—Naoaki's POV—
There are some things you don't talk about.
Like the dream I keep having where he dies in my arms.
Like the way his voice sounds familiar even when he's saying things I've never heard before.
Like how I know he likes his tea unsweetened, even though he's never told me.
Somehow, I know.
And somehow, it hurts.
"Morning," I said, sliding into my seat behind him.
Ren didn't look at me. Just raised a hand in a half-hearted wave. That was more than yesterday. Yesterday, he didn't even pretend I existed.
Akane leaned over from her seat. "You guys are talking now?"
I shrugged. "Sort of."
She narrowed her eyes. "He's not being mean, right?"
"No. Just... weird."
Like he was angry at me for something I hadn't done. Or maybe had done — in another life.
After class, I caught up to him in the hallway.
"Hey, Ren," I said, breathless. "Wait."
He paused mid-step, but didn't turn around.
"I—" My voice faltered. "I wanted to ask something."
He stayed quiet. Still.
"What… what do you think happens when we die?"
That made him turn. Just slightly.
His expression unreadable.
"I think," he said slowly, "some people come back."
"To fix things?"
He met my eyes for a long moment. "To finish them."
Then he walked away.
That night, I couldn't stop thinking about it.
The way he looked at me — like he was searching for someone in my face. Like he didn't find who he was hoping for.
I wanted to ask:
> Who were we?
What did I do to make you look so sad when you see me now?
But those questions stayed lodged in my throat, like all the others.
The next day, we got caught in the rain again. No umbrella this time.
I offered to share mine, and he didn't say anything — just moved a little closer.
We walked all the way to the station like that, shoulders brushing, eyes averted. I kept thinking about how close his hand was to mine. About how, maybe in another life, we used to hold hands like this without hesitation.
And yet here we were — almost touching, never touching.
So many things between us.
So many things left unsaid.
When we reached the station, he finally spoke.
"Why do you keep trying to talk to me?"
I blinked. "Because… I want to?"
"That's not a reason," he muttered.
"Then maybe I feel like I'm supposed to," I said before I could stop myself.
He looked at me — really looked at me — and for a second, I saw something in his eyes. Not anger. Not frustration. Something raw. Something that looked like pain.
He turned away.
"You shouldn't," he said.
Then stepped onto the train before I could ask him what he meant.
I watched the doors close behind him.
And I stood there, soaking wet, heart full of things I didn't understand.