Chapter 10-"Smiles in Borrowed Time"

The field was quiet again.
Himari had dozed off against his shoulder, her breath slow but shallow, as if even sleep came at a cost. Akaru didn’t move. He didn’t want to.
But eventually, reality crept back in — the weight of what he saw, of what she tried to hide. The trembling hands, the too-quick smiles.
The moment couldn't last forever.
Carefully, he eased her down, letting her rest on the blanket they had spread earlier. Her lips moved faintly — maybe a dream, maybe just air.
He stood, dusted off his jeans, and made his way back toward the hilltop path.
That’s when he saw him again.
Leaning against a crooked fence post, arms crossed, the wind playing through his unkempt hair — Hajime.
Same hoodie. Same blank expression. Same sense of having been there all along.
“You always show up after things get weird,” Akaru said, only half joking.
Hajime shrugged. “Weird follows you. I just walk slower.”
Akaru stopped a few paces away. “Were you watching?”
“Enough to know you still throw like a pitcher,” Hajime said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And enough to notice she nearly collapsed.”
Akaru’s breath caught.
“She’s… strong,” he said.
“She’s sick,” Hajime replied bluntly.
That word hung in the air like a stone in his throat.
“She didn’t tell me how bad it was,” Akaru muttered, looking back toward the direction of the field.
“She wouldn’t,” Hajime said, “especially not to you.”
Akaru looked at him. “Why?”
“Because you’re the first thing in a long time that made her feel normal.”
Silence. Then Akaru asked, “Have you… seen her like this before?”
“Yeah,” Hajime said. “Last time she pushed too far, she didn’t wake up for two days.”
Akaru’s eyes widened.
“She’s stubborn,” Hajime continued. “Wants to live every second like it’s not borrowed. So don’t flatter yourself — this isn’t about impressing you. It’s about feeling alive.”
The sky was darkening now. A breeze picked up, scattering leaves across the path.
Akaru swallowed hard.
“She smiled a lot today,” he said, almost to himself.
“She’ll keep doing that,” Hajime replied, “until she can’t.”
The words landed like a pitch to the chest. No wind-up. Just truth.
Hajime stepped past him but stopped.
“If you care about her,” he said without turning, “don’t just make memories. Help her carry the ones that hurt.”
Then he was gone — swallowed by the dusk.
Akaru stood alone for a long time.
Then, slowly, he turned back to the hill, where a girl who laughed through pain was still waiting for him, asleep in the fading light.