The group began to stir, the senior leader's voice pulling them toward the next activity—a group puzzle in a different room. The chatter swelled, a wave of nervous energy after the quiet tension of the game. Rhay moved with the current, his mind still reeling from Vye's lie, when a soft hand fell on his arm. He turned, the motion clumsy and ungraceful.
Vye stood before him, her presence a sudden island of stillness in the chaos. Her gaze, usually so passive, was now a deep, unwavering current that seemed to strip him bare. It was the same intensity he had seen in her eyes decades ago when she was trying to solve a particularly difficult problem, but directed at him. He felt exposed, defenseless.
"Why did you lie about your truth?" she asked, her voice low and quiet. It wasn't a question so much as a harsh, assertive accusation.
"W-what?" Rhay stammered, caught completely off guard.
"'I hate homework,'" she repeated, the words sounding foreign and sharp from her lips. "That was a lie. The one you told everyone else as the truth. Why?"
A cold dread coiled in Rhay's stomach. He'd meticulously planned for every reaction, every possible deviation, but not this. Not the immediate, direct challenge of his core character. He had expected to see her quiet curiosity, her polite indifference, not this unnerving certainty. It was as if she had looked at the very fabric of who he was and found the loose thread he had so carefully hidden.
"I… I don't know what you're talking about," he replied, forcing a weak smile. It was a familiar defense, but it felt thin and unconvincing even to him.
Vye took a step closer, her expression unchanged. "I can tell when you're not being truthful. You're trying to be someone you aren't. You said you hate homework, but it's true that you love to do it. You said you never think about the future, but weren't you the type who always thinks about it? Isn't that why you were eager to join the chess clubs?"
Her words hit him like a series of physical blows. This wasn't just a keen observation; it was a knowledge of his character that transcended their brief, in-person acquaintance. It was the understanding of a shared history, of an intimacy that he cherished but that had not yet happened in this timeline. She knew him too well, knew the burden of his mind and his boundless optimism.
How could she know? The thought, a wild, electrifying possibility, crashed into his mind. It was the same fierce intuition he remembered, a ghost of her future self, but amplified. She was seeing through his carefully constructed lies as if they were made of glass.
Was this her instinct, honed to a preternatural edge? Or was it something else? Something more, a ghost of a past that he was trying to reshape, staring him directly in the face. The fear and confusion in Rhay's eyes must have been evident, because Vye's expression finally softened, though the intensity remained.
"Why are you acting like a person you don't want to become?" she asked again, this time with a note of genuine concern. Her gaze dropped for a moment to his hands, which were still clenched into fists in his pockets. "It's a heavy act to put on."
Rhay's mouth opened to speak, but no words came out. The sound of footsteps and distant laughter faded as the group moved further away, leaving them alone in the now quiet hall.
Vye had not only caught him off guard but had also masterfully isolated him, just as she was isolating the truth. The genuine concern in her eyes—the note of empathy in her voice—it was a glimpse of the Vye he knew, the one he had loved. He had spent his life with her; he knew her rhythms and the quiet moments when her steel facade softened. This wasn't a trick. This was her, and for the first time since he had arrived, he chose to trust it.
He loosened his fists in his pockets, his knuckles still white with the effort of control. He took a single, deliberate step toward her, closing the small distance between them. The sharp, assertive Vye from a moment ago vanished, replaced by a vulnerability that was both exhilarating and terrifying.
"You're right," he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, a stark contrast to the chaos of his inner thoughts. "It is a heavy act to put on."
He saw a flicker of surprise in her eyes, as if she hadn't expected him to concede so easily. Rhay's heart pounded against his ribs, a frantic rhythm that felt both like a desperate plea and a defiant challenge. It was now or never. He had to know if the ghost of their past still lingered in her soul, too.
"I will tell you my truth," he continued, his gaze holding hers with an intensity that matched her own. "I lied about the homework because I was trying to outrun a version of myself I no longer wanted to be. A kind-hearted soul, so eager to help my friends that it was my downfall. I didn't want to be that boy again. I wanted to break the person I was, to become someone new."
Vye's eyes softened, a recognition in their depths. The words hung in the air, a confession that was both an explanation and a subtle plea for understanding. But Rhay wasn't done. He was turning the table, not with a harsh accusation, but with a question that would either build a bridge or shatter their world forever.
He let a small, knowing smile touch his lips, a secret shared across a chasm of decades. He reached out and gently took her hand, his thumb brushing against her knuckles. The touch, so familiar to him, felt alien in this new, old reality. Vye didn't pull away.
"Now it's your turn, Vye," he said, his voice barely a breath. "You told the group that you secretly write poetry was a lie. But I don't think so." He paused, letting his gaze deepen into hers, searching for the echo of a shared life. "I think you do write it because your soul demands it—that it's as necessary to you as breathing, a truth you can't live without."
Vye's composure, so unwavering just moments before, fractured entirely. Her hand, which had been passive in his, went rigid. Her eyes, wide and filled with a shock so profound it felt like a silent scream, stared at him. It was a look of pure bewilderment, the expression of someone whose deepest, most private motivation had just been plucked from her soul by a stranger. The air between them, once thick with tension, was now charged with a new, terrifying mystery.
He could feel the subtle rhythms of her heart through their joined hands, a frantic, bewildered drum against his own. Her reaction wasn't a flicker of surprise—it was a quake that shook the very foundation of his fragile, rusty map. The truth of her poetry wasn't a key to a shared past; it was a testament to a shared understanding, a connection so profound that it transcended the rust on the map. He had not told her their history, but he had just demonstrated that he knew her soul. Her shock was all the answer he needed.