The name sits on the page like a dark sigil, a circle drawn by a hand that knew more than my mind does. Itsuki Kurobane. Throughout the morning's lessons—lessons I absorbed with the dutiful attention of my "before" self but will likely lose by dawn—the back of his perfectly neat head of hair was a constant, unnerving presence in my field of vision. He didn't turn around. He didn't do anything suspicious. He just existed, a polite, smiling boy whose name my body had inexplicably blacklisted.
The bell for lunch chimes, jarring me from my thoughts. The classroom erupts into the chaos of scraping chairs and cheerful chatter. Nami is instantly at my side, a bright, colorful bento box already in her hands.
"Lunchtime! Mission: Rooftop! Operation: Avoid Soggy Tempura is a go!" she declares, her energy a welcome tidal wave that washes away some of my lingering dread.
"You go on ahead," I say, forcing a smile. "I'll be up in a minute."
Nami's smile falters just a fraction. She looks from my face down to the roster on my desk, her eyes lingering on the circled name. She doesn't ask. She just nods, her expression turning surprisingly serious. "Okay. Don't be late. Reo-kun gets all broody when he's hungry." She gives me a theatrical wink and then she's gone, swept up in a group of girls heading for the door.
I watch them go, a familiar pang of loneliness hitting me. They have a web of shared jokes, of memories, of yesterdays. I only have today. And I have a ghost in my muscles that doesn't like the class representative.
Taking a deep breath, I pack my things and head out, not to the crowded cafeteria, but to the stairs that lead to the sky.
He's there. Of course he's there. Reo is leaning against the same spot on the railing, looking out at the city as if it holds some great secret. A simple convenience store lunch sits on the bench beside him. He turns as I approach, his gaze analytical, immediately sensing that something is wrong.
"What is it?" he asks, skipping the pleasantries.
I slide onto the bench, the concrete still cool from the morning. I pull the class roster from my bag and lay it between us. "Him," I say, my finger tapping the circled name. "Itsuki Kurobane. My hand just… did this. I don't know why." I look up at him, my voice trembling slightly. "But it felt… bad. The feeling was really bad, Reo."
His name. I used it without an honorific. It slips out so naturally, a piece of a forgotten conversation bubbling to the surface. A faint blush touches my cheeks, but Reo doesn't seem to notice. His full attention is on the paper, his expression hardening almost imperceptibly.
He doesn't tell me I'm imagining things. He doesn't dismiss it. He just looks at me, his eyes dark and serious. "Then we trust it," he says, his voice low and firm. "We trust your instincts. The Arisa from yesterday left you that warning for a reason. So, we watch him."
The validation is so complete, so instantaneous, that I feel a wave of relief wash over me. He believes me. He believes the ghost.
"Okay," I whisper.
"Okay," he confirms. He nudges my lunch with his own. "Now eat. After school, we have an appointment with Nurse Shidou. It's time to make your anchors official."
The nurse's office is less of an office and more of a sanctuary. It's a small, cozy room filled with sunlight, potted plants, and the faint, calming scent of chamomile tea. The woman behind the desk, Rinka Shidou, has a warm smile and hair tied back in a messy but practical bun. She exudes a sense of gentle, no-nonsense competence.
"Ah, Tsukimi-san, Kisaragi-kun. Right on time," she says, gesturing to two comfortable chairs. "Have a seat. Let's talk about your routine."
For the next half-hour, she explains my condition in a way that is scientific without being scary. She uses phrases like "declarative memory consolidation failure" and talks about how sleep acts as a "hard reset" for my short-term memories. But she also talks about the tools we can use to fight back.
"These anchors—the video, the notes, the photo wall—they are a form of external scaffolding," she explains, her gaze fixed on me. "They aren't just reminders. They are a way for you to consciously and actively give consent each morning to rebuild your world. This is crucial, Tsukimi-san. This system only works if you are the architect. Your voice, your choices. Always."
Her words hit me with the force of a revelation. The video, the postcard… they aren't just Reo helping a helpless girl. They are tools I built for myself. I am an active participant in my own survival.
"Okay," I say, my voice clearer than it's been all day. "I want to make a new video. An official one. In my own words."
A proud smile lights up Nurse Shidou's face. "Excellent."
Reo nods, a flicker of something—relief? approval?—in his eyes. "We can use an empty classroom. It'll be quiet."
The classroom we find is on the third floor, deserted after the last bell. The setting sun streams through the windows, bathing the room in a soft, golden light and illuminating the dancing dust motes. It's quiet and peaceful.
Reo pulls out his phone. "I have the one we made the other day," he says, his thumb hovering over the screen. "You can use it as a template if you want. Just to see the pacing."
"Okay, sure."
He presses play. The video flickers to life, but it isn't the one from this morning. It's a different take. In this one, the camera is closer, the angle more intimate. My video-self looks less coached and more tired, her smile more fragile. And Reo… he's in the frame, just slightly, sitting beside her.
His voice from the recording fills the quiet room. It's softer, lower. "Okay, just say… 'Good morning, Arisa.' You can do this." She stumbles over the words, and his voice cuts in again, gentle and coaxing. "Hey. Look at me. It's okay. Just… trust me, Arisa."
He said my name. No 'Tsukimi-san'. Just Arisa. And the way he said it… it was laced with a deep, weary affection, a history that echoed in a single word.
A strange warmth blooms in my chest, a phantom sensation that feels achingly familiar. It's a comforting, pleasant feeling. But right behind it comes a chill of violation. This intimacy, this shared moment… it belongs to another girl. To yesterday's Arisa. I haven't earned it. I haven't consented to it. It feels like I'm reading a page from someone else's diary.
"Stop," I whisper, my voice tight.
Reo's thumb immediately hits the screen, silencing his own recorded voice. The room goes quiet. He doesn't look at me, but I can see a muscle twitch in his jaw.
"I… That's not…" I struggle for the words. "It's too… familiar. I don't know you like that. Not today."
The silence stretches, thick with unspoken things. I expect him to argue, to explain, to justify it. To say, but yesterday you were okay with it.
Instead, he just nods, his eyes still fixed on the phone screen. "You're right," he says, his voice level. "That version isn't for you. It's not appropriate. I'm sorry."
And then, without another moment of hesitation, his thumb moves to the corner of the screen. He presses 'delete.' A confirmation box pops up. He presses it again.
It's gone. A piece of our shared, forgotten past, erased with a simple, decisive tap. The action is so swift, so final, so utterly respectful of the boundary I just drew, that it leaves me breathless. He didn't just delete a video. He proved I was in control.
"Okay," he says, turning the phone to me, the camera app open and ready. "Let's start over. Your words. Tell me exactly what to say."
So I do. I dictate the script—the same one I heard this morning. Formal. Clear. Safe. We film it in one take. When it's done, I feel a profound sense of ownership. It is my sixty-second promise, made to myself.
Later that evening, sitting at the desk in my pale blue room, I prepare for the night. I hang the new school schedule beside the one from Itsuki on my corkboard. My eyes catch on the circle still stark on the class roster. The sense of wrongness hasn't faded.
I pull out a fresh postcard, a picture of a moonlit ocean on the front. I write down the day's events: the helpful Nurse Shidou, the friendly Nami, the troubling instinct about Itsuki Kurobane. Then I write about the video.
We made a new one. It's safer this way. He deleted the old one. I pause, pen hovering over the paper. The phantom warmth of his voice in the deleted take still lingers in my memory. The gentle, familiar way he said my name. I add one last line for the girl who will wake up as me tomorrow.
He's safe. You can trust him. My pen strokes the page. He erased a memory for you, but even after it was gone, I could still hear the echo of how he said my name.