We had written two paragraphs.
TWO.
In over an hour.
The tension in the room wasn't helping — neither was the way Shinbou kept staring around my house like he was trapped in some fuzzy, half-remembered dream.
"Do you want to take a break?" I asked, closing my notebook.
He didn't answer right away.
Just said, "Sure."
We sat there in silence, sipping now-cooled tea. Outside, the clouds rolled in darker than before.
And then
Click.
The fan died.
The fridge stopped humming.
The clock on the microwave blinked off.
"Did the power just—?" I stood, confused.
Shinbou raised an eyebrow. "Your house loses power often?"
"Nope. First time in forever."
And of course, the world decided it needed to be completely silent and dark for the most emotionally confusing moment of my life.
---
I lit a small lamp from the emergency shelf and brought it to the table.
The golden glow painted soft shadows on Shinbou's face.
He looked different in the dim light.
Less guarded.
More… human.
---
"You're quiet," I said.
"You always say that."
"Because it's always true."
A tiny smirk. Then, "I'm thinking."
"About?"
"…Stuff."
"Shinbou."
He sighed and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling like it might give him answers.
"This house. You. The way I feel when I'm here… It's not normal."
I held my breath.
"It's not bad," he clarified. "It's just... like I'm walking through a dream I forgot I had."
My chest tightened.
He turned his eyes to me.
"You ever feel like your heart knows something your brain doesn't?"
I nodded slowly. "All the time."
---
A long pause.
Then:
"I keep wondering if maybe I'm broken," he said, his voice lower now. "Like, everyone else remembers who they are, where they've been. And I'm just… this copy of a person with missing pieces."
"You're not broken," I said softly. "You're just… not finished."
He looked at me like he was about to say something more something real.
But then the lights flicked back on.
We both flinched.
The moment shattered.
---
He stood up, suddenly restless. "I should go. It's getting late."
I followed him to the door, still clutching the notebook like it would shield me from how fast my heart was beating.
At the doorway, he turned.
"You're weird," he said.
I blinked. "That's your final thought for the evening?"
"You keep smiling even when you look like you're about to cry."
I froze.
Then whispered, "And you keep frowning like you're scared to smile."
He didn't reply.
Just stared at me like I had said something that hurt more than it should've.
Then he stepped out.
And the door closed behind him.
---
That night, I didn't sleep.
Because the notebook still sat on the table.
And next to it, in his writing, was a single unfinished sentence he'd written during the blackout:
"There's something about her that feels like"
And then… nothing.