Chapter 11 — “Cracks in the Mirror”

Mizuki stopped drawing.

Her sketchbook — once filled with Himari’s face on every page — now sat unopened beneath her bed.

The pencil had started to feel too heavy. Too real.

Instead, she began filming.

---

It started small.

A few seconds of Himari walking down the hall, sunlight dripping across her hair.

Then her laugh during lunch, caught between spoonfuls of curry and gossip.

Her reflection in the window when she wasn’t looking.

Tiny, meaningless moments — but to Mizuki, they felt sacred.

She told herself it was art.

But deep down, she knew:

> She was building proof.

Proof that Himari existed.

Proof that their love — or whatever it was — wasn’t something she dreamed.

---

One afternoon, Mizuki watched Himari from the doorway of the empty classroom.

Himari was cleaning the blackboard, humming softly.

Every movement was slow, deliberate, like a ritual.

Mizuki lifted her phone. The red light blinked once.

When Himari turned around and caught her, Mizuki froze.

“What are you doing?”

Mizuki hesitated. “Just… taking a video.”

Himari blinked. “Of me?”

Mizuki nodded.

“Why?”

Mizuki smiled faintly. “Because you’re beautiful.”

---

Himari stared at her for a long time.

The kind of stare that could cut or caress — you never knew which until it was too late.

Then she laughed softly. “You’re weird.”

“I know.”

“Do you record everyone you love?”

“No,” Mizuki whispered. “Just the ones I’m afraid to lose.”

Something flickered in Himari’s eyes — pity, maybe. Or fear.

She walked over, took the phone gently, and turned it off.

“You don’t need to do that,” she said.

“Don’t I?”

“No.”

Mizuki smiled, but her eyes burned. “Then promise you won’t leave.”

Himari hesitated. “I’ll try.”

Mizuki looked down. “That’s not a promise.”

---

That night, Mizuki sat alone in her room, watching the clips she’d taken.

Himari laughing. Himari talking. Himari brushing her hair by the mirror.

The more she watched, the less she remembered what was real.

The videos became brighter than her memories —

more honest, somehow, than the girl herself.

> “If she disappears, I’ll still have her,” she whispered to the screen.

“Even if it’s only pixels.”

---

The next day, Himari came to her dorm.

She looked tired — eyes ringed with sleeplessness.

“You weren’t at breakfast,” she said.

“I didn’t feel like it.”

“You’ve been skipping class again.”

“So?”

Himari sighed, sat on the bed beside her.

“You’re scaring me lately.”

Mizuki turned slowly. “Why?”

“Because you look at me like you’re seeing something else.”

There was a long silence.

The sound of rain began tapping faintly against the window — soft, rhythmic.

Mizuki finally said, “Maybe I am.”

---

Himari frowned. “What do you mean?”

Mizuki reached for her phone, opened a video, and showed it to her.

It was the one from the classroom — Himari cleaning the board, humming.

The light in the video was warm, golden, perfect.

The Himari in the screen looked happier than the one sitting beside her.

“See?” Mizuki whispered. “You were smiling. You looked real.”

Himari’s voice trembled. “That’s not me.”

“It’s you.”

“No, Mizuki… that’s just an image.”

“Same thing,” Mizuki murmured.

---

Himari stood, stepping back. “You shouldn’t—”

Mizuki rose too quickly. “Why not? Why can’t I keep you the way I see you?”

“Because that’s not love,” Himari said, her voice suddenly sharp. “That’s fear.”

Mizuki froze. The words hit her harder than she expected.

The phone slipped from her hand, clattering onto the floor.

The screen cracked — a jagged white line running across Himari’s frozen face.

The sound of the rain grew louder.

---

Himari sighed. “I didn’t mean—”

But Mizuki wasn’t listening.

She picked up the phone slowly, tracing the crack across the image.

The break cut right through Himari’s smile.

Her lips parted in a small laugh that sounded more like a sob.

“It’s funny,” she said. “Even broken, you’re still beautiful.”

---

Later that night, Mizuki pointed the camera at herself.

Her face looked pale under the desk lamp, eyes hollow, smile trembling.

She pressed record and whispered into the silence:

> “If you’re watching this, it means you’re gone.

I just want you to know —

I loved you in every way a person shouldn’t.”

Then she turned the camera off and placed it beside her bed.

She lay down, staring at the ceiling.

In the faint reflection of her phone’s black screen,

Himari’s face appeared — just for a second — smiling the way she used to.