Riku sat on the rooftop, the old magazine still open on his lap. The sky had turned a pale kind of blue—the kind that made everything feel quieter than it was.
The photo on the page didn’t look like a memory. It looked like something frozen mid-laughter. The girl on the runway was spinning, dress flowing around her, hair caught mid-twirl.
But he knew that face.
Yuna.
He hadn't said her name in years. Not out loud. Maybe not even in his head.
He looked down at his hands, at the way they gripped the paper too tightly. He remembered being little, maybe seven, hiding behind a curtain after knocking over a vase.
The servant had reached for him.
And then she stepped in. Barefoot, wild-eyed, younger than she should’ve been to take blame like that. Yuna stood between him and trouble like it was nothing.
Later that night, his father crouched beside him. “She saved you today,” he said quietly. “But one day, Riku… you’ll need to be the one to protect yuna-sama”
He had nodded like he understood.
But when it mattered, he wasn’t there.
She disappeared like a wind or like a ghost. That promise—broken.
Now here he was, staring at a picture from another lifetime, wondering if the ghost in front of him was real.
And worse—if he’d already failed her twice.
-----
The call came during lunch break. Reine Ichihara, standing at the doorway with a clipboard and a look that didn’t leave room for no.
“Aiko Minazuki? You’ve been assigned to assist with the Gala preparations.”
Aiko blinked. “I didn’t sign up.”
“You were recommended,” Reine replied smoothly. “Rehearsals start today. After school.”
That was it.
Later, in the event hall, Aiko found herself surrounded by velvet and silk and carefully pinned labels. Everything smelled like starch and stage dust.
A girl handed her a gown. “You’re about the same size as the model who dropped out. Mind trying this?”
Aiko stared at the fabric.
It was soft. Familiar. Dangerous.
She took it anyway.
The dressing room was small, too white. She slipped the gown on and caught sight of herself in the mirror.
Just for a second—her breath caught.
Because it didn’t look like Aiko in the mirror.
It looked like the girl she used to be.
She tore it off.
-----
The sky had dimmed by the time she stepped out the side door, hair slightly mussed, the edges of her sleeves still creased from the dress.
Haruki was leaning against the wall, earbuds half-dangling from his shirt.
“Thought you disappeared,” he said.
Aiko walked past him. “Almost did.”
He fell in step beside her. Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t fill the silence.
After a while, she spoke. “I hate this.”
“Rehearsals?”
“Being looked at like I’m supposed to be something.”
Haruki glanced at her. “You're not something to be looked at. You're someone figuring things out.”
She almost smiled. “You’re annoyingly decent, you know that?”
He shrugged. “Takes effort, trust me.”
They stopped near the back gate, where the streetlight flickered faintly above them. The quiet between them felt less like distance and more like space to breathe.
“You ever feel like you’re pretending so well you forget who you are under it?” Aiko asked, softly.
Haruki was quiet for a long time. “Yeah,” he said eventually. “But with you, it doesn’t feel like pretending.”
She looked at him—really looked.
And for a second, she felt like herself again.
Not the girl from before.
Not Aiko Minazuki.
Just… her.
-----
Reine sat in the student council room, fingers drumming lightly on her tablet. She should’ve been reviewing segment drafts—but her mind kept circling back.
Aiko Minazuki.
There was something too polished about the way she moved. Like someone who had been trained to be watched. To smile on cue. To perform.
When she froze during rehearsal earlier, Reine noticed.
It wasn’t confusion.
It was recognition.
Fear dressed as composure.
“She doesn’t belong here,” Reine murmured to herself.
But not in the way others didn’t.
Aiko didn’t look lost.
She looked like she was hiding.
And Reine was going to find out what she was hiding from.
------
Later that night, Aiko sat on the floor again, her back against the edge of her bed.
The gown was long gone. But she still felt its weight on her.
She reached under her pillow and curled her fingers around the cool edge of the locket.
She didn’t need to open it tonight.
She just needed to know it was there.
There were pieces of her that didn’t fit into this life. Pieces she couldn’t throw away, even if she wanted to.
But maybe, just maybe… she didn’t have to carry them alone anymore.
And maybe healing didn’t always look like moving on.
Sometimes, it looked like standing still—just long enough to breathe.
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