The Monday after the festival was silent. The high of the "next year" promise had evaporated, leaving behind a cold, clinical reality. Shiori didn't meet Ren at the lockers. For the first time in three years, the canned
coffee wasn't waiting.
When Ren finally saw her in second period, she looked different. It wasn't just the paleness; it was the way she sat—rigid, as if she were afraid that moving too quickly would break her.
"You're late," Ren muttered, dropping into his seat. He didn't ask if she was okay; he asked why the routine had broken. "I had to buy my own drink. The machine took my change."
Shiori turned slowly. Her eyes were glassy, reflecting the fluorescent lights like cracked marble. "Sorry, Ren. I overslept."
"Don't make it a habit," he joked, already opening his notebook. "I've gotten used to the service."
The "fluff" felt like a phantom limb. They went to the rooftop at lunch, but Shiori didn't talk about the stray cats or the new movies. She just watched him eat, her hands tucked deep into her blazer pockets to hide the tremors.
"Ren," she said, her voice barely a whisper against the wind. "If you had a book, and you knew the last chapter was missing... would you still read it?"
Ren stopped chewing, his brow furrowed. "That's a stupid question. Why would I read something that doesn't have an ending?"
"Maybe because the middle was nice?"
"The middle doesn't matter if it just stops," he said, looking back at the horizon. "It's just a waste of time. I hate unfinished things."
Shiori flinched. The "waste of time" hit harder than the illness ever could. She looked at the blue bookmark he had given her, now tucked into her textbook. To him, it was a 200-yen scrap of glass. To her, it was the only evidence that she had existed in his world at all.
That afternoon, the sky turned the color of bruised plums. As they walked toward the station, Shiori stumbled. It wasn't a trip; her knees simply refused to hold the weight of her heart anymore.
Ren caught her, his hand gripping her upper arm. "Whoa. Shiori, seriously. You're shaking."
"It's just... the wind," she gasped, her hand flying to her chest.
Ren looked down at her. For a split second, the indifference cracked. He saw the way her collarbones protruded, the way her skin looked translucent, like fine paper. He felt a surge of something—not love, but a sharp, localized anxiety. Like noticing a crack in a window you thought was unbreakable.
"I'm taking you home," he said, his voice dropping an octave.
"No, Ren, I—"
"I said I'm taking you home."
He walked her all the way to her front gate. He stayed until she went inside, watching her shadow move behind the frosted glass of the door. He felt a strange urge to call out to her, to ask her what she meant about the "unfinished book," but the feeling was fleeting.
He checked his phone. His guild was starting a raid in twenty minutes.
"See you tomorrow, Shiori," he muttered to the closed door. "Rest up. You're getting annoying to carry around."
He turned and walked away, the sound of his footsteps retreating into the night. Inside, pressed against the wood of the door, Shiori collapsed. She didn't cough this time. She just stayed there in the dark, listening to the silence of a house that knew she was leaving.
The "chase" had slowed to a crawl. She was no longer running after him; she was just trying to stay standing long enough for him to memorize her face. But Ren was already thinking about his game, the "fluff" of the evening already fading into the background of his "normal" life.