(Opening Re-Orient Card - Arisa's Voice)
"Good morning. Your name is Arisa. Let's get straight to the facts, because today is going to be difficult. Reo is not your enemy. He is the boy you are writing a new story with. Yesterday, that story took another step forward; you can trust the feelings that are yours, today. But there is a real enemy. His name is Itsuki Kurobane. His suspension is over. He is back in your classroom. He will be polite. He will smile. Do not be fooled. The warning my hand circled on that class roster is still active. Stick close to Nami. Find Reo on the rooftop at lunch. Do not, under any circumstances, be alone with him."
The words on the postcard are a cold, hard slap of reality, extinguishing the lingering warmth from yesterday's fragile hope. I had one day. One single day of uninterrupted, sweet, normal happiness. Now the storm cloud is back.
I can feel the phantom chill of him as I walk into the classroom, Nami a small, protective satellite orbiting me. He's there. Sitting at his desk in the front row, just as the postcard warned, as if he'd never been gone. His posture is perfect, his uniform immaculate. He's calmly reading a book, a picture of studious serenity. A few classmates are gathered around his desk, whispering, welcoming him back. He is a master of managing his own narrative. To them, he was the victim of an overzealous student council, a prince momentarily deposed.
He looks up as I walk to my seat, his eyes finding mine. He offers me a small, pleasant smile. A smile that doesn't reach his eyes. There is no malice in it, no anger. There is nothing. And that's the most terrifying part. It's the placid, patient smile of a predator that knows it has all the time in the world. The school may have punished him, but he isn't done.
I slide into my seat, my heart a cold stone in my chest. I can feel the weight of his presence like a physical pressure at the front of the room. Nami passes me a note under the desk. You okay?
I just nod, my hands clenched into fists in my lap. I am not okay. I feel watched. I feel like prey.
Lessons pass in a torturous, slow-motion crawl. Every time Amamine-sensei calls on Itsuki to answer a question, I flinch. His voice—smooth, intelligent, articulate—is a weapon. It's the voice of the Chancellor from the play, the voice that weaves lies out of logic. How did I ever think it was kind? The ghost map in my hand, the one that circled his name like a warning, knew from the very beginning.
Lunchtime finally arrives. I'm so desperate to get out of that classroom that I nearly trip over my own feet. Nami and I all but run to the rooftop, bursting through the door into the open, sunlit air. Reo is already there, leaning against the railing, his face a grim, stony mask. He'd seen him this morning, too.
"Hi," I say, my voice tight.
He immediately straightens up, the hard mask softening as his eyes find mine. "You made it," he says, his relief palpable. "I was worried."
"He just… sat there," I say, the words tumbling out. "He smiled. Everyone is acting like he's the one who was wronged. Like we're the villains."
"I know," Reo says, his voice tight with a shared frustration. He pulls me into a gentle hug, his arms a circle of safety around my shoulders. "He's good at that. At manipulating the story." He holds me for a moment, a silent reassurance, before letting go. "But Mirei is already on it. She's had the seating chart in your class officially rearranged. From tomorrow, you'll be in the back row, with Nami. He'll be in the front. Maximum possible distance."
The thought is a small relief, but not enough. "What's his plan?" I whisper. "He can't try another forgery. He knows we're wise to that."
"No," Reo agrees, his gaze turning distant and analytical. "His methods will be more subtle now. He won't attack you directly. He'll try to isolate you. To undermine the system. He'll go after the support structure."
His words are chillingly prophetic. A few hours later, in our final class of the day, it begins.
Amamine-sensei announces a new, long-term group project for our literature class. "I will be assigning partners at random," he says, picking up a list. I hold my breath, sending a desperate prayer to the universe. Please, not him. Anyone but him.
Sensei starts reading out the names. "Nami Koharu and… Kenji Tanaka." Nami gives me a look of pure, apologetic horror from across the room. My first line of defense is gone.
More names. And then, "Arisa Tsukimi and… Satoru Nadeshiko."
A wave of profound relief washes over me. Satoru. My childhood friend. Someone safe. I see him turn in his seat and offer me a small, kind smile. But when I look at Itsuki, he is also smiling, a tiny, knowing, self-satisfied smirk. He did this. He's no longer the class rep, but his influence, his ability to subtly pull strings with the teachers who still trust him, is clearly not gone. He didn't want me paired with a stranger. He paired me with Satoru on purpose.
It's a brilliant, insidious move. He's not putting me in danger. He's creating interference. Satoru represents my "before." He's a direct link to a past that doesn't include Reo. By forcing me to spend hours working with him on this project, Itsuki is deliberately trying to drive a wedge between my old life and my new one. He's trying to muddy the waters, to create a triangle of obligations and emotions that will distract and exhaust me, making the fragile new story I'm writing with Reo harder to maintain.
After school, Satoru comes over to my desk. "Hey," he says, a little awkwardly. "Looks like we're partners. The library, tomorrow after school?"
"Yeah," I agree, my voice faint. "The library is fine."
I can feel Itsuki watching us, the silent, satisfied puppet master.
When I tell Reo about it at the gate, his expression darkens. "Of course," he murmurs. "The most logical, defensible, and subtle first move." He's not angry at Satoru, or at me. He's angry at Itsuki's manipulative genius. "He's trying to dilute the routine. To force your time and emotional energy in a different direction."
"What do I do?" I ask, my heart sinking. "I can't just refuse to do the project."
"You don't," he says, his hand finding mine, a firm, grounding presence. "You do the project with Satoru. You are polite and friendly. And you don't let Itsuki win. We knew he would counter-attack. So we will counter his counter. Our routine doesn't get weaker. It gets stronger." He lifts my chin, forcing me to meet his determined gaze. "We add a new rule. The second your project work is done, you text me. And I will be there. We will have our time, Arisa. The rooftop, the bookstore, the park. He doesn't get to take that from us. He doesn't get to take anything from us."
His resolve is a fire, burning away my fear. This isn't just a romance anymore. It's a quiet, daily fight for every inch of our new story.
That night, as I prepare my postcard, I feel a grim sense of determination. He's trying to use your past against you, to pull you away from Reo by forcing you to spend time with Satoru, I write. I detail the plan, the new rule. I tape a small, cutout picture of Reo's face next to the warning about Itsuki. This is your anchor. This is your truth. Don't let the ghost at the front of the room make you forget it.
As I'm writing, I notice my old poetry book, The Last Starwatcher, sitting on my desk. I pick it up, its familiar weight a comfort in my hand. Following the old habit from her diary, the habit my "before" self loved so much, I flip to the very last page and read the last line of the book.
The words seem to leap off the page, a message written just for me, for this exact moment.
"And even in the longest night, she learned, a single star is enough to prove that the dawn is coming."