I didn't go home after the first run.
I couldn't.
My body felt like it had sprinted through a dream, and if I stopped moving, I'd forget how to breathe. My fingers twitched. My mind wouldn't shut up. I kept replaying the sidewalk splitting, the glitches in the city, the trail of light footprints I somehow left behind.
And Airi's voice.
Was I going crazy?
I ducked into a corner store. Grabbed a melon soda from the fridge and stood there like a statue, staring at the door. The clerk didn't even look at me. Not even when I slammed the can on the counter. Not even when I muttered "Thanks."
He didn't blink. Didn't move.
That's when I noticed his face — blurry.
Not like motion blur. More like… someone forgot to finish rendering it. It shifted when I blinked, and for a split second, his entire head turned into static.
I dropped the soda.
The sound snapped something. He jolted like he had just woken up. Looked at me, annoyed.
"You break it, you buy it."
Just like that — reality snapped back into place.
I paid and stumbled out into the humid afternoon.
People were walking their dogs, scrolling through feeds, laughing into phone calls. Did no one else see the sky crack?
I grabbed a girl walking past me.
"Hey, sorry, uh—do you remember anything weird happening earlier?"
She frowned, eyes narrowing. "Like what?"
"Like… the sky. Or—sidewalks cracking open. Floating trees?"
She stared at me like I was speaking bird.
"No? Are you okay?"
I let go. "Yeah. Sorry. Never mind."
For the next few hours, I walked the city. Searching. Watching. Listening.
And I started noticing things.
Small things.
A cat jumping off a bench and disappearing mid-air.
A woman buying ice cream from a vendor with no cart.
Street signs that read "ERROR: ZONE UNDEFINED" for a second before flickering into Japanese.
It wasn't constant. Just enough to make me question my sanity every ten minutes.
Was I the only one who saw it?
And then I saw him.
It was evening. I had wandered to the edge of Sumida Park, near the broken clock tower, the one they never fixed after the Earthquake.
He was running.
Full sprint. No phone. No earbuds. Just running like his life depended on it. And trailing behind him — faint and pulsing — were glowing footprints.
Just like mine.
I didn't think.
I chased after him.
"HEY! WAIT!"
He didn't stop. If anything, he sped up.
He darted between trees and leapt over fences like he wasn't even touching the ground. My lungs burned. My legs screamed. But I couldn't let him get away. He knew. I could feel it. He had answers.
I cut through a shortcut behind the maintenance shed and jumped out in front of him.
He skidded to a stop, sneakers dragging across the grass.
We stood there, both panting, sweat dripping down our faces.
He was older than me — maybe 17 or 18 — hair buzzed short, bandages wrapped around his knuckles. His eyes glowed faint blue at the edges.
"You can see it too," I said.
He didn't respond.
I stepped closer. "You saw the sky, right? You saw the glitching? The cracks?"
He glanced over his shoulder, like checking if we were being watched.
Then, quietly, like it was dangerous to say out loud:
"You shouldn't have started running."