My thumb is still pressed to the screen, freezing the kind-eyed boy in a moment of gentle concern. The silence in the room is absolute, broken only by the frantic drumming of my own heart. I am a stranger in this room, in this life, and this video is my only map.
My video-self's voice is still echoing in my head. I know you're scared. But it's okay.
She sounded so sure. I take a shuddering breath and lift my thumb. The video lurches back to life.
My image on the screen smiles—a real smile this time, warmed by the off-screen presence of the boy. She turns back to the camera, her eyes finding mine through the lens.
"Good morning," she says, her voice steadier now. "My name is Arisa Tsukimi. It's April 14th. You're in your first year at Hanamori High. A few weeks ago, you were in an accident. You're okay, but your memory has a bug: when you sleep, you forget the day before."
A bug. The simple, non-clinical word hits me harder than any medical diagnosis could. It's what I would say. A glitch in the code of my mind. The girl on the screen keeps talking, her tone calm and practiced, as if she's done this a dozen times.
"The boy with the kind eyes in this video is Reo Kisaragi," she continues, a flicker of something soft in her expression. "He was there. He remembers for you. Your best friend Nami Koharu sits beside you in class 1-B. Trust her. You wrote these words. You filmed this video."
She leans in closer, her face filling the screen. Her eyes are serious, compelling. "If you trust the girl speaking right now—if you trust yourself—take the postcard from the nightstand and go to the rooftop after this. He'll be waiting. Be brave."
The video ends. The screen goes black. Sixty seconds. A lifetime of information delivered in the space of a commercial break.
Anterograde amnesia. The term surfaces from some forgotten health class lecture, cold and clinical. The inability to form new memories. Every day is a blank slate. Every night, the etch-a-sketch of my mind is wiped clean.
The panic I'd been holding at bay comes roaring back, a tidal wave of ice and fear. This isn't just a weird dream. This is my reality. The notes, the photos, Haruto's sad eyes—it all clicks into place with a horrifying, gut-wrenching finality. I'm broken.
My knees feel weak. I sink onto the edge of the bed, the phone clutched in my white-knuckled grip. How can I live like this? How can I know anyone, trust anyone, be anyone, if I'm a different person every single morning?
The girl in the video's last words float back to me. If you trust yourself.
I look around the room. It's a space curated by a stranger who wears my face. But she knew. She knew I'd be terrified. She knew I'd be lost. And she built this… this system. For me. For the next me, and the me after that. She left a trail of breadcrumbs.
My eyes fall on the nightstand. Just as she promised, a single postcard is sitting there. I reach for it with a trembling hand. The image on the front is a field of sunflowers under a bright blue sky. I flip it over.
The handwriting is mine. It's shakier than the notes on the desk, as if written at the end of a long, exhausting day.
April 13th.
"You made it through another one. His name is Reo Kisaragi. He's the real deal. You can trust him. The rooftop is your safe place. Go there. Don't be afraid."
Tears spring to my eyes, hot and sudden. It's a letter from a ghost. A message in a bottle from a shore I can't remember. And it gives me one clear, simple instruction. A mission.
I can stay here, curled in a ball of terror. Or I can follow the map my other self left for me. I can choose to be brave.
Wiping my eyes on the sleeve of my pajamas, I stand up. I get dressed in the Hanamori uniform, the fabric stiff and unfamiliar. I pack the postcard safely in my blazer pocket. Each action is deliberate, a step taken on a fragile bridge of faith in a person I will never truly meet: myself from yesterday.
The walk to school is a surreal journey through a world that is simultaneously known and unknown. The streets are the same ones from my "before" memories, but the light feels different, the sounds are sharper. Every student I pass is a stranger. Every casual "good morning" from a classmate I don't recognize feels like a deception. I am a ghost haunting the hallways of my own high school.
The stairwell to the roof feels like a final ascent, each step heavier than the last. My mind is screaming at me. What are you doing? You're meeting a boy you don't know. Alone. This is how horror movies start.
But the gentle chime from my phone, the warmth in my past self's voice, the steady sincerity in the words on the postcard… they all whisper a different story.
I push open the heavy metal door, and the world explodes in a symphony of pink and gold.
The morning sun is soft, casting long shadows across the rooftop. The air is cool and smells overwhelmingly of cherry blossoms. The trees surrounding the school grounds are in full, glorious bloom, and a gentle breeze sends a constant, swirling blizzard of pink petals across the roof. It's breathtakingly beautiful.
And standing there, leaning against the safety railing with his back to me, is Reo Kisaragi.
He's just looking out at the city, his hands in his pockets, his uniform immaculate. He seems completely at peace, as if he belongs here. He doesn't turn, as if he somehow knows I need a moment to collect myself. He's giving me the power to start this encounter on my own terms.
My heart is still beating too fast, but the terror is… gone. In its place is a strange, profound sense of calm. Of rightness. This place feels like an exhale. The scent of sakura petals doesn't just smell good; it feels like coming home.
I take a step forward, the crunch of my shoe announcing my presence.
He turns, and his eyes find mine. There's no surprise in them. Just a quiet, patient recognition. "Good morning, Tsukimi-san," he says, his voice exactly as I remember it from the brief moment in the video. Low and steady. "You came."
I clutch the strap of my bag, my social awkwardness kicking in. What do I say to the boy who remembers my yesterday for me? "You're the… prince from the video," I manage, and immediately want to clamp a hand over my mouth.
A small, genuine smile touches his lips. It transforms his whole face, erasing the sadness from his eyes. "I guess I am. I'm glad the video worked."
"It was… a lot to take in," I admit, looking down at my shoes.
"I know," he says, and the simple understanding in his voice makes my throat feel tight. He gestures to the wide, empty space around us. "This is the easiest place. It's quiet before classes start. Consistent. Fewer variables."
He's talking about my condition like it's a science experiment. Logically. Calmly. And for some reason, that's the most comforting thing anyone could do. He's not treating me like I'm fragile. He's treating me like I have a problem, and this is part of the solution.
We stand in silence for a moment, the only sound the rustle of the wind through the petals.
"Why?" I ask, the question popping out before I can stop it. "Why are you doing this?"
Reo's gaze drifts back toward the city skyline. "Yesterday," he begins, his voice soft, "you asked me the same thing. I told you… that it's because no one should have to face the morning alone." He turns back to me. "And because I made a promise."
"A promise to who?"
"To you," he says simply. "From the day before that."
My mind reels. A promise passed down through a chain of forgotten girls who all look like me. It's too much to comprehend. I run a hand through my hair, feeling dizzy.
A particularly strong gust of wind sweeps across the roof, whipping my hair across my face and sending a thick flurry of cherry blossoms into the air around us. It's like standing in the middle of a pink snow globe. I close my eyes instinctively, breathing in the sweet, clean scent. For a split second, an image flashes behind my eyelids: this same rooftop, this same scent, but with the warm glow of a setting sun. And laughter. A girl's laughter that sounds like mine.
My eyes fly open. Reo is watching me, his expression unreadable.
He reaches into his own school bag and pulls out a blank postcard and a pen. The picture on the front is of a cat sleeping in a sunbeam. He holds them out to me.
"For tonight," he explains. "So tomorrow's you knows what to do."
I take them from him, our fingers brushing for a fraction of a second. A tiny, insignificant spark zings up my arm. I flinch back, startled. He pulls his hand away quickly, a faint blush on his cheeks.
"Sorry."
"It's okay," I mumble, staring down at the postcard.
My hands are shaking as I lean against the railing and write. I don't know what to say. I pour the morning's confusion, fear, and that one, single moment of profound, inexplicable peace onto the small space. The video is real. The boy is real. The rooftop is safe. You will be scared, but he will be here.
As I write his name, my pen hesitates. Reo Kisaragi. The syllables feel strange and clumsy in my head, a combination of sounds I just learned. But as the petals fall around us, settling like pink dust on our shoulders and in our hair, a different name, a phantom name, whispers at the very edge of my hearing. It's not a full word. It's just a ghost, a fragment, a feeling.
Petals fall around us, and a name I shouldn't know is on the tip of my tongue.