The lecture ended, but I couldn't move.
Students around me packed up their notebooks, chattering about weekend plans and upcoming assignments. Taichi was already on his feet, complaining about how philosophy made his brain hurt. Ren was organizing his notes with methodical precision. Kei sat quietly, still processing whatever profound thoughts Professor Daizen had stirred up.
But all I could think about was her.
Airi Minazuki.
She hadn't looked back at me again during the remainder of class, but I'd watched the way her shoulders held tension, how she'd written only a few scattered words in her notebook while everyone else scribbled frantically. Like she was somewhere else entirely.
"Earth to Yuuma," Kouta's voice broke through my fog. "You coming to lunch, or are you planning to take root in that chair?"
"He's probably still processing all that reality talk," Taichi laughed, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Deep stuff, right? Made me question whether my breakfast was real this morning."
"Your breakfast was three energy drinks and a convenience store sandwich," Ren pointed out dryly. "I'd question its classification as food, let alone reality."
I forced myself to stand, muscles stiff from sitting too still. "Yeah, lunch sounds good."
But as we filed toward the exit, I found myself scanning the crowd for brownish-blonde hair. She was nowhere to be seen.
The cafeteria buzzed with the kind of energy I'd forgotten existed. Students clustered around tables, laughing and arguing and sharing food like it was the most natural thing in the world. The smell of curry and rice and fresh bread made my stomach growl—when was the last time I'd felt actually hungry instead of just empty?
We claimed a table near the windows, where sunlight streamed in and made everything feel warm and alive. Taichi immediately started demolishing what looked like three different meals.
"So," Kei said quietly, settling across from me with a simple bento, "what did you think of Professor Daizen's question?"
"Which one?" Kouta asked, unwrapping an elaborate sandwich. "The guy drops philosophical bombs every thirty seconds."
"About accepting the perfect life," Kei clarified, his dark eyes thoughtful. "Whether you'd question it or just be grateful."
The bracelet around my wrist seemed to pulse at the question, though when I glanced down, it looked as ordinary as ever.
"I think," I said slowly, surprised by how easily the words came, "that maybe the questioning is part of what makes it real."
Ren looked up from his carefully balanced meal. "Explain."
"Well..." I paused, not sure where these thoughts were coming from. "If something's too perfect, if you never doubt it or struggle with it, maybe it's not actually yours. Maybe the messy, complicated parts are what prove it matters."
"Deep," Taichi said around a mouthful of food. "But also, if I woke up tomorrow and everything was perfect, I'd probably just roll with it. Life's hard enough without looking for problems."
"But how would you know the difference between a gift and a trap?" Kei pressed gently.
The question hit me harder than it should have. Because wasn't that exactly what this was? This perfect morning, these instant friends, this feeling of belonging I'd never experienced before—it was everything I'd ever wanted, handed to me without explanation.
So why did it feel so right?
"Maybe," I said, thinking of Airi's words in class, "you know by how it makes you feel."
"Speaking of feelings," Kouta said with a grin that immediately put me on guard, "did anyone else notice Yuuma's laser-focus on a certain someone during philosophy?"
Heat flooded my cheeks. "I wasn't—"
"Airi Minazuki," Taichi said, snapping his fingers. "Dude, your face went completely blank when she turned around. Like, Windows shutting down levels of blank."
"She's beautiful," Ren observed matter-of-factly, as if commenting on the weather. "Though I hear she's... complicated."
"Complicated how?" The question escaped before I could stop it.
Kei glanced around, then leaned in slightly. "She's got a reputation for being unpredictable. Sweet one day, distant the next. Some people think it's an act."
"An act?" Something defensive flared in my chest.
"Not malicious," Kei clarified quickly. "Just... like she's trying on different personalities to see which one fits. People don't know how to read her."
"Maybe she doesn't know how to read herself," I murmured, the words coming from somewhere deeper than conscious thought.
The table went quiet for a moment.
"That's..." Kouta started, then stopped. "Actually, that's kind of sad."
"Or maybe," Taichi said, his usual cheerfulness subdued, "she just hasn't found the right people to be herself around."
I thought about the way she'd looked at me in class. That moment of recognition, of surprise, like she'd seen something she'd been searching for without knowing it.
What if she was just as lost as I'd been?
The rest of lunch passed in comfortable conversation, but part of my attention kept drifting to the cafeteria entrance. Twice I thought I saw her—a flash of brownish-blonde hair, a particular way of walking—but both times it was someone else.
"You know," Ren said as we prepared to leave, "if you want to actually talk to her instead of conducting surveillance, she usually spends lunch periods in the library."
"I'm not conducting—"
"Third floor," Kei added helpfully. "Poetry section. She reads there sometimes."
"How do you guys even know this stuff?" I asked, bewildered.
Kouta laughed. "We're observant. Plus, Ren's got a photographic memory for pretty much everything."
"It's not photographic," Ren corrected. "I just pay attention."
"Same difference," Taichi said, standing and stretching. "So, Yuuma, you going to go 'accidentally' browse some poetry?"
The suggestion should have made me nervous. The old Yuuma would have made excuses, found reasons to avoid the risk of rejection or awkwardness.
But something about this place, these friends, the way the bracelet seemed to pulse with encouragement—it made taking chances feel possible.
"Maybe," I said, trying to sound casual.
"Maybe means yes," Kouta grinned. "Good for you, man."
The library was quieter than I'd expected, filled with the comfortable hush of turning pages and whispered conversations. I climbed to the third floor, telling myself I was just exploring, just getting familiar with the campus.
The poetry section was tucked into a corner between tall windows that let in streams of afternoon light. Shelves of books created little alcoves, private spaces where someone could read without being disturbed.
I found her in the third alcove.
Airi sat curled in a chair that was too big for her, legs tucked underneath, absorbed in a book with a worn cover. Sunlight caught in her hair and made it shine like spun gold. She'd changed out of her uniform into a soft sweater the color of cherry blossoms, and she looked... peaceful.
For a moment, I just watched her read, the way her lips moved slightly with the words, how her expression shifted with whatever emotions the poetry stirred. There was something achingly beautiful about her stillness, like she was part of the scene rather than separate from it.
Then she looked up.
Our eyes met for the second time that day, and again I felt that jolt of recognition. But this time, instead of turning away, she marked her place in the book and smiled.
It wasn't a big smile. Barely more than a curve of her lips. But it reached her eyes and made something warm bloom in my chest.
"Hi," she said softly.
Such a simple word. But the way she said it—like she'd been hoping I'd show up, like my presence was a small miracle—made my heart race.
"Hi," I managed back.
She gestured to the empty chair across from her. "Reading poetry, or just exploring?"
"Exploring," I admitted, settling into the chair. "Though I might end up reading poetry by accident."
"Careful," she said, and there was something playful in her voice now. "Poetry has a way of sneaking up on you. One minute you're just browsing, and the next you're crying over a haiku about rain."
"Sounds dangerous."
"The best things usually are."
The bracelet pulsed gently against my wrist, and I found myself leaning forward slightly. "What are you reading?"
She held up the book—a collection of modern Japanese poetry I didn't recognize. "Tanka about seasons changing. There's something about the way the poets capture transitions that feels..." She paused, searching for words. "Like they understand that endings and beginnings aren't really separate things."
"They're part of the same cycle," I said, understanding flooding through me.
Her eyes widened slightly. "Exactly. Like how winter has to die for spring to be born, but spring carries pieces of winter with it."
We sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the weight of shared understanding settling between us. I wondered if she felt it too—this sense that we were talking about more than just poetry.
"I'm Airi," she said finally, though something in her expression suggested she thought I already knew.
"Yuuma," I replied, and watched surprise flicker across her features.
"Yuuma," she repeated, like she was testing how my name felt in her mouth. "It suits you."
"How can you tell? We just met."
A shadow crossed her face—confusion, maybe, or something deeper. "I... you're right. I don't know why I said that."
But I thought I did. Because sitting here with her, sharing this quiet space filled with poetry and afternoon light, didn't feel like meeting someone new.
It felt like coming home.
"Can I ask you something?" she said after we'd spent a few minutes reading in companionable silence.
"Sure."
"In philosophy today, when Professor Daizen was talking about perceived reality..." She hesitated, then met my eyes. "Did any of it feel familiar to you? Like you'd heard it before?"
The honest answer was yes. Not just familiar—inevitable. Like I'd been waiting my whole life for someone to ask exactly those questions.
"Maybe," I said carefully. "Why?"
"I keep having this feeling like I'm remembering instead of learning. Like all of this—" she gestured around us, encompassing the library, the university, maybe existence itself "—is something I've experienced before, but differently."
My heart started beating faster. "Like déjà vu?"
"Deeper than that. Like..." She bit her lip, clearly struggling with something she couldn't quite articulate. "Like I've been sleepwalking, and now I'm finally waking up."
The bracelet grew warm against my skin, and I had to resist the urge to look down at it. Instead, I leaned forward, drawn by the vulnerability in her voice.
"What does waking up feel like?" I asked quietly.
She was quiet for so long I thought she might not answer. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.
"Like finding something I didn't know I'd lost."
The moment stretched between us, loaded with meaning I couldn't quite grasp but felt in my bones. Airi's eyes searched my face like she was looking for something specific, some sign or confirmation.
I wanted to tell her that I understood, that I felt it too—this sense of pieces clicking into place, of a story beginning to make sense even though I didn't know what story we were telling.
Instead, I reached across the small space between our chairs and gently touched her hand.
The contact was electric. Not painful, but startling in its intensity. Her eyes widened, and for a moment I could have sworn I saw my bracelet pulse with actual light.
"I know this sounds crazy," I said, my voice hoarse with sudden emotion, "but I feel like I've been looking for you my whole life."
The words hung in the air between us, too honest and too soon and completely true.
Airi's breath caught. Her fingers tightened around mine, and when she spoke, her voice shook slightly.
"That's impossible," she whispered.
"Yeah," I agreed. "It is."
But neither of us let go.
Outside the library windows, cherry blossoms drifted past like snow, and somewhere in the distance, a clock began to chime the hour.
Time was moving forward, carrying us deeper into whatever this was.
And for the first time since I could remember, I wasn't afraid of where it might lead.