Hearing Shiratori Seiya's question, Saori's shoulders trembled in fright, like a small animal caught in a sudden downpour. Her downcast eyes remained fixed on a tiny, insignificant crack spiderwebbing across the wooden table as she gave a barely perceptible nod.
"Mm…"
"…"
Shiratori Seiya's eyelids twitched. A vein might have been pulsing somewhere under his bangs. Even though his gut had already screamed the answer the moment he saw her uniform in the lecture hall, hearing that soft, dejected syllable escape her lips made his chest feel heavy. He couldn't stop the exasperation from bubbling up, his voice a low, controlled whisper sharp enough to cut the quiet hum of the izakaya.
"Oi… don't you have a life of your own? What about your studies? Where exactly do you put all that focus you use for Kendo, huh? What did I drill into your head back then? To actually study in university. It doesn't matter if you can disarm three opponents with a shinai if you can't pass a basic logic exam. Whether you aim to be a sensei or join the police force, your academic scores still hold weight. The bar isn't exactly scraping the stratosphere, but with the way you're going… will you even survive finals this semester?"
Since the atmosphere in a traditional Japanese restaurant hung as delicate as rice paper, raising one's voice was tantamount to blasphemy—a surefire way to earn dagger-like stares from the chef and patrons alike. Moreover, considering the fragile state of Hasegawa Saori's spirit, Seiya kept his volume dialed strictly to a frequency only the two of them could perceive. It was a private frequency, a channel of old habits.
Despite his restraint, Hasegawa Saori flinched as if struck by static electricity. The sparkling tears that had been clinging to her long lashes finally lost their grip, falling with soft pitter-patter sounds onto the lacquered tabletop, like the first raindrops of a sudden summer storm.
Shiratori Seiya saw the tiny puddles forming. He opened his mouth, but the sharp edge of his anger melted just as fast as it had come. He let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, his expression softening into something more weary than wrathful. Silently, he plucked two paper tissues from the dispenser and slid them across the table toward her.
She had probably shed more tears in this single evening than in all the years he'd known her combined. The stoic, blade-sharp girl he remembered seemed to have been replaced by a character from a melancholic shoujo manga.
The girl sobbed, her slim shoulders shaking under the weight of her navy blazer. Her voice came out staccato and fragmented, punctuated by sniffles.
"S-Sorry… but… but Saori just wanted to see Seiya…"
"When Saori can't see Seiya… it hurts. It hurts right here…"
As she spoke, her small hand drifted up to clutch at the fabric covering her chest, right above her heart.
Shiratori Seiya glanced over. He'd grown wiser to the world's ways in many respects, but some things remained stubbornly, achingly familiar—like the flat, unadorned landscape beneath her fist. Some things never changed.
He stood up just enough to lean across the narrow table, reaching out with the tissues to gently dab at the damp trails on her cheeks. He was about to offer some soothing platitude, the kind of generic comfort you give a crying child just to make the noise stop, when her voice cracked through the silence again.
"Sorry… Saori… Saori will apologize to her. Seiya, please… please forgive me, okay…?"
Hearing that, Shiratori Seiya's hand paused mid-dab. He brought his other hand up to rub his throbbing temples, a gesture of pure, unadulterated exhaustion. When he spoke, his voice was stripped of any remaining ire, leaving only a bone-deep weariness.
"What's there to forgive or not forgive…?"
At the end of the day, no matter how you sliced it, it was nearly impossible to truly despise someone who loved you with such reckless, all-consuming sincerity. Especially when that someone was the very person who had once been the axis of your world.
Seeing her like this—a raw nerve exposed to the open air—Seiya's frustration had evaporated completely. He didn't want to stay on this loop of guilt and tears. He wanted answers. Steering the conversation like a boat captain navigating around a rock, he asked the question that had been sitting on his tongue since the campus gates.
"I'm asking you straight up: Did you come here to find me this time because Shione put you up to it? Did she say something to you?"
This time, Hasegawa Saori didn't dare harbor a single shred of deception. Her chin bobbed up and down like a hammer striking a mochi pestle. The two tissues stuck to her damp face fluttered with the motion, a pair of clumsy white butterflies attempting to take flight in a confined space.
As expected.
Receiving the answer he had already filed away in the 'bitter truths' folder of his mind, Shiratori Seiya slumped back against the wooden booth. A silent sigh deflated his posture.
He didn't want to believe it. He didn't want to admit that the once so pristine and straightforward Shione had become capable of this kind of quiet manipulation. But the evidence was sitting right across from him, drowning in a bowl of ramen she hadn't touched yet. Hojo Shione was no longer the person frozen in his memories. She'd learned to use people. She'd even used Saori… the one person whose heart was as clear and defenseless as a still pond.
Just as the bitter thoughts began to curdle, the owner appeared at the edge of their table, balancing a tray with practiced ease. He glanced at their contrasting expressions—one drawn and tired, the other blotchy and teary—and wisely chose to comment on nothing but the food. His smile remained fixed and professional.
"Three bowls of tonkotsu ramen. The yakitori skewers will be just a bit longer…"
"Thank you."
Shiratori Seiya gave him a curt nod of acknowledgment. Before the owner had even fully retreated, Seiya pushed the three steaming bowls across the table, arranging them in a neat line in front of Hasegawa Saori like offerings at a shrine.
"Eat."
Hearing the command, Hasegawa Saori bit down on her trembling lower lip. Truth be told, her stomach was a tight knot of anxiety; the very idea of food made her feel queasy. She lifted her red-rimmed eyes to meet his gaze and asked in a voice softer than a whisper:
"Isn't Seiya eating? Saori can't… can't possibly eat this much…"
"I ordered them all for you. So eat."
Hasegawa Saori gave a small, congested sniffle. The rich, porky aroma of the tonkotsu broth finally invaded her senses, a warm, savory ghost that made her traitorous stomach loosen just a fraction. She swallowed hard, her hand hovering near the chopsticks but not quite taking them. She needed one more reassurance.
"Does Seiya… not blame Saori anymore?"
"You can eat first."
Shiratori Seiya leaned forward once more and plucked the two damp 'white butterflies' from her face, dropping them onto a pile of crumpled napkins. He nudged a fresh, dry tissue toward her hand.
"Blow your nose. Properly."
"Oh."
Perhaps the weight of today's transgressions had finally settled on her shoulders; she was uncharacteristically docile, a far cry from the fierce, charging bull she'd resembled this morning. The aggression had been drained away, replaced by a fragile obedience.
Slurp.
Saori lifted her pale wrist, the motion elegant and precise. She used her chopsticks to gather a bundle of straight noodles, lifting them just above the broth to let the steam waft up before she guided them neatly into her mouth.
Her lips, once pale from the cold evening air, bloomed into a glossy vermilion from the warm broth. The fragrant steam curled upward, kissing her jade-like neck and framing her face in a soft, ethereal haze. The dim, yellow light of the izakaya caught in her clear, glassy eyes, making them glisten like pools of morning dew. A pure, heart-achingly pitiable beauty radiated from her without any conscious effort on her part—it was simply her.
Watching her refined, almost ceremonious way of eating, Shiratori Seiya's gaze softened, a flicker of nostalgia dancing in his dark irises. A strange sense of relief washed over him.
Well, at least my lessons weren't a complete waste.
Before long, the three large bowls were scraped clean, as if a small, very polite whirlwind had passed through. Not wanting to waste a single drop of the soup—or perhaps just seeking an excuse to keep her hands busy—she used her chopsticks to swirl around the bottom of the last bowl, producing a soft, hollow clink-clink… sound against the ceramic.
"If you're still hungry, we can order more."
Saori shook her head, setting the chopsticks down with a delicate click. Her voice was a tiny murmur.
"Saori… doesn't have much appetite today."
As she said this, she turned her head instinctively toward the kitchen pass, confirming that the yakitori had not yet materialized. Reassured that they wouldn't be interrupted, she looked back at Shiratori Seiya. She pursed her shiny lips, gathering a shred of courage, and fixed him with a gaze that held the desperate seriousness of a shonen protagonist about to make a life-altering vow.
"Seiya… do you really like that… that girl?"
Shiratori Seiya's brow furrowed a fraction.
"Takahashi Mio?"
"Just… that girl from this morning…"
Hasegawa Saori bit her lip again, a brief, timid flicker of her gaze betraying her anxiety. After a long, heavy pause where she seemed to be wrestling with an invisible opponent, she finally spoke.
"If Seiya likes her… very much… then Saori can like her too."
"Just… just don't send Saori away…"
"You still like Saori… right? Saori will be very good. Saori will do anything you say…"
She pursed her lips tighter, her small hand once again drifting up to press against her chest. A profound shadow of sadness dimmed the light in her eyes.
"Even though Saori's… Saori's chest hasn't gotten any bigger at all… but maybe it will grow in the future. I read in a book… that it grows if you… if you rub it…"
Then, like a cloud passing to reveal the sun, a sudden spark of inspiration lit up her features. The troubled crease between her brows vanished. Her voice quickened with urgent hope.
"Seiya likes Saori's legs, right? Look! They're still the same as before. They haven't changed at all!"
And before Shiratori Seiya could process the rapid escalation of the conversation, she extended her leg out from the sanctuary beneath the table. Her hand grabbed the hem of her gray sweatpants, and she began to hike the fabric up, revealing a glimpse of a slender, porcelain-smooth ankle.
Seiya's brain snapped into overdrive. A cold chill shot down his spine like he'd been plunged into ice water. He lunged forward, bending over the table in a distinctly un-Japanese display of speed, and slammed his hand down on top of hers, pinning it and the rebellious sweatpants firmly against her shin.
His temper, which he'd been carefully banking like embers, flared up, and his voice came out sharp and frosty.
"What exactly do you think you're doing?! Is this how I taught you to behave? Is this what you learned from me?"
Her hand trapped beneath his, Hasegawa Saori froze mid-motion. Her lips turned downward into a deep, quivering pout. Her chin, usually smooth and composed, crumpled up like a piece of discarded notebook paper.
"But… but Saori doesn't seem to have anything good enough to show anymore…"
"Saori doesn't want Seiya to disappear again. Please… please don't send Saori away… okay…?"
It was as if she had thrown herself into the dust at his feet, offering up every last shred of her dignity just for the chance to remain in his orbit.
Shiratori Seiya closed his eyes. He took a long, deep, steadying breath, his grip on her hand tightening involuntarily as if to anchor her to this spot, to this reality, and stop her from spiraling further.
Seconds ticked by, marked by the distant sizzle of the grill. Finally, his eyelids lifted, and he met her tear-bright gaze with a gravity that filled the small space between them. He had made a decision.
"Saori."
His voice was quiet, but it cut through her sniffles like a bell.
"Let's make a promise. A real one."
"Mm-hmm."
Hearing the shift in his tone—the return of the Seiya she knew—Saori's posture transformed in an instant. She sat up ramrod straight, her back snapping into alignment like a model elementary school student awaiting instructions. Her eyes, still red and puffy, sparkled with a new, fierce brightness.
Shiratori Seiya raised his free hand and held up three fingers directly in front of her face.
"Three years. If in three years—or even after three years—you still feel this way about me… I will marry you. I promise."
There was no hesitation. Not a single millisecond of doubt. The answer exploded from her lips with the force and joy of a festival firework.
"Okay!"
A smile blossomed across Hasegawa Saori's face like a cherry tree hitting full bloom in fast-forward. The tears weren't dry, but the sun had come out.
"Saori will always like Seiya. Always. Forever."