The alarm on my nightstand doesn't ring so much as apologize: a soft chime, a single petal falling. I don't recognize the room it lands in.
White curtains billow with a morning breeze, filtering a watercolor sky. A corkboard wall covered in photographs commands my attention, its constellation of smiling strangers connected by handwritten arrows, like a treasure map a kinder version of me drew for the girl who would wake up lost.
I am the girl. I am lost.
My heart hammers a frantic, silent rhythm against my ribs. This happens. A deep, instinctual part of me knows this hollow terror is a routine, but that knowledge offers no comfort. It just makes the loneliness sharper.
"Hi, I'm Arisa," says the phone, face down on the pillow beside me, already playing a sixty-second video I apparently made for myself. The voice is mine, but calmer, steadier. The voice of someone who knows things I don't. "You like lemon candy and quiet corners. Today, trust your pen. If you're scared, look left—photo with the yellow ribbon. Reo is safe."
The name—Reo—skims my skin like a breeze that knows where I've been, a phantom touch without a memory to anchor it.
I look left. Yellow ribbon, tied to the corner of a single Polaroid on the wall. A rooftop picture at what could be sunrise, or maybe sunset. Two silhouettes stand against the glowing sky, almost touching. One is me. The other is a boy. He's looking at me the way people look at the final, brilliant burst of a firework they thought they'd missed. It's a look so full of gentle history that it makes my throat tighten.
Before the video can finish its minute-long broadcast from the past, the door to my bedroom slides open on careful rails.
"Good morning," he says.
It's him. The boy from the photograph. He's too beautifully ordinary for a prince and too honest for a stranger. Tall, with dark hair that falls just so, and wearing the crisp, dark-blue blazer of our school uniform. In one hand, he holds a small paper bag with a smiling lemon stamped on it. His movements are measured, designed not to startle.
I clutch the sheet to my chest, a useless shield. "Do we… know each other?"
His smile is a small, sad, perfect thing, and it breaks anyway, just a little at the corners. The kindness in his eyes is what hurts the most. It feels familiar.
"We met yesterday," he says, his voice as calm as the one in my video. "We're meeting again."
He sets the paper bag on my desk, deliberately avoiding the cluster of photos and notes as if not to crowd the map my other self made for me. His respect for my space is a silent promise. "I'm Reo. Would you like to come upstairs after homeroom? The rooftop's… quieter."
My phone video runs out, the voice from yesterday finishing on a whisper. "You can do hard things."
"Okay," I say, the word leaving my lips before I can wonder if I've said it a hundred times before. The instinct to trust him is stronger than the fear. "Let's meet for the first time."
He gives a short, relieved nod, then slips back out of the room, closing the door with a soft click. Alone again, my breath escapes in a shudder. I sit up, my bare feet finding the cool wood of the floor. My room. My life. A complete puzzle with no picture on the box.
I stand and approach the corkboard. It's my primary anchor, the video said. The largest cluster of photos is labeled "Family." A smiling man and woman—Mom and Dad, the tags read, with a sad parenthetical underneath: (overseas, loves you). Next to them is a handsome young man with my same dark hair and a protective arm around a younger version of me. The tag says "Haruto. Brother. Call him if you're lost."
Another section is "School." There's the girl with the yellow ribbon photo. Reo. Safe. Next to it are group shots. A girl with a brilliant, sunny smile is in almost all of them, usually attached to my arm. A sticky note points to her: "Nami. Your seatmate. Your best friend. She makes you laugh."
My eyes land on a single postcard tacked to the center of the board. It's today's mission, written in my own looping script.
To: The Me of This Morning,
1. Goal: Get through homeroom without running away.
2. One Truth: The lemon candy Reo brings actually helps. Don't just stare at it.
3. One Surprise: Yesterday, you wrote a poem about the way sunlight hits the dust motes in the library. You liked it.
A poem. I look at my desk, where a neat stack of sticky notes sits beside a fountain pen. Trust your pen, the video said. I touch the cool metal, and a ghost of a feeling surfaces—not a memory, but an echo. The satisfaction of a well-formed line. The comfort of giving a fleeting feeling a permanent home.
A gentle knock on my door, and a different male voice, deeper and warmer. "Arisa? You up?"
"Yeah," I call out, my voice raspy.
Haruto enters, my brother from the photo. He's dressed for work, a messenger bag slung over his shoulder. He doesn't ask if I remember him; his expression says he already knows the answer.
"Morning," he says, his smile gentle. "Breakfast is on the table. Reo already dropped off your… well, you know." He gestures toward the lemon candy bag. He doesn't treat me like I'm broken, just… like I have a process. "Have a good day at school. Text me if the map gets confusing."
"I will," I promise the kind stranger who is my brother.
He pauses at the door. "Arisa. Yesterday you were brave. You can be brave again today."
Then he's gone. And I'm left with the weight of a bravery I can't recall earning, and the terrifying task of earning it all over again. I get dressed in the uniform hanging ready on my closet door, brush my teeth with the toothbrush that feels right in my hand, and head out into a world that knows me better than I know myself.
The walk to school is the strangest part. My feet know the way. They make the turn at the corner bakery, where the scent of warm bread feels like a greeting. They stop at the crosswalk without my instruction. My body remembers a path my mind has never traveled. Every student I pass in the same uniform is a potential friend, a potential threat. Their casual chatter is a language I've forgotten the key to.
I arrive at the massive gates of Ounishi High School, a fortress of strangers. A thousand faces flow past me, a river of forgotten histories. My postcard goal was just to survive homeroom. Suddenly, that feels like climbing a mountain.
Reo is somewhere in that crowd. He's safe, my past self promised.
But yesterday is a foreign country. And he's a boy I've never met.
The hallways are a roaring current of noise and color. Laughter echoes off the lockers, the squeak of sneakers fills the air, and a hundred different conversations blend into a meaningless hum. People glance at me, some offering small smiles or quick waves. I try to mirror them, a hollow gesture that feels like a lie. Every friendly face could belong to anyone—a close friend, a casual acquaintance, someone I despise. The not-knowing is a constant, grinding anxiety.
My classroom is 1-B. The sign above the door feels like a lifeline. I find my seat by the window, second from the back, just as the photo on my wall depicted. A bag identical to mine hangs on the hook. My territory.
I've barely sat down when a bright, energetic voice cuts through the fog.
"Ari! Good morning!"
I jump, startled. It's the girl from the photos, the one labeled Nami. Her short, choppy brown hair bounces as she drops into the seat next to mine, her smile so wide and genuine it could power the whole school.
"You look like you're trying to solve the mysteries of the universe again," she says, leaning in conspiratorially. She doesn't wait for an answer. Instead, she slides a little folded note onto my desk. It's not words, but a quick doodle of a grumpy-looking cat with the speech bubble, "Mondays."
A tiny, involuntary smile touches my lips. It feels foreign. Nami sees it and her own smile softens. "There you are." She doesn't press, doesn't ask questions. She just sits, radiating a warmth that asks for nothing in return. She is my best friend. The thought is a strange comfort, like finding a warm coat in the middle of a blizzard.
The first bell rings, and our homeroom teacher, Mr. Amamine, walks in. He's a young man with glasses and a perpetually calm demeanor. He scans the room, his eyes lingering on me for just a fraction of a second, a silent check-in that makes me feel seen, but not scrutinized. He starts taking roll, and my heart pounds as he gets closer to my name.
"Tsukimi, Arisa."
"Here," I manage, my voice barely a whisper.
He nods, and moves on. I survived. Goal number one is within reach.
Across the room, I see him. Reo Kisaragi. He sits near the front, his posture perfect, his textbook already open. He looks completely different here than he did in my bedroom this morning. In the fluorescent lights of the classroom, surrounded by his peers, he is every bit the "school prince" people whisper about. Girls watch him from the corners of their eyes. Boys treat him with a careful respect. He's a fortress of quiet charisma.
And he helped me this morning. He looked at me with broken-hearted kindness and offered me a bag of lemon candy. The two versions of him don't seem to fit.
As Mr. Amamine lectures about the upcoming committee selections, I feel Reo's gaze. I risk a glance and our eyes meet across the classroom. He gives me the smallest, most imperceptible nod. A question. Still okay?
I give a tiny nod back. For now.
A flicker of relief crosses his face before he turns his attention back to the front, once again the perfect, untouchable student. The quiet exchange feels like a secret, a thin, invisible thread connecting my little island of confusion to his continent of calm.
The bell for the end of homeroom shrieks, releasing everyone back into the chaotic currents of the hallway. Nami is instantly on her feet, chattering about a new crepe place she wants to try after school.
"They have a matcha special with mochi, Ari, you have to—"
"Tsukimi-san."
The voice is quiet, but it cuts through everything. Reo is standing by my desk. The students flooding out into the hall give him a wide berth, a bubble of respectful silence forming around him. Nami's words trail off, and she looks from me to Reo, her eyes wide with curiosity.
"Kisaragi-kun," Nami says, her tone bright but protective. "What's up?"
He gives her a polite smile, but his focus is on me. "I was just wondering if you were still free to talk. On the rooftop?"
My breath catches. The entire class isn't watching, but it feels like it. My other self told me he was safe. My brother lets him in my house. But every instinct screams that walking off alone with the most popular boy in school is a very, very bad idea.
My hand tightens on the corner of my desk. I look at him, really look at him, searching for any sign of a trick, any hint of insincerity. But all I see is a carefully controlled worry in his dark eyes. He's not asking as a prince. He's asking as the boy from the photograph.
"Yeah," I say, my voice firmer than I expect. "Okay."
Nami's eyebrows shoot up, but she just gives my shoulder a quick squeeze. "See you in History, then," she whispers, before getting swept up in the crowd.
Reo waits for me to gather my things. We walk out into the hallway together, and the whispers follow us. It's like walking next to the sun. I can feel the heat of everyone's attention. We don't speak as we navigate the corridors, moving against the flow of students heading to their next class. He leads me to a staircase at the far end of the building, one that's empty and quiet.
We climb, our footsteps echoing on the metal stairs. The air grows cooler, and I can see bright daylight filtering through the window on the landing above. We reach the top. A heavy metal door stands between us and the sky.
He puts his hand on the handle, then stops. He turns to me, his back to the door.
"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice low. "We don't have to. We can just… try again tomorrow."
The offer is genuine. The out is real. It's that sincerity that undoes me. He's not pushing. He's inviting.
My own self—my past self, the girl who left me the note, the girl who looked brave—trusted him.
Maybe, for today, I can borrow her courage.
"I'm sure," I say. "Let's go."
Reo pushes the door open, and the world expands. We step out onto the rooftop, and the city stretches out below us, a panorama of concrete and glass under a brilliant blue sky. A steady wind whips my hair across my face and tugs at my uniform, a clean, cool embrace. It's quiet up here, the noise of the school muted to a distant hum. A high chain-link fence guards the perimeter, but otherwise, the space is wide open. It feels like a sanctuary.
"We came up here yesterday," Reo says, walking toward the center of the roof. He doesn't look at me, but at the skyline, giving me space to breathe. "You said it was easier to think when you could see how big everything was."
I walk to the fence, my fingers curling around the cool metal diamonds. Down below, the world moves on, oblivious. Students cross the courtyard, cars glide down the street. Up here, time feels different. Slower.
"What did we talk about?" I ask, my voice small against the wind.
He finally turns to face me. The wind catches his hair, and for a moment, he loses that perfect, princely composure. He looks young, and worried.
"About the reset," he says plainly. There's no pity in his tone, just fact. "About how exhausting it must be to build a life from scratch every single day. To have to decide who to trust, what to do, how to feel, with no memory to guide you."
He sees it. He actually sees the sheer, crushing weight of it. A knot in my chest I didn't even know was there begins to loosen.
"You have your anchors," he continues, gesturing vaguely back toward the school building, toward my room. "The photos, the video. They're a good start. They were your idea. But they're all from the past. They tell you what was true. They don't help you move forward."
He takes a small step closer, his hands tucked into his pockets. "Every day is Day One for you. But what if we could make it Day Two? Just a little bit? What if we could build a bridge from one day to the next, even a fragile one?"
This is it. The reason he's here. Not just to be kind, not just to bring me candy, but to offer a plan. My heart is beating a little faster now, but it's not just fear. It's a flicker of something else. Hope.
"How?" I whisper.
"By working together," he says, his gaze steady and serious. "I can be… an external hard drive. A witness. We can make the anchors better. More detailed. The morning video could be longer. The postcard could have more direct instructions, things to look out for. We can add to the photo wall every single day, so you don't just have a history, you have a timeline that's moving forward."
It's overwhelming. Terrifying. To give a stranger that much access, that much power over my reality. It could be a trick, a manipulation. A way to write himself into my life until I can't imagine a day without him. The cynical part of my brain, the part that wakes up screaming in an unfamiliar room, warns me to run.
But my other self, the one who lived through yesterday, knew this boy. She looked at him on this very rooftop and decided he was worth the risk. My hand drifts to my pocket, and my fingers find the small, crinkly wrapper of a lemon drop. Reo is safe.
"Why?" I ask, the most important question of all. "Why are you doing this?"
For the first time, a blush colors his cheeks. He looks away, back at the horizon. "Because… yesterday, you laughed. At something I said. It was… the best sound I'd ever heard. And I realized it wasn't fair that I was the only one who got to remember it."
The simple, unvarnished honesty of his words hits me harder than any grand declaration. He wants me to remember my own joy.
I take a deep breath, the cool air filling my lungs. Trust your pen, my past self had said. Trust this boy, she had insisted. I have to choose. Do I stay on my island, safe and completely alone? Or do I take the hand of this gentle stranger and try to build that bridge?
Yesterday's Arisa was brave. Today, I will be too.
"Okay," I say, and the word feels solid. Real. A foundation. "Let's try."
Relief washes over Reo's face so completely it's like the sun breaking through clouds. His perfect posture sags just a little, and he finally looks less like a prince and more like a teenage boy who has been holding his breath for a very long time.
He breaks into a real smile, and it transforms him. It's the same smile from the secret, stolen glance in homeroom. Earnest and warm and a little bit shy.
"Great," he says, a new energy in his voice. He pulls a small, white instant camera from his school bag. It looks well-loved. "Then let's start now. For tomorrow."
He holds the camera up, not pointing it at me yet, just holding it as an offering.
"Can I take a photo? Of us. Right here." He meets my eyes, his own impossibly sincere.
"Our first one… again."