The rooftop was silent.
Lisa didn't remember deciding to come up here. Her legs had moved on instinct — as if some part of her already knew what her mind hadn't caught up to.
The city stretched below — glittering, unfeeling. Her chest tightened.
Then she saw him.
A figure near the ledge, half-shadowed, half-real.
Rain-slick hoodie. Shoulders hunched like they'd carried the weight of the sky.
A silhouette her soul recognized before her mind could catch up.
He turned.
And whispered, broken:
"Hi."
Kyosuke Sagara. Older. Face more lined. But unmistakably him.
He lifted a single finger to his lips — a quiet plea.
A tired smile ghosted across his face.
From his coat, he pulled something small. Wrapped in cloth.
He held it out.
A pendant. Shaped like the stars. Their stars.
Lisa didn't breathe. Couldn't. Her fingers trembled as she reached forward, taking it from his outstretched hand like it was made of fire.
Their eyes met. Just for a second.
And he stepped back. About to leave.
Her hand caught his wrist — soft. Gentle.
"Kyo," she whispered. Fragile as glass.
He paused.
A mistake.
Because the next moment, Lisa folded into him, arms wrapping around his chest like she was trying to hold the past, the present, and everything she never got to say.
She broke.
The kind of break that shatters in silence first — then all at once.
Her shoulders shook. Her breath hitched.
Tears spilled from somewhere so deep even she hadn't known it was still there.
He froze.
This wasn't part of the plan.
But how could he not?
His arms came around her — slow, then firm.
Tight. Solid. Real.
A tremor pulsed beneath the city.
Ping.
He felt it like a knife under his ribs.
"Lisa," he murmured, voice strained. "I can't stay."
"No," she breathed. "Please. Stay. I don't care what happens next."
And Kyo —
Kyo, who never asked for anything —
just closed his eyes, and held her tighter.
Another ping — sharper now. Closer. It echoed off the concrete like a blade unsheathed.
He exhaled. Pulled back. Slowly. Like she might shatter if he moved too fast.
But she was already shattered.
Her fingers gripped his sleeves, desperate, eyes full of salt and memory.
"Kyo," she said again.
He touched her cheek. Just once.
"Lisa."
Another ping. Loud this time.
She saw it in his eyes — the flicker of goodbye.
Her grip slipped.
He turned.
And vanished into the shadows like he was never there.
She stumbled forward, breath caught in her throat.
"Kyo—!"
Her hand reached into the dark—into the space he'd stepped toward.
But there was nothing.
Just the sound of her own heartbeat. Just the air, cold where he'd been.
He was gone.
Like a ghost pulled back into whatever silence he came from.
She stood still for a second, disbelieving.
Then her knees gave out.
She crumpled where she stood, the pendant in her hand still warm from his.
Her breath hitched—once, twice—then broke into sobs that shook her whole body.
She didn't cry like an idol.
She cried like a girl who'd lost something sacred.
The door slammed open. The others came.
But all she could do was kneel in the dark,
clutching what little was left of him—
and cry like her heart had been rewound ten years,
only to break all over again.