The days after we started counting didn't feel special.
That was what made them dangerous.
Morning came. The sun rose. Cicadas screamed like they always did. If you didn't know better, you'd think nothing had changed. But everything had.
We met at the river almost every day now. Not because we planned it—because we were afraid that if we didn't, one of us might disappear without warning.
Ren stopped joking.
Yuna smiled more than usual.
Mio noticed everything.
"Twenty-four," Ren said one afternoon, then immediately shut his mouth.
Yuna shot him a look. "You said you wouldn't."
"I didn't mean to," he replied.
Silence followed.
I skipped a stone across the water, watching it sink too soon. "We don't have to count out loud."
Ren laughed bitterly. "Doesn't mean it's not happening."
Later, Mio and I sat on the grass while Ren and Yuna wandered ahead.
"Do you think she's scared?" Mio asked.
"Yes," I said. "But not of leaving."
She looked at me. "Then what?"
"Of being remembered," I answered. "And of being forgotten."
Mio hugged her knees. "That's cruel."
"So is time," I replied.
She smiled at that, small and sad.
That evening, Yuna finally spoke.
"I don't want this summer to turn into something painful," she said quietly. "I want to remember it as warm."
Ren stopped walking. "Warm things still burn."
She flinched.
"I didn't ask for this," Yuna said. "I didn't choose to leave."
"I know," Ren replied. "But I didn't choose to fall apart either."
The words hung there, unfinished.
When we reached the crossroads, Yuna lingered.
"Same place tomorrow?" she asked.
Ren hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah."
Mio smiled. "Of course."
They all looked at me.
"I'll be there," I said.
That night, I didn't open my notebook right away.
I lay in bed, listening to the world breathe through my open window.
When I finally wrote, it was just one line.
Ordinary days become the loudest when you realize how few are left.
I closed the book.
Tomorrow was waiting.
And summer—gentle, merciless summer—kept moving forward.