Chapter 8 — “Don’t Look at Her”

The summer heat arrived early that year — thick, slow, and mean.

Even the cicadas sounded tired, their cries bleeding into the school walls like something trapped.

Himari hated summer.

The sweat. The light. The way everything seemed too close.

Especially the way Mizuki smiled now — not at her, but at others.

---

It started during lunch.

They sat beneath the same wisteria tree, though the blossoms were gone, replaced by brittle leaves that whispered when the wind passed.

Across the courtyard, a group of girls gathered near the vending machine. Among them was Kana, from Class B — cheerful, kind, and completely harmless.

At least, that’s what Himari told herself.

When Mizuki waved at her, Kana waved back, laughing about something Himari couldn’t hear. The kind of laughter that sounded free.

Mizuki’s face lit up.

That smile — that soft, radiant curve Himari used to think belonged only to her — glowed brighter than it ever did when they were alone.

Something inside her snapped quietly.

---

After class, Himari waited by the locker room, her shadow cutting across the hallway tiles.

When Mizuki appeared, still smiling faintly from whatever Kana had said, Himari stepped forward.

“Who was that?”

Mizuki blinked, surprised. “Kana? She just asked if I wanted to join the art club exhibit next week. Why?”

Himari’s voice was calm, but her eyes weren’t. “You were smiling.”

Mizuki tilted her head. “Was I not supposed to?”

Her tone wasn’t mocking — just innocent. Too innocent.

Himari’s throat felt tight. “You don’t need to smile like that to anyone else.”

Mizuki’s expression softened. She reached out to touch Himari’s arm. “You’re jealous.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I said I’m not.”

The hand fell away. The space between them filled with something heavier than words.

---

In the art room later, the air smelled of paint thinner and linseed oil. Mizuki stood by the window, tying her hair up. The late sun spilled over her like amber.

She looked back at Himari. “You’re mad at me.”

“I’m not,” Himari said again. But her fingers trembled around the brush.

Mizuki smiled faintly. “You are. It’s cute.”

That word — cute — felt like a slap in itself.

Before she knew it, Himari’s hand moved.

A sharp sound cracked the quiet.

Mizuki’s head turned from the force. Her cheek flushed red, a perfect print forming under the light.

The room went silent.

Paint dripped from Himari’s brush, hitting the floor in slow, deliberate drops.

---

Mizuki didn’t cry.

She only blinked, eyes wide, lips parting in a soundless breath.

Then she whispered, softly, almost tenderly:

> “You’re scared I’ll leave you, right?”

Himari’s voice cracked. “Don’t say that.”

Mizuki took a slow step forward.

“Then hold me.”

Himari did.

Her arms wrapped around her as if trying to erase what had just happened — as if pressure could replace apology.

Mizuki leaned in, her breath brushing Himari’s ear.

“You can hurt me if it makes you feel better.”

The words hit harder than the slap ever could.

Himari’s chest tightened. “Don’t say that again.”

“Why not?” Mizuki smiled faintly against her shoulder. “It’s true.”

---

They stayed like that until the sun went down, the room painted in dusky orange and violet.

When they finally pulled apart, Mizuki’s cheek had turned pale pink.

Himari reached out, hesitating, then touched the mark gently. “Does it hurt?”

“A little.”

“…Good.”

Mizuki’s eyes widened slightly — then softened. “You’re strange, Himari.”

Himari laughed weakly. “I know.”

---

That night, Himari lay awake, staring at the ceiling.

She could still feel the warmth of Mizuki’s skin against her palm — the faint sting lingering on her own hand.

She turned onto her side, whispering into the pillow:

> “If she ever looks at someone else again, I’ll—”

She stopped there.

Not because she didn’t know the words, but because she did.

---

Meanwhile, in her room across the courtyard, Mizuki sat before her mirror.

Her reflection smiled softly at her, eyes glassy under the lamp’s glow.

She touched her cheek where Himari’s hand had been and murmured:

> “She finally looked at me like I was real.”

Then she laughed — not cruelly, but quietly, like a secret.

She took a black marker from her drawer and drew a small heart beneath her collarbone.

> “You’re mine, right?” she whispered to her reflection.

And for a second, she thought she saw Himari’s face smiling back.