(Opening Re-Orient Card - Arisa's Voice)
"Good morning. Your name is Arisa, and the story just took a huge step forward. Take a deep breath. Last night was your first real, uninterrupted date with Reo. It ended in the park, on the swings from our childhood. He kissed you, and you kissed him back. It was your choice. It was gentle and kind, and according to this postcard, it was perfect. The girl who is writing this is terrified she's going to forget how that felt. Today is Day Four. When you see him on the rooftop, please, be brave. He's just as nervous as you are."
I sit on the edge of my bed, the postcard clutched in my hand, my entire body humming with a strange, secondhand embarrassment. My cheeks are on fire. I did what?
I look at the photo strip pinned to my wall. In the third picture, his face is so close to mine, his expression so incredibly soft. And I look… happy. Terrified, but happy. The evidence is undeniable. I had a first kiss last night. And now, I have to go to school and face the boy who gave it to me, a boy who, to my conscious mind, is still practically a stranger I've been getting to know for all of thirty minutes this morning.
This feels infinitely more terrifying than any disciplinary hearing or forged document.
As I go through the motions of getting ready, a strange sensation keeps distracting me. I keep unconsciously touching my lips. They feel… different. Not physically, but there's a faint, persistent tingling, a ghost of a pressure, a phantom warmth that I can't explain. It's like the echo of a song you can't quite hear, a vibration left in the air after the music has stopped. It's so faint that if I think about it too hard, it disappears.
It was perfect, my yesterday-self had written. The simple, declarative statement sends another wave of heat through me. I bury my burning face in my hands. How am I supposed to act normal?
The walk to the rooftop is the longest, most nerve-wracking ascent of my life. I'm clutching the strap of my bag like I'm about to walk a tightrope over a canyon. I push the door open, my heart doing a frantic tap-dance against my ribs.
He's there, just as promised. But he's not in his usual spot by the railing. He's standing near the center of the roof, a respectful distance away from the door, giving me space. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets, and the calm, princely composure is gone, replaced by a nervous energy I can feel even from across the rooftop. He's just as terrified as I am. The thought is strangely comforting.
"Good morning, Arisa," he says, and his voice is a little tight.
"Hi… Reo," I reply, the name still a novel, intimate thing on my tongue. "My, uh… postcard was very informative this morning."
A faint blush colors his cheeks. "It only ever tells the truth of what happened," he says quietly, his eyes searching my face, trying to gauge my reaction.
We stand in an awkward, yawning silence. The routine has been broken. Before, our mornings were about re-establishing facts, about survival. Now, there is intimacy hanging in the air between us, an intimacy only one of us can consciously remember.
"I'm sorry," I blurt out, the words tumbling over each other. "This is just… really weird. For me. To know something like that happened, but not… remember it. The feeling of it. It's like I read a really good review of a movie, but I haven't actually seen it yet."
My clumsy metaphor seems to break the tension. A small, genuine smile touches his lips. "That's a good way to put it." He hesitates, then takes a small step closer. "How… how are you feeling?"
I look down, my hand instinctively going to my mouth. "My lips," I say, my voice barely a whisper. "They feel weird. Like they're… buzzing. Or humming. I don't know how to describe it." I look up at him, my eyes wide with a confused vulnerability. "Is that… a memory?"
His expression softens with a look of such profound, gentle understanding it almost makes me cry. "Nurse Shidou calls it an emotional echo," he says, his voice a low, steady anchor. "She says that sometimes a powerful experience can leave a physical trace, a sensory residue, even when the declarative memory is gone. It's not the memory itself. It's just… the proof that it was there."
Proof that it was there. The buzzing on my lips isn't a memory of a kiss; it's a receipt. It's the lingering warmth from a fire that has gone out. It's the most frustratingly beautiful thing I've ever experienced.
"So I'm just supposed to… what? Take my postcard's word for it that it was a good kiss?" I ask, a hint of my own frustration coloring my tone.
"No," he says instantly. "You don't have to do anything. We can… go back. Back to the old routine. Back to being friends. I will never, ever push you, or assume that because yesterday's Arisa felt something, today's Arisa has to."
His respect for my autonomy is so absolute, so complete, it's a physical force. He's giving me an out. An escape hatch from this awkward intimacy. And looking at his earnest, anxious face, I know with a sudden, fierce certainty that running away is the last thing on earth I want to do. The girl who wrote that postcard was brave. I can be brave, too.
I take a deep breath and close the distance between us, stopping just a few feet away. "I can't remember yesterday's kiss," I say, my voice trembling but clear. "And that… really, really stinks. I feel cheated out of it." I look him right in the eye. "But… I can decide what happens with today."
A flicker of hope ignites in his eyes.
Slowly, deliberately, I reach out and take his hand. His fingers instinctively lace through mine, a perfect, familiar fit. "I choose today," I say softly. "And I choose to believe my other self. The one who said it was perfect."
The relief that floods his face is like the sun breaking through the clouds. He lifts my hand and, with a reverence that makes my knees feel weak, he turns it over and presses a gentle, feather-light kiss to the back of my knuckles.
"Then thank you for giving today a chance," he whispers against my skin.
The kiss on my hand is small and chaste, but it sends a jolt of pure, brilliant electricity through my entire body. And in that moment, the phantom buzzing on my lips is replaced by the very real, very present warmth of his, right here, right now, on my skin. This one I won't need a postcard to remember. This feeling, this brand new echo, I will carry with me for the rest of the day.
The first bell rings, and the sound is not an intrusion but a punctuation mark. A start. As we walk toward the stairs, hand in hand, the silence is no longer awkward. It's full of a quiet, shared promise. The promise of a new story, being written one day, one choice, one touch at a time.
We're almost at my classroom when Nami comes skidding around the corner, her face pale with a panic that has nothing to do with being late.
"Ari! Reo!" she gasps, out of breath. "You're not going to believe it. He's back."
My stomach drops. "Who's back?"
Nami takes a deep, ragged breath, her eyes wide with disbelief. "Itsuki Kurobane. His two-week suspension is over. I just saw him walk into our classroom. He's at his desk like nothing ever happened."