could get into my eye, and pulled out my phone to check the time.
     Cutting it close again. Fantastic.
     “Am I cooked or what?” I muttered, sighing as I break into a jog and veer into a narrow alley—one of those shortcuts only a seasoned local like me could navigate.
     The pavement beneath my feet crumbled a little, sprouting weeds along its edges and an earthly scent of smelling of damp concrete hung in the air.
     Eventually, the path opened to a familiar intersection where a disused railway line cut across the road. Nearby stood the old train station, abandoned after the newer one downtown took over. My parents used to tell stories about this place—how it had once pulsed with life as the heart of the neighborhood. Now it was little more than a relic; a husk of memories no one cared to keep alive.
     It had its share of stories: ghost sightings, shady dealings—urban myths passed down and repackaged over the years. Most people gave it a wide berth, but I never saw a reason to avoid it.
     If anything, the shortcut helped shaved off just enough travel time to make the difference between punctuality and disaster.
     Not that I generally minded being late for school.
     Just as I rounded the last corner before the intersection, a flash of white cut through the muted grey—enough to make me pause.
     Kneeling by the roadside was a girl in school uniform, her hair white as snow. A small bundle of white lilies was laid in front of her on the ground, likely intended as an offering of sorts.
     The image tugged at my memory like a headline I’d half-read and never fully registered. It took a second for recognition to settle.
     I knew this girl.
     Or rather—I knew of her.
     Nozomi Kamishirai.
     We’d been classmates since the start of high school. Never spoken. But you didn’t need to talk to her to remember her.
     There was an odd gravity to her—something that went deeper than just her looks or the prestige of her name.
     What’s she doing here?
     Normally, I’d have fallen headfirst into the curiosity trap—maybe stuck around, maybe stared. But time wasn’t on my side. And something told me she wouldn’t exactly roll out the welcome mat for gawkers, so I went along my merry way, pretending I hadn’t seen a thing.
     I figured I would’ve forgot about it by the time school ended.
     Clearly, I was wrong.

Before I knew it, the final bell rang, marking the end of World History—the last class of the day. The subject itself wasn’t unbearable. The lecturer, however, was.
     The elderly educator’s teaching method involved reading straight from the textbook with the enthusiasm of a winded fax machine. Staying focused in his class felt like an Olympic sport—or a punishment game fit for the insomniac.
     As soon as the bell’s chime faded, a collective wave of relief rippled through the classroom. The teacher mumbled a barely coherent conclusion and shuffled out. Desks screeched back. Classmates clustered into groups, already chattering about after-school plans.
     My eyes drifted to the empty desk near mine.
     Kamishirai hadn’t shown up again.
     Not exactly newsworthy—her absences were nothing unusual.
     Still… it bothered me. More than it probably should’ve.
     Maybe I was just being a busybody.
     Then again, maybe it was hard not to be.
     You see, that girl was… well, unique.
     Not in the charming, look-at-me kind of way.
     More like a mosaic of contradictions: someone who should’ve stood out, but somehow always faded into the background.
     You could say she was invisible. You could also say she was unforgettable. And both would be true.
     Her hair—long, white, almost luminous—looked like something plucked from a snowfield. And her amber eyes… sharp and strange, felt like they saw beyond any other.
     She had the kind of face sculpted by a master artisan—with features soft and delicate, like something out of an old painting. I don’t doubt she could have half the school tripping over themselves if she ever smiled.
     But she never did.
     For better or worse, her expression rarely betrayed anything more than stoic indifference. One could argue there was an aura of sophistication to it.
     Part of her charm, I suppose.
     Her slender figure looked almost fragile, and her skin pale enough to seem translucent, was like porcelain that might crack if you held it wrong.
     Perhaps it was an extension of her image: ‘the girl who’s always ill.’
     In any case, she played the part of the perennial class ornament perfectly: Skipping P.E. with mythic consistency; Sitting out assemblies in the shade like some kind of protected species.
     She showed up late, left early—or didn’t appear at all. And still, her grades were immaculate. I’d never seen her fall out of the top ten in my cohort.
     No one—teachers included—wanted to poke the bear. They just leave her be. You didn’t mess with the sickly honor student.
     Whenever she did show up, she did so with a book in hand. Always keeping to herself.
     Her eclectic reading habits ranged from the most comprehensive study guides on calculus to literary classics, or the kind of light novels with titles that looked like brain damage waiting to happen.
     Quite the voracious reader, regardless.
     It almost felt as if she existed in a world apart from ours—
     Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever heard her speak. Not once.
     I wonder what does her voice even sounds like—
     “Heya Kaoru!”
     The familiar voice of Kotoha greeted me, snapping me from my thoughts. I glanced up to find Kotoha grinning at me like I’d just been caught red-handed. Her energy always had a way of arriving before she did.
     “Hmm? Did I interrupt something?” she asked innocently with barely concealed amusement.
     Kotoha Fujimiya.
     Quintessential class representative. Student Council Darling.
     A model student in every sense of the word—effortlessly balancing good looks, stellar grades, polished social grace teachers loved and students grudgingly admired.
     If anyone embodied the words ‘has it all together,’ she’d fit the bill.
     We’d known each other for years—childhood friends whose families ran in the same circles. Even after I moved away, we kept in touch, more or less. Things had been different since the incident, though. We weren’t as close as we used to be, but if anyone understood my family’s ‘situation,’ it was her.
     More importantly, she had knowing how to keep just the right amount of distance. Close enough to care, never close enough to crowd. I appreciated that more than I let on.
     “So?” she prompted, her smile softening into something less playful. “How’s it feel being back? School treating you okay?”
     “It’s fine, I guess,” I said, trying not to overthink the answer.
     “Just fine?”
     She looked at me like I’d answered a love confession with a weather report.
     “Yeah… fine.”
     “You’re really selling it.”
     There was a joke in her voice, but a hint of concern beneath it—like she wanted to laugh it off, but was holding back.
     “I’m still adjusting,” I admitted, my eyes drifting to a certain empty seat. “But it’s manageable. Believe it or not.”
     Kotoha didn’t miss it.
     “You’re staring at her desk again,” she pointed out with sharp grin. “What is it about Nozomi that’s got you so preoccupied?”
     Hearing someone refer to Kamishirai by her first name felt strangely intimate. Like she was suddenly a real person instead of a distant presence.
     “It’s nothing. Just… noticed she wasn’t here.”
     Kotoha shot me a sideways look after I’d answered too quickly.
     “Didn’t peg you as someone who noticed girls like her. It’s not every day I find you interested in someone else other than yourself.”
     “She’s not just ‘a girl like her.’ She’s… different.”
     “Suuuureeee… With that unusual surname and whats-it-not.”
     She slid effortlessly into the seat beside me.
     “That’s not what I meant,” I said, rolling my eyes at her smug remark.
     “Then enlighten me.”
     “Well, I saw Kamishirai this morning,” I said, leaning in a little. She mirrored me, like we were kids swapping secrets. “Near the old station. She was kneeling by the tracks with some flowers.
     “Flowers? What kind?”
     “White lilies. Looked like she was praying or something. Didn't even notice me.”
     Kotoha rested a finger against her chin.
     “Interesting,” she said, sounding intrigued. “White lilies can mean purity and renewal… but they’re also common in funeral rites.”
     That hit like a delayed shiver. Kotoha didn’t stop there.
     “There was that story last week: There was this girl found dead near there. Her name was Kikko if I recall right. No one’s sure if it was an accident or suicide.”
     “Yikes.”
     Morbid much.
     “Since then, someone’s been leaving lilies at the site.”
     The signs were clear as day. But I couldn’t help but ask.
     “You think it’s her?”
     “Possibly. But why would she go out of her way?”
     My thoughts exactly.
     Kamishirai never struck me as the type to leave footprints in other people’s stories. Mourning strangers was an unlikelihood of the highest order.
     “She’s always been… off,” Kotoha said, folding her arms with the certainty of someone who’s never been proven wrong. “It’s like everyone avoids her without realizing it.
     “Even the teachers treat her like she’s invisible.”
     “Right? She doesn’t even talk to anyone… I always see her reading by herself.”
     “It’s kind of eerie. I can’t even fathom what goes on in her head.”
     I didn’t mean it with any disrespect.
     That was simply my honest impression of Kamishirai.
     “Anyway,” Kotoha began steering the conversation away before it started sounding personal. “How’s home life? How’s Azusa doing?”
     “She’s managing.”
     The look Kotoha gave me was sharp enough to peel a lie apart with surgical precision. It was enough to make me wince.
     “You always say that! ‘Fine.’ ‘Managing.’ You realize I’ve known you long enough to call your bluff, right?”
     It took her a little effort to keep her voice levelled.
     She was kind—and stern.
     Just like an older sister. Or an older cousin.
     One that was out to keep their watchful eye on me.
     “We’re holding up. That’s the truth.”
     Yeah, it was hard to say that out loud.
     “You don’t have to do everything alone, you know.”
     “I know,” I said quietly, looking past her to the windows. “And I’m grateful for that.”
     I left it at that. She didn’t press the point.
     Instead, I took the chance to change the subject.
     “What about you? Still stuck juggling shrine duties and council work?”
     “Always.” Kotoha laughed, trying not to sound tired. “I swear, I’m gonna die of exhaustion before I graduate.”
     “Sounds rough.”
     “It is. But it’s tradition. The Fujimiya shrine’s been in our family forever. I’d probably be excommunicated if I even thought about quitting.”
     “And you’re okay with that?”
     “I’ve gotten used to it.” She paused, glancing out the window. “Still… sometimes I wonder if there’s more to life than playing roles you didn’t ask for.”
     “Yeah. I think about that too.”
     I nodded, slowly and maybe a little too knowingly.
     More than I’d like, actually. But I hadn’t figured out what to do with the answer yet.
     She perked up a little.
     “You should meet my aunt Chiyo.”
     “Random. Why?”
     “She’s kind of the black sheep. Was supposed to take over the shrine but bailed. Now she runs a tea shop in town.”
     “She escaped the shrine life?”
     “‘Escaped’ is one word for it,” she said with a lopsided grin. “She’s eccentric. Into fortune-telling and weird psychic stuff. Locals love her, though. I think half of them go for the gossip, not the tea.”
     Kotoha sounded somewhere between proud and mildly embarrassed to share DNA with the woman in question.
     “She sounds… interesting.”
     “You think? I can set up a meeting if you want. Who knows? Maybe she’ll read your aura and give you some advice for your tragic backstory.”
     Was she being serious? Or was this just another episode of Tease the Sad Boy: Shrine Maiden Edition?
     “Pass. I’m allergic to incense and unsolicited life plans.”
     “Shame. Could’ve been fun.”
     That was my cue to bail from the conversation.
     I grabbed my bag and stood.
     “I should get going. Promised Azusa I’d help with dinner.”
     This was by no means a confession of my secret life as a part-time housewife.
     But judging by Kotoha’s face, you’d think I just volunteered to host a cooking show.
     Overreaction level: classic Kotoha.
     “Domestic Kaoru. Didn’t know you could cook.”
     “It’s mostly chopping things and pretending I have knife skills. I fake it well enough to fool my sister.”
     “Well, don’t let me keep you,” she said, rising to her feet as well. Then, in a voice tinged with something more heartfelt: “Just one more thing, Kaoru?”
     “Yeah?”
     “Take care of yourself. And if you need anything, just say the word.”
     I forced a smile.
     “Thanks, Kotoha.”
     She looked like she had another sentence queued up—then shelved it with a breath through her nose.
     “See you tomorrow, Kaoru.”
     “Yeah. See you.”
     Her words followed me into the hallway, trailing behind like something unsaid.
     She was right.
     Maybe I wasn’t ready to openly admit it.
     Things at home weren’t as ‘fine’ as I made them out to be.
     But those weren’t the kind of problems you solved by stewing overnight.
     I have to devote my whole life to family—because that’s the only way I, the guilty one, can atone for what I did.
     It can’t be helped.
     But first things first—
     Dinner wasn’t going to cook itself.

When I entered the apartment, the living room was empty.
     Not a sign of my younger sister at the table or couch with her whiteboard, which were her usual stations.
     “Azusa?” I called out, stepping further inside.
     No response. Only a subtle shift of sound from the kitchen. I dropped my bag by the door and followed the noise—hoping I’d catch my sister arguing with the microwave again.
     If only.
     Sure enough, there she was—completely in the zone.
     Mildly disappointing, really—she wasn’t in fact arguing with the microwave. Instead, she stood at the stove, stirring a pot with the kind of intent usually reserved for ritual magic or ramen commercials.
     When she noticed me, she glanced over her shoulder, offered a small smile, and gestured toward the table.
     “Need a hand?” I asked, hoping for a task to justify my presence.
     A shake of her head and a clearly-rehearsed shooing motion told me everything: I was surplus to requirements.
     A little surprised, I obeyed and took a seat, watching her navigate the kitchen like it was second nature. It still caught me off guard sometimes, how grown-up she looked when she thought no one was watching.
     There was a time—back when we’d first moved out on our own—when I worried constantly. We were just two semi-functional teens trying to figure out a world that never really gave us a chance. She insisted on staying with me, even knowing exactly what that meant.
     Now, it seemed as though she was the one holding everything together.
     She returned a few minutes later, balancing bowls and utensils like offerings to a kitchen god—then set them down with enough pride to make a cooking show host jealous.
     The warm and comforting aroma of potato stew flooded the room. Chunks of golden potato, soft beef, and vibrant orange carrots floated in a rich broth. The onions had melted down, lending it a mellow sweetness. It wasn’t anything fancy—but it smelled like home.
     “You’re really getting the hang of this.” I said, picking up my spoon.
     She smirked and scribbled on her whiteboard: “Not too bad, right?”
     “Probably better than I could’ve done.”
     She wiped the words clean with a laugh, then sat across from me. Watching her, I felt that familiar tangle of gratitude and guilt. I wanted to do better for her.
     I had to.
     Halfway through the meal, she slid her whiteboard across the table: “How was your day?”
     “Same as always. Kotoha says hi, by the way. She’s always asking about you.”
     Azusa paused before writing again: “That’s sweet of her. I appreciate it.” A few seconds went by before she added, “And you?”
     A question.
     Directed at me. Specifically.
     My hand paused—fork suspended halfway in a culinary cliffhanger.
     “A little tired, I guess. Nothing worth worrying about.”
     She didn’t write anything more. She just gave me that look that told me she wasn’t convinced.
     But at least she didn’t bother me about it.
     The rest of the meal passed between us like a silent truce.
     I went ahead with stacking the dishes right after we were done, but she made it a point to beat me to it.
     “You sure?” I asked, already knowing her answer.
     She nodded, already moving toward the sink. I sat back in my chair and let her take over. She wasn’t just keeping the house running—she was keeping me going too.
     Then the phone rang.
     That sharp, outdated ring split the silence like a blade. My stress levels nearly shot through the roof.
     I didn’t need caller ID to guess who it was when I picked up the receiver.
     “Hey, Dad,” I said, keeping my voice steady.
     Then his voice came through.
     “Kaoru. How are things?”
     “We’re okay. School’s fine. Azusa’s doing well.” I glanced toward the kitchen. “We just finished dinner.”
     “That’s good. I hope you’re both eating properly.”
     “We are.”
     A beat.
     “Your mother… she’s feeling a little better. But there’s still no real change.”
     Unmistakable.
     That overfamiliar dullness I’d grown used to hearing.
     “We’re hoping to visit once she’s well enough,” he added.
     “Right.” I didn’t know what else to say.
     Another silence.
     “Let me know if anything changes,” I offered, already knowing it wouldn’t.
     “Sure.”
     The line went dead with a soft click.
     I set the phone down, feeling hollow all over again.
     Talking to Dad always felt like wandering through a museum of the things we’d rather not talk about.
     Clinical updates. Polite lies. Grief in disguise.
     Azusa remained at the sink, her back to me, rinsing the last dish.
     She never brought it up. But I knew she hadn’t forgotten.
     Neither had I.
     It had been years since the robbery—but the memory hadn’t dulled. I could still picture the fear in her eyes when the man grabbed her. The instant time slowed. The gun finding itself in my grip. The resounding sound of the shot.
     They called it self-defense. Told me I did what I had to.
     But none of that changed the outcome.
     A man died. And Azusa lost her voice.
     Mom couldn’t handle it. She couldn’t look at what we’d become. Couldn’t see Azusa’s silence or my shadow without retreating into her own. Dad’s been taking care of her ever since.
     And me?
     I was the one who pulled the trigger.
     The one who failed to protect my sister.
     Azusa never blamed me. Not once.
     But it didn’t matter. I blamed myself enough for both of us.
     I was still at the table, lost in that memory, when Azusa finished drying the dishes. She nudged me and wrote: “We’re out of ingredients for tomorrow.”
     What a coincidence.
     It wasn’t urgent—probably her way of being considerate. I caught her drift.
     I wasn’t exactly sparkling company right now. She was giving me an out.
     Something along the lines of Go get a breather, dimwit!
     Well not exactly.
     Certainly not in that wording, but you get the idea.
     I’ll go pick some up,” I offered, getting up.
     “We’re running low on other things too. Might as well restock.”
     “Any special requests?”
     She tapped her finger twice against the board, then penned excitedly: “Strawberry milk, please!”
     “You got it,” I replied with a wink.
     A poor attempt at levity, but at least it earned me a giggle.
     Simple as the request was, I was grateful for the opportune breather—like one of those rare weather forecasts I actually paid attention to.

The night air apparently had teeth tonight. Cold sank right through my jacket as if it held a grudge. I cinched my hoodie tighter and stuffed my hands into my pockets—not that it helped much.
     The road to the convenience store unfolded under my feet out of habit, a route so familiar I could’ve walked it blindfolded and still missed nothing new.
     Just before the entrance, I spotted a man stumbling along the sidewalk. Looked in his mid-forties, probably. Work suit wrinkled beyond repair.
     He reeked of cheap alcohol—cheap life, too, if I had to guess.
     As our paths crossed, I tried to give him space, but his drunken sway dragged him into my shoulder.
     “Watch it,” he slurred, barely coherent.
     I didn’t respond.
     What would’ve been the point?
     The old me might’ve had something snarky to say. Possibly even something stupid to throw.
     But that version graduated with my last bad decision.
     I swore I wouldn’t become an adult like that.
     I just walked on, eyes locked ahead, refusing to flinch—refusing to give him a mirror.
     The automatic doors slid open with a mechanical hiss and a blast of cold, conditioned air met my face like a slap from a freezer aisle ghost.
     Each aisle in the store was surgically tidy, like it had been arranged by someone with a vendetta against clutter.
     I went through the motions in the trance of routine muscle memory, picking out the usual checklist of eggs, rice and vegetables.
     Without forgetting the strawberry milk I promised Azusa of course.
     The only beverage capable of surviving both adolescence and inflation.
     Apparently, growing out of it was optional.
     On my way to the registers, I noticed a woman standing beside the magazine rack. She wore a flowing violet kimono layered over a black, shoulder-cut turtleneck—a combination that looked like time travel had collided with street fashion, and somehow won.
     Our eyes met.
     Violet eyes. A beauty mark under her left eye.
     She had the kind of gaze which could peel a soul like fruit.
     Not that I had much soul to begin with—but if I did, she probably already knew what flavor it was.
     Worse still, she was real. Like one of those poster ladies from perfume ads brought to life.
     I wasn’t into attractive older women or anything.
     …Okay maybe a little.
     I was already three mental steps into my apology for existing.
     It didn’t feel like she was looking at me anymore—more like she was looking into me.
     Was I being spiritually audited or what?
     If she’d asked for by blood type next, I probably would’ve answered.
     Instead, her gaze dipped briefly to the carton of milk in my basket, then returned to my face.
     A small, unreadable smile formed on her lips.
     This was the kind of moment puberty never prepares you for.
     “That must be heavy,” she said meaningfully, her voice carrying an almost musical cadence.
     Her weirdly specific comment about my grocery basket couldn’t have left me more dumbfounded.
     “Sorry?”
     “Not that,” she clarified as if I were the one saying strange things. Then, tilting her head just slightly: “I meant the kind of weight people carry around when no one else is there to see it. The kind that makes your shadow heavier.”
     I didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure I could.
     She had already turned back to her magazine, as if that brief moment had satisfied some private curiosity. Her voice, when she spoke again, had dropped an octave.
     “The things that shift without warning… those are the ones that leave the deepest marks.”
     It sounded like she was musing on a universal truth that didn’t need elaboration.
     The cashier’s bored “Next in line” snapped my train of thought.
     I was barely clinging on to one at that point.
     I quickly paid for the groceries and left the store.
     What kind of deep-seated premise were we setting up for?
     I sure as hell didn’t know.
     Maybe I’d figure something out once I thought about it for a bit.
     Or maybe not.
     One thing’s for sure—I can’t pretend she didn’t say what she said, and I definitely can’t forget it.
     Not because it made sense.
     But because it sounded like the kind of thing that might start making sense the longer you’re awake at 3 a.m. staring at your ceiling fan.
     That’s even assuming she had her head screwed on right.
     Or maybe I’m the one whose screws are starting to come loose.
     Who can say?
     Convenience stores at night do strange things to people.

*            *            *

Nozomi wasn’t sure how long she’d been wandering.
     Thirty minutes. An hour. Maybe more. She had drifted through the streets in her school uniform like a ghost that hadn’t realized it was dead.
     If a police officer stopped her, asked what she was doing out so late, she wouldn’t have an answer.
     She was there because she had to be.
     Or something like that.
     Her seemingly non-existent agenda would never hold up under questioning. At best, it might earn her some raised eyebrows and a gentle escort to the nearest station.
     Fortunately, no such encounter had come—until a loud, obnoxious voice boomed beside her.
     “Hey, girlie! You waiting for someone?”
     She didn’t respond right away.
     The voice, thick with booze and bravado, grated loudly in entitlement.
     “Hey. You a foreigner or something? Don’t be shy now. What’s a cute little high schooler doing out here this late? Got nowhere to go?”
     Nozomi turned, slowly, with a smile just a shade too polite.
     “Were you perhaps referring to me?”
     The man grinned, emboldened by her response. He looked every bit the type: mid-forties, suit rumpled from a day that hadn’t gone well, hair mussed, tie loose, and a heavy fog of cheap alcohol clinging to him like a second skin.
     “Course I was! You see anybody else out here?”
     He laughed as though they were sharing a joke. She didn’t find it in herself to laugh along with him.
     “You know,” he added, stepping closer, “you and I could go have a little fun somewhere. I know a place. You drink?”
     “Mister,” she said, her tone still wrapped in polite farce, “you really shouldn’t be inviting a minor to drink with you”—like she was correcting a menu misprint, not calling out a crime.
     But he pressed on, shamelessly.
     “Don’t be like that. I’ll show you a real good time.”
     She sighed inwardly, then slipped a hand into her pocket and pulled out a small black envelope between her two fingers.
     She let her smile shift. It remained pleasant, but with just enough cutting edge to drop the temperature a few degrees.
     “Perhaps it’s time you stopped fooling around, Mr. Takeda.”
     The man’s grin faltered—a slow unravel of his confidence. He straightened instinctively, the booze-flush draining from his face.
     “…H-how do you know my name?” he stammered as he stared at the envelope as if it might burn him.
     Nozomi tilted her head slightly, still wearing an innocent smile which deepened by a fraction.
     “Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ve actually been waiting for you for quite some time.”
     “You… were waiting for me?”
     She nodded, gesturing with a fluid sweep of her hand. “Since you kept me waiting… don’t you think it’s only fair you keep me company?”
     Whatever flicker of hesitation crossed his eyes vanished beneath the haze of his own delusion. Her sugar-coated invitation had already short-circuited whatever honey-trap alarm he might’ve once had.
     “Now that’s more like it!” he bellowed, swagger making a sloppy comeback. He lurched forward, arm reaching out—eager to pull her in.
     She twirled away gracefully, the turn of her heel widening the space between them.
     “I know a good spot nearby,” she said, all sweetness and promise. “Allow me to show you the way.”
     Mr. Takeda didn’t notice the chill in her voice.
     Too far gone to read the signs, he followed—tottering behind her, buoyed by the momentum of his own arrogance.
     Ahead, the signal changed. The red light blinked. Engines stirred somewhere out of sight.
     And still he lumbered forward, his laughter clattering down the street like a loose wheel on a crooked cart.
     Then came the blare of horns.
     The screech of tires.
     A fracture in the night.
     Nozomi didn’t so much as blink.
     She simply stood there, watching the scene unfold with the perfect inevitability of an ending printed long before the story began.

*            *            *

The aftermath was a blur.
      Questions. Reports.
     Between the paramedic present and the police, I gave my testimonial as if I were reading from a well-rehearsed script and claimed I didn’t see much.
     That was true—mostly. The lie was buried in everything I left unsaid.
     By the time I returned to the apartment, it was much later than I'd planned. My limbs dragged behind me like they wanted to file for resignation.
     Azusa was still awake, slumped over the living room table, her whiteboard propped against her knees like a makeshift pillow. Her eyes fluttered open as I stepped inside.
     She blinked up at me, sleep-drunk, then slowly lifted her board: “What took you so long? 
     I stalled in the doorway, peeling off my shoes to buy some needed time to invent an alibi.
     “Sorry,” I said, managing a half-smile. “Got held up.”
     She wiped the board clean and scribbled a follow-up.
     “Is everything okay?”
     I hesitated.
     A normal brother—an honest one—would tell her everything. But the words stuck somewhere between my throat and ribcage. The truth sounded absurd even in my head. And terrifying in a convoluted way.
     “I’m fine,” I lied. “Just a long night. You should sleep—I’ll take care of the rest.”
     “Let me know if it’s something I can help with," she wrote again after wiping the board clean.
     She didn’t believe me.
     I knew that.
     I walked over and rested a hand gently on her head.
     “You’re already doing more than enough,” I murmured. “Really. I’ve got this.”
     Instead of hounding me, she nodded slowly. Then she scribbled one last line before standing: “You better tell me next time.”
     She jabbed a finger at the board to seal the threat with sisterly conviction.
     “Promise,” I murmured, offering a ghost of a grin. “Now get some rest.”
     She waved and retreated to her room.
     And then I was alone.
     I didn’t tell her about the girl with the white hair who didn’t blink when a man died.
     Or about the violet-clad stranger who spoke like she’d found the spoilers to my life somewhere online.
     I couldn’t make heads or tails of any of it.
     The stars outside the window refused to line up—like even they didn’t want to be part of this plotline.
     And honestly? I couldn’t blame them.
     I wouldn’t either.