"...You, seriously."
The girl stared at the whistle lying cool in her palm, but she no longer pushed this kindness away the way she had before.
"You think you're some kind of Superman who transforms when he takes off his glasses?"
"Isn't a hero who pops up when you call kinda reliable? And pretty cool-looking too."
"I already told you: you're wasting time on someone who's dying. There won't be any rewards."
"So what? I like wasting time with you. At least when I waste time on you, it feels more like time than other times."
"..."
The black-haired girl tightened her grip on the cookie bag and fell silent, but the way her eyes darted and the way her fingers clenched betrayed how frazzled she was inside.
"I'm not good at sophistry, so if you want to play a third-rate role like that, go ahead."
That was almost certainly one of Narumi's lines to cheer a girl up—slick words were one of the things Yukinoshita Yukino least tolerated.
Still, she could understand a little why her sister had been smitten.
A hero who shows up the moment you call—does such a thing exist?
…If it did, why would it only exist in this simulated future?
Unconsciously, the black-haired girl squeezed the cool whistle tighter. Faced with the faint doubt in her eyes, the curly-haired young man answered with a small smile.
"Just a third-rate role? Why can't it be something a bit more special?"
He sounded slightly disappointed—but with a lightness that didn't weigh the mood down. He took a casual bite of the cookie Yukino had made, and didn't even flinch.
"If it's not the person your feelings point to, then no matter how you taste it, there's nothing special about the flavor."
A simple remark—but it nudged the two of them toward an unutterable direction.
—
Yukinoshita Yukino had never confessed to anyone the deepening pain and sorrow that crept into her life after getting sick.
Her pride would not allow her to show weakness, and the near-nonexistent social circle of peers left her no place to vent.
She didn't even know precisely how she'd gotten this illness.
But it wasn't "that big a deal"—only about fifty to sixty percent of severe pancreatitis patients die of organ failure.
Not that big a deal; at worst she'd simply head toward death decades earlier than her peers.
Not a big deal… besides, it's just in a simulation.
At least her family would start paying attention to her again.
Convincing herself of that allowed the still-high-school-aged Yukino to numb herself and obediently follow the doctors' instructions.
When the Yukinoshita family learned the grim news, they, too, moved past initial shock and began to participate in treatment plans. Mrs. Yukinoshita—whose relationship with her daughters had always been complicated—set aside other matters and focused on the child's health.
Calling doctors, coordinating with the hospital, urging Yukino to accept treatment—what began as meticulous concern slowly turned suffocating.
Like at that moment: Yukino had just pushed open the door to her apartment and was met with her mother's chilly but openly reproachful gaze.
"Yukino, I told you before."
Her mother: loving and attentive, and always applying that love with an all-encompassing control.
"If you're not well, you should stay at the hospital and rest. Don't worry about your attendance—I'll take care of the leave. Even if you're stubborn, think about how your parents feel, won't you?"
"I know, Mother, but—"
"I understand you don't want to fall behind in classes or with your peers, but the hospital bills are not small. When dealing with this, please be more mature, like Haruno."
Mrs. Yukinoshita sat up straight, speaking in a tone that sounded gentle but carried the weight of a lady of the house. She calmly brewed tea as she spoke, every movement measured.
"How's your health today? Any discomfort? If anything sudden comes up, tell your mother and the doctor. After all, both your parents and sister are worrying about you—this illness isn't just your problem. Our family will bear consequences that go beyond money. For others' sake, you should cherish your body."
Utterly right words—yet also an unquestionable form of "care."
"You may call me nagging, but if you... what is your mother supposed to do?"
"…Yes, Mother."
Yukino nodded and went to her room, but even that attention couldn't ease the tightness in her chest.
She shouldn't feel like this.
If her family valued her, she should be happy and face life positively. Instead, the sensation of something clamped around her throat—like the bitter medicine her mother forced on her as a child—returned.
So heavy.
Suffocatingly heavy—and yet, undeniably a form of how they showed love.
Being sick had made her question the whole chase after being "excellent," and what meaning following her sister's shadow really held.
She wanted to prove something to others, to measure her life's worth—but how can someone whose condition could deteriorate at any moment measure the value and heft of a life?
The TV in the living room kept repeating the comet news so loudly she could hear it from her bedroom. She sat at her desk, opened the cookie package, and let the rich milk aroma help dispel that heavy, oppressive feeling.
Turns out, sweets do make you feel better.
Sugars that provide energy help dopamine release and make it easy to feel happy—she'd tell that curly-haired guy next time. He liked stuffing little trivia like that into his novels and might appreciate it.
"..."
After the last bite, Yukino's gaze fell to the metal whistle hanging at her chest.
A hero who'll come if you just call.
It sounded like something a narcissist with a messiah complex would say to satisfy the urge to rescue others.
She lifted the whistle to her lips, opened her mouth, then wordlessly set it down again—she didn't remove it from her neck.
I don't think I stand a chance in this judgement.
The aid she called now—would it be the hero who came to save her, or the judge who came to pass sentence?
"...Do milk cookies have any other taste to them?"
Yukinoshita Yukino whispered to herself—still unsure.