Chapter 3

It’s been three weeks since I woke up.

Apparently, I was in a coma.

Not the dramatic kind. No shouting. No last minute confessions.
Just silence and machines doing the breathing for me.

That’s what Charlotte told me.

There are gaps in my memory.
The accident is blurred.
The first few days after opening my eyes feel detached, as if they belong to someone else.

The doctors said I was lucky.

Today, at 13:00, they decide if I’m well enough to leave.

The clock above the door reads 11:42.

One hour and eighteen minutes.

Most of my things are packed.

Which sounds impressive until you realize it’s one spare set of clothes and a charger.

The small bag sits on the cabinet near the sink.

Ready.

The room feels larger now.

The IV stand is gone.
The monitor that used to beep beside my bed has already been removed.
All that’s left is the bed, the couch, the chair, and the small table near the door.

Three weeks of staring at this same arrangement.

Three weeks of counting ceiling tiles when sleep wouldn’t come.

The couch against the wall draws my attention first.

Lilia claimed it on her second visit.

She never sits normally. She drops sideways, legs hanging off the edge, talking nonstop about school. Half of it barely connects, but she delivers it with so much intensity that it becomes entertaining anyway.

Then she suddenly stops.

A few minutes later, she’s asleep.

Mouth slightly open. One shoe still on.

There’s still a crease in the cushion where she curls up.

I shouldn’t notice that.

But I do.

A few steps to the right.

Charlotte’s chair.

It’s closer to the bed than before.

She moved it on the day I woke up. Said the original spot was “too far for proper supervision.”

Supervision.

Since then, it hasn’t been moved back.

She visits every day.

Right after school.

The door opens without hesitation. Her bag lands on the chair first. Then she shifts it aside and sits, turning slightly toward me.

Sometimes she brings snacks.

Sometimes she just talks.

About class. Teachers. Small things that don’t matter.

Even on days when I barely answered.

Even when I fell asleep mid conversation.

Even when the room felt heavy and I didn’t trust myself to speak.

She still showed up the next day.

Every single day.

That’s honestly—

No.

Stop.

She’s just a friend.

Nothing more.

The word lingers longer than it should.

I look away.

The walls.
The cabinet.
The window.

Then the small table near the door.

Something feels off.

There’s a book resting near the edge.

Slightly angled.

It hasn’t been there before.

At least… I don’t remember seeing it.

And after three weeks of memorizing every corner of this room, I’m fairly sure I would have noticed.

I step closer.

For the first time since waking up, something inside me feels fully awake.

The book just sits there.

It definitely wasn’t there yesterday.

Or maybe it was.

No. I would’ve noticed.

It isn’t subtle.

I step closer and rotate it slightly with my fingers.

Plain cover. No design. No color.

Two words printed at the center.

Visitors Log.

Right.

Hospitals keep records of everything.

For a second, I consider putting it back.

Then I open it.

The first page is filled with names and timestamps. Different handwriting. Different pens. Some neat. Some rushed.

The earliest date matches the day of the accident.

After school. Late afternoon.

That much I remember.

My eyes move to the first name.

Taku – 17:48.

That makes sense. School would’ve just ended. News spreads fast.

Next line.

Mom – 18:21.

A small nod.

She must’ve come straight from work.

That checks out.

I turn the page.

More names.

Charlotte appears a little further down.

18:37.

Then again the next day.

And the next.

Her name begins repeating often enough that it stops feeling casual.

Most entries are in the afternoon.

Right after school.

Sometimes there’s another one in the evening.

Without planning to, I start counting.

It takes longer than I expect.

Seventy-one.

Seventy-one visits.

The number settles heavier than it should.

Mom’s name appears too.

Just not nearly as often.

Twenty-one times.

That feels different.

She was busy. Work. Home.

Still.

She never really liked Charlotte.

Not openly.

Just small things. Short replies. That tight expression she gets around her.

Once she told me to keep some distance.

Which is strange.

Considering Charlotte has basically been my unpaid nurse for the past months.

I turn another page.

Taku.

His name shows up more than I expected.

Once.

Four times.

Eight.

Thirteen.

Seventeen.

Seventeen visits.

All before I woke up.

After that?

Zero.

The last entry from him is dated the day before I opened my eyes.

That’s what doesn’t sit right.

If he came seventeen times when I couldn’t respond…

Why stop once I could?

The book remains open in my hands.

The ceiling looks closer than it did a minute ago.

Quieter.

Then—

A knock.

Sharp enough to cut through everything.

The door swings open before I can close the book.

“Yo,” Taku says, stepping in like he owns the place. “Still alive? I was told vegetables don’t usually make it this far.”

I shut the log and place it back on the table.

“Disappointed?” I reply.

He grins. “A little. I was ready to water you and leave.”

He walks further in, hands in his pockets, scanning the room with the enthusiasm of someone judging hotel ratings.

“Man, hospitals smell weird. How do you not go insane in here?”

“I almost did,” I say.

“Good. Would’ve matched your personality.”

He pulls the chair closer and drops into it backwards, resting his arms on the backrest.

“So,” he continues, “you finally getting discharged? Freedom arc?”

“Thirteen hundred,” I answer.

He nods approvingly. “Nice. We can stop pretending to be concerned friends.”

Silence lingers for a second.

Then—

“Why did you visit me seventeen times?”

The words fall between us without decoration.

Taku blinks. “…What?”

“When I was in a coma,” I continue, watching him carefully. “You visited seventeen times.”

His face doesn’t change.

He leans back slightly. “Bro. This is my first time here.”

I don’t respond.

He snorts. “Visiting a vegetable isn’t really my thing, you know?”

“That’s messed up.”

“It’s efficient,” he shrugs. “Besides, after you woke up, I figured you’d be too busy being all lovey dovey with Charlotte. Didn’t wanna interrupt the romance.”

His tone is casual. Too casual.

I study his face.

No pause. No twitch. No recalculating.

If he’s lying, it’s flawless.

But honestly?

There’s not a single thought behind those eyes right now.

Just Taku being Taku.

A slow breath leaves me. “Forget it.”

“Gladly. You’re making it sound like I write poetry about you.”

He nudges the side of the bed lightly with his foot. “So. How’s it going with Charlotte?”

I stiffen. “What?”

“Oh come on,” he says. “Don’t act dumb.”

“How do you even know about that?”

He stares at me like I just asked the most obvious question in the world.

“She’s basically breathing your name, dude. Every time someone mentions you, her head snaps toward them. It’s creepy.”

“That’s not—”

“And sometimes,” he continues, ignoring me, “when she wants to take a nap? She sleeps on your desk.”

“What?”

“Full on. Face down. Like it’s sacred territory. I can’t even move her without risking my life.”

“That’s not true.”

“It absolutely is. I tried once. She glared at me like I’d committed a crime.”

Heat creeps up my neck.

“You’re exaggerating.”

He clears his throat and switches to a tragic attempt at an accent. “I do apologize, old chap. The lady appears thoroughly smitten.”

“That accent is illegal.”

“Rumor has it,” he continues dramatically, “you two are in an arranged marriage. Families already shook hands. Childhood love story. Very traditional. Very cinematic.”

“What is this, a rom-com plot?” I snap.

He points at me. “Exactly what a protagonist would say.”

“I met her the same day you did.”

“Sure you did.”

“I did.”

He leans back again, grinning. “Denial stage. Classic.”

I glare at him.

He just laughs.

And for a second, it almost feels normal.

Almost.

The moment passes.
An hour later, I’m standing in front of my own front door.

The house smells like curry when I walk in.

Warm. Familiar. The kind of smell that settles into the walls over years.

For a moment, I just stand there and breathe it in.

“I’m back,” I call out.

“In the kitchen,” Mom replies.

Her voice sounds steady.

That helps more than it should.

I slip off my shoes and head in.

She’s standing over the stove, wooden spoon in hand. Steam rises up toward the light. The window above the sink is slightly open, letting in the faint noise of evening traffic.

“You didn’t have to cook,” I say.

She shakes her head. “I had a meeting. I couldn’t pick you up.”

“It’s fine.”

“I should have.”

I pull out a chair at the table. The scrape against the floor sounds louder than it should.

“You’re cooking,” I say. “That’s more than enough.”

She gives a small smile at that.

“What is it?” I ask.

She hesitates just enough to make it feel deliberate.

“Chicken curry.”

I sit up straighter. “Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“That’s elite.”

She almost smiles.

For a moment, it’s easy.

Just the quiet rhythm of stirring. The soft bubbling of sauce. The clock ticking above the fridge.

Home.

I hadn’t realized how much I missed that sound.

I rest my elbows on the table. The light through the window fades, softening the edges of everything.

After a while, she turns off the stove. But doesn’t move away from it.

“I don’t think you should keep talking to that Charlotte girl.”

I look up. “What?”

She doesn’t answer immediately.

“She helped me,” I say. “She was there every day.”

“I know.”

“Before I even woke up.”

“I know.”

Her fingers tighten slightly around the towel in her hands.

“I’m grateful,” she says. “But something about her feels off.”

Off.

That’s all she gives me.

No example. No explanation. Just a feeling.

I let out a breath through my nose. “That’s not a reason.”

“I can’t explain it,” she replies quietly. “I just… feel it.”

Silence settles across the kitchen.

“She visited me seventy-one times,” I say.

A single nod. “I know.”

“She didn’t have to.”

“No.”

Another pause.

Then, softer—

“Maybe you should try talking to Yu—”

“I don’t know anyone with that name.”

Too fast.

The interruption cuts clean.

She goes still.

There’s a shine in her eyes she doesn’t bother wiping away.

“I see,” she says.

I stare at the table. The wood grain blurs for a second.

“I’m fine,” I add.

“I just don’t want you to get hurt again.”

Again.

The word hangs there.

Before I can respond, a chill crawls up my spine.

Slow.

Subtle.

Like someone standing just outside your field of vision.

My gaze drifts toward the window.

The reflection stares back.

Mom at the stove.
Me at the table.

And something standing behind me that disappears the moment I turn.

“Kouya,” Mom says gently. “Dinner’s ready.”

I don’t look at the window again.