Reo stands with the instant camera held as a careful offering between us, not as a weapon aimed at my memory. The question hangs in the crisp rooftop air: Can I take a photo? A photo for a girl who won't remember this moment, to prove that it happened. To prove that she was here, and that she wasn't alone.
My fingers are still cold from gripping the chain-link fence. "Okay," I say, and the word is quieter than the wind, but he hears it.
A wave of relief softens his expression. He steps back, creating a comfortable distance, and lifts the camera. "You don't have to smile if you don't want to," he says quickly, as if sensing the pressure to perform a happiness I don't feel. "Just… be here. That's more than enough."
His consideration is a disarming thing. I can't muster a real smile, not one that would look convincing to my future self. Instead, I just look at him—at this kind, anxious boy who is pretending so hard to be calm. The camera shutter makes a soft, whirring click.
A small white rectangle slides out from the top. He takes it gently, holding it by the edges. He doesn't look at it. He looks at me. "It takes a minute to develop. For the image to appear."
The metaphor hangs between us, unspoken.
We stand in silence as the blankness slowly gives way to color and form. First, the bright wash of the sky, then the dark line of the distant buildings, and finally, us. Two figures against the vastness of the world. I'm not smiling, but I'm not scared, either. I'm just watching him. And he… he's looking just slightly off-camera, his own expression a complicated mix of hope and restraint. It's a strangely honest photo.
"What should we write on it?" I ask, my voice barely carrying over the breeze. "For tomorrow morning?"
He pulls a fine-tipped permanent marker from his blazer pocket. Of course he was prepared. "Whatever you think will help her the most," he says, offering me the pen. "It should be in your handwriting. It's more believable that way."
Her. He talks about tomorrow's Arisa like she's a different person. In a way, she is. I am yesterday's Arisa, living on borrowed time. My mission is to leave good tools behind for the next one. I take the pen, its cool plastic a solid presence in my hand. What would she need to know? What would convince her to trust this moment?
My other self told me to trust my pen. So I do.
I turn the photo over and carefully write on the white border at the bottom: He asked first. You said yes. And below that, in smaller letters, We decided to build a bridge.
I hand it back to him. He reads the words, his dark eyes scanning the lines. He stops at the last sentence. He lifts his head, and there's a new light in his expression, something fragile and bright. He doesn't say thank you. He just gives me a small, grateful nod that feels more meaningful than any words.
The bell for our next class chimes, a distant, metallic sound that shatters the rooftop's peaceful dome. Reality returns. We have to go back down, back into the river of students, back to being a prince and a ghost.
"Here," he says, pressing the still-developing photo into my palm. The surface is slick and cool, but there's a faint warmth coming from the chemicals working within it. It feels alive. "You should hold onto it. It's proof."
Proof that for five minutes, on a sunlit rooftop, I wasn't entirely lost.
Back in the fluorescent hum of the classroom, the photo is a secret weight in my notebook. Every time my fingers brush against its edge, the quiet reality of the rooftop rushes back in.
At the lunch bell, the classroom erupts. Desks scrape together, bento boxes appear, and the air fills with a dozen competing conversations. Before I can even process the shift, Nami has dragged her chair over to my desk, her own lunch forgotten in favor of a much more interesting topic.
"Soooooo," she begins, drawing the word out. She leans forward, her chin propped on her hands, her bright eyes sparkling with insatiable curiosity. "The rooftop. With Prince Perfect himself. Details. I require every single one. Now."
My throat goes dry. What details are there? The ones I remember are barely ten minutes old. Any shared history, any reason for his attention, is a blank slate for me. "We just… talked," I manage, which is the truest and most useless answer I could possibly give.
Nami sighs dramatically, but her gaze sharpens. She's looking for something specific—fear, annoyance, a lovesick blush. When she finds none of it, just a kind of quiet confusion, her protective instincts flare to life.
"He wasn't weird, was he?" she asks, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Because if he was, I have a list. Three different ways to 'accidentally' spill Calpis on a pristine white shirt, each more devastating than the last."
Despite myself, a real laugh escapes me. It feels like cracking open a door that's been sealed shut for a long time, letting a little bit of light in. Nami's face breaks into a triumphant grin.
"There it is! The elusive Ari-laugh. Success!" she declares. Seeing my genuine reaction seems to settle something in her. My anchor note was right. She makes me laugh.
The trust I felt on the rooftop with Reo echoes now with Nami. I can do hard things, the video-me had promised. Maybe trusting a friend is one of them.
"He's trying to help," I say, the words feeling heavy and strange. "With my… situation."
Nami's playful expression vanishes, replaced by a fierce, focused seriousness. "Help how? Does he know?"
The school knows I was in an accident. They know I was out for a while. The specifics, however, are a closely guarded secret between me, my brother, and the school administration. But Reo knows. That much is clear.
"He knows," I confirm. "He suggested… being an external memory. Helping me make the anchors better so that each day isn't starting from zero."
Nami processes this, her brow furrowed. "An external hard drive, huh?" She taps a thoughtful finger on her chin. "Okay. I don't hate it. But you have to promise me something, Ari." She leans in, her expression leaving no room for argument. "As your Best Friend and Chief Protector, you have to tell me if anything feels wrong. If he ever makes you feel pushed, or weird, or anything less than totally in control. Promise?"
"I promise," I say, and the knot of anxiety in my chest loosens another notch. I'm not alone in this. I have my anchors, I have this fierce, funny girl, and I have… Reo.
Our conversation is interrupted by a polite clearing of the throat.
"Tsukimi-san, Koharu-san."
It's Itsuki Kurobane, the class representative. He's holding a clipboard, and his smile is impeccably polite. He's handsome, in a way that's completely different from Reo—more polished, more calculated. He gestures to the sheets on his clipboard.
"Here are the sign-up lists for the cultural festival committee. I remember you were so interested in joining yesterday, Tsukimi-san."
The statement lands in the space between us, light as a feather and heavy as lead. Yesterday. Another country I have no passport for.
Itsuki's smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "You were so passionate about the decorations theme," he adds smoothly, his gaze unwavering. "It would be a shame to forget that."
The word forget is aimed with surgical precision. For a boy known for his perfect manners, it feels impossibly cruel. A chill runs down my spine that has nothing to do with the classroom's air conditioning.
The rest of the school day passes in a blur. Itsuki's comment left a strange, sour taste in my mouth, a warning bell my body recognized even if my mind couldn't place the threat. I managed a vague non-answer about needing to think about it, and he'd simply smiled and moved on.
When the final bell rings, releasing us, I find a small blue sticky note tucked into the corner of my textbook. It's not my handwriting; the letters are neat, precise, almost architectural.
Library, Reference Section? - R.K.
My heart gives a little skip. Part of our plan. Part of building the bridge. I give Nami a quick wave, promising to text her later, and make my way to the library.
The cavernous room is a haven of quiet. The scent of old paper and dust motes dancing in the afternoon sun immediately soothes my frayed nerves. I find him at a secluded carrel in the back, surrounded by towering shelves of encyclopedias. He's not reading; he's just waiting. As I approach, he looks up, and a small, relieved smile touches his lips. He gestures to the chair across from him, not beside him. The space is a silent testament to his respect for my boundaries.
"I thought we could work on tomorrow's postcard," he says, his voice a low murmur that fits the library's hush.
He slides a slim, black notebook across the polished table. "I kept some notes. From things you said and did yesterday. Small things. I thought they might… help you write your message to yourself." He adds quickly, "You don't have to look at them if you don't want to. This is your call."
My call. Everything is always my call with him. The thought gives me the courage to nod.
He opens the notebook. His handwriting is as neat on the page as it was on the sticky note. "Okay. At 10:17 AM, you noticed the ginkgo tree outside the window is starting to turn yellow at the very tips. You wrote a little poem about it. At 12:45, you told Nami her laugh sounded like wind chimes. At 2:20… you saw a stray cat in the courtyard from the window, and you were worried if it was getting enough to eat."
He stops, looking up at me, gauging my reaction. My chest feels tight. They're such simple, unimportant things. But they feel… true. They sound like the girl my anchors describe—observant, a little quiet, a person who writes poems about dust motes and worries about stray animals. He isn't trying to rewrite my history with grand, romantic events. He's just holding up a mirror to a day I lived but cannot see.
"Thank you," I whisper.
I take a fresh postcard from my bag. It's blank, a terrifying canvas. I can feel him watching, but his gaze isn't pressure, it's support. I pick up my fountain pen.
To: The Me of This Morning,
1. Goal: Ask Nami about her drawing of the grumpy cat. It made you laugh.
2. One Truth: The boy who helps you isn't a prince. He's just holding up a mirror.
I pause at the last point, stumped. "What was yesterday's surprise?" I ask, looking up from the card. "The postcard on my wall said I liked a poem I wrote, but I mean… what was the real surprise?"
Reo looks down at his notebook, then back up at me. A fleeting, almost pained expression crosses his face before he smooths it away. "Yesterday's surprise," he says, his voice quiet but clear, "was that after everything, you agreed to meet me on the rooftop today."
The weight of it sinks in. The courage it must have taken for that girl, Yesterday's Arisa, to trust him. The leap of faith. The sheer, terrifying bravery of saying yes.
My pen hovers over the card, then moves with new certainty.
3. One Surprise: Yesterday, you were brave enough to say yes. You can be again.
I slide the finished postcard across the table. He reads it, and his shoulders, which I now realize were held ramrod straight, relax completely. A real, genuine breath escapes him. He takes out his own copy of our rooftop Polaroid, placing it next to the card. It's a matched set. A complete story in three parts: a photo, a mission, a promise.
He pushes a tiny roll of washi tape and a new yellow ribbon across the table. "For continuity," he murmurs. He's thought of everything.
As I start to gather my things, a small ecosystem of hope for tomorrow, his voice stops me. "Wait. There's one more thing."
He pushes his phone across the table. The screen is on, open to the video recording app, the timer set to 00:00.
"Tomorrow's video," he says, his gaze locked on mine, vulnerable and completely open. "Maybe… we should do it together."