The next morning's re-orientation is layered. The video grounds me, the postcard from last night informs me, and then my eyes find the photo wall. The Great Wall of Arisa. Seeing it for the "first time" is a staggering experience. It's a silent, multi-faceted storyteller. My gaze catches on the childhood photo, and a flicker of warm, genuine memory surfaces—Satoru Nadeshiko, scraped knees on a playground. It's a solid, reassuring anchor to a past I still possess.
Then my eyes find the candid shot, the one Reo took. The ache in my chest is immediate, a phantom limb of emotion for a moment I can't recall. He saw you like this, a quiet voice in my head whispers. This is who you were yesterday.
When I meet him on the rooftop, the memory of that photo is so fresh in my mind that I find I can't quite meet his eyes. It feels too intimate, like I've been caught reading his private thoughts.
He doesn't press. He just hands me the now-familiar can of warm milk tea. "Did the wall help?" he asks, his voice carefully neutral.
"It did," I say, focusing on the can in my hands. "It's… a lot. But it's good."
"Satoru Nadeshiko came by yesterday," my own postcard had informed me. Looking at Reo now, a part of me wants to ask about the tension I'd apparently witnessed between the two of them. But I don't know this Reo well enough to ask that kind of question. Today's me only just met him a few minutes ago. The chasm between what I feel and what I'm allowed to know is a constant, frustrating tightrope walk.
The morning passes in a gentle, predictable rhythm. Class with Nami's cheerful running commentary. A nod from Itsuki Kurobane that I pointedly ignore, my body tensing in a remembered warning. And then, lunch.
Back on the rooftop, our safe haven, I finally work up the courage to bring up something that has been bothering me since I first truly understood my condition.
"Reo-kun," I start, carefully placing my chopsticks down on my bento box.
He looks up from his onigiri, his full attention on me. "Yes?"
"This... our arrangement. You meet me every morning. You walk me to class. We eat lunch together. Isn't it… a lot?" I look down, my cheeks flushing. "I mean, don't you have other friends? A club? You're doing all of this for me. You're sacrificing your own time."
He is silent for a long moment, simply watching me. The breeze picks up, ruffling his dark hair.
"Yesterday," he says finally, his voice soft, "you called it our 'shared ritual.' Not a sacrifice." He looks away, out at the city. "And the day before that, you said you were glad I didn't have a club, because it meant we got more time. And… I am, too." He glances back at me, a flicker of something raw and vulnerable in his eyes. "This isn't a sacrifice, Tsukimi-san. It's a choice."
My heart gives a painful little squeeze. Every day, I worry that I am a burden. And every day, it seems, my other self has this exact same conversation with him and finds reassurance. For her, it's a continuous thread of deepening trust. For me, it's a gut-punch of gratitude I have to experience for the first time, over and over. He chose this. He chooses me, every morning, just as I have to choose to trust him.
"Oh," is all I can manage to say, my throat suddenly tight.
He offers a small, almost shy smile. "Eat your lunch before it gets cold."
We finish our meal in a more comfortable silence, the unspoken question having been asked and answered once again. As we pack up our things to head back to class, the atmosphere feels lighter. More solid. The afternoon bell will ring in a few minutes, and the rooftop will be ours for only a little while longer.
"So, Nami tells me Amamine-sensei has a new, terrible tie today," I say, testing the waters of the joke that my other self had apparently made, the one that prompted Reo to take that photo.
His eyes crinkle at the corners. "The yellow one with the dancing pineapples?"
"That's the one."
"It's a tragedy," he confirms, his tone deadpan serious, and I laugh. A real, bright, unburdened laugh. In that moment, watching his face soften as he watches me, I can almost feel her—the girl from yesterday. I understand why she was smiling so freely. With him, it's easy.
"We should go," he says, his voice a little thicker than before. "Or we'll be late."
I nod, picking up my bag. "Okay."
We head for the stairwell, our comfortable quiet returning. Reo is a few steps ahead of me, his hand resting on the metal handrail as he descends. We get to the first landing, a small, square space before the stairs turn and continue down. He holds the door open for a pair of students heading up, then turns back to wait for me.
The steps are a bit steep. Preoccupied with trying not to trip over my own feet, I misjudge a step. My ankle rolls, a sickening, sharp jolt, and my balance is gone. I lurch forward, my bento box tumbling from my clumsy grip and clattering down the stairs ahead of me. A small, mortified cry escapes my lips as I pitch forward into empty air.
In the split second before I can fall, his hand is there.
He moves with a speed that seems impossible. His arm shoots out, his hand wrapping firmly, securely, around my wrist. He pulls me back from the brink with a single, smooth motion, steadying me against the wall. The momentum sends me stumbling into him slightly, my free hand landing on his chest to steady myself. His heart is hammering under my palm, a frantic rhythm that matches my own.
"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice low and urgent, his eyes scanning my face for any sign of injury. His hand is still wrapped around my wrist, a band of warmth and strength.
"I-I'm fine," I stutter, my face flaming with embarrassment. "Just clumsy."
"It's okay," he says, his grip not loosening.
And then I realize it. The feeling. His hand on my wrist, the exact placement of his fingers, the precise amount of pressure he's using to steady me… it is the most natural, practiced, and deeply familiar sensation I have ever felt. My skin knows this touch. My muscles know this weight. A jolt, more powerful than any phantom spark, goes through me. It's not a memory in my head. It's a memory in my bones.
This has happened before.
The thought is so clear, so certain, it makes me gasp. My eyes meet his, and I can see the same startled realization dawning on his face. He knows that I know. The hand-holding yesterday... no, on my yesterday. This feels different. Deeper. Older.
"Your wrist…" he says, his voice barely a whisper. "After the accident… it was sprained. I used to… help you on the stairs."
I used to help you on the stairs. The phrase hangs in the air between us, a key to a locked room. A piece of our shared history, of a time just after the accident, of a trust built touch by touch, day by day, that my body held onto even when my mind let go. Procedural memory. A well-worn groove carved by repetition and care.
My skin remembers him. How is my skin remembering him?
He slowly loosens his grip, as if realizing he might be overstepping a boundary. But for the first time, I don't want him to let go. I don't pull away. I just stare at his hand, then back up to his face, my mind reeling. A tiny piece of the wall between my then and my now has just crumbled away, leaving me shaken and breathless on the landing.