Classes were over.
The afternoon sun filtered through the library windows like liquid gold, casting everything in that perfect late-day glow that made even the most ordinary moments feel cinematic. I'd arrived twenty minutes early—not because I was eager, I told myself, but because I wanted to find the perfect spot. Somewhere quiet, somewhere we could talk without interruption.
The poetry section felt right. It's where we'd first really talked, where she'd shown me that glimpse of her inner world. I settled into the same chair I'd occupied yesterday, a slim volume of contemporary poetry open in my hands, though the words might as well have been written in a foreign language for all the attention I was paying them.
My bracelet felt warm against my wrist, a constant reminder that something extraordinary was happening. Every few minutes, I'd catch myself touching it, feeling for that pulse that seemed to sync with my heartbeat whenever Airi was near.
"Punctual as always."
I looked up to find her standing at the end of the row, and my breath caught. She'd changed since this morning—traded the cream cardigan for an oversized sweater in soft lavender that made her eyes seem deeper, more mysterious. Her hair was different too, pulled back in a loose bun with a few strands escaping to frame her face.
But it was her expression that stopped me cold. There was something fragile there, like she was holding herself together with effort.
"Hey," I said, closing the book and setting it aside. "You okay?"
She moved closer, and I caught that familiar scent of spring flowers that seemed to follow her everywhere.
"I've been better," she admitted, settling into the chair beside me. Not across from me, I noticed. Always beside me now, like she needed the proximity. "This morning was... complicated."
"Want to talk about it?"
She was quiet for a long moment, staring at her hands folded in her lap. When she finally looked up, her eyes held a vulnerability that made my chest ache.
"Can I ask you something? And will you promise to answer honestly?"
"Of course."
"Do you think I'm..." She paused, searching for words. "Do you think I'm fake?"
The question hit me like a physical blow. Because the pain in her voice was so raw, so genuine, that it made something crack open inside me.
"What? No. Why would you even—"
"Because that's what people say about me." The words came out in a rush, like she'd been holding them back for too long. "That I'm fake. That I'm different with different people. That no one knows who I really am because I'm always performing."
I leaned forward, fighting the urge to reach for her hand. "Who says that?"
"People. Students. I hear them talking sometimes." She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "And the worst part is, they're not entirely wrong."
"What do you mean?"
She pulled her knees up to her chest, making herself smaller, more protected. "I mean that sometimes I feel like I'm wearing different masks for different situations. Like I have this... collection of personalities, and I pull out whichever one fits the moment."
The honesty in her voice was devastating. I'd never heard anyone describe themselves with such unflinching self-awareness.
"That doesn't make you fake," I said quietly. "That makes you human."
She looked at me sharply. "How do you figure that?"
"Because everyone does that. Everyone adjusts their personality based on who they're with, what the situation calls for. You're just more conscious of it than most people."
"But what if I've been doing it for so long that I don't know which one is real anymore?"
The question hung between us like a challenge. I thought about all the versions of Airi I'd glimpsed—the confident girl who'd answered the professor's question about reality, the vulnerable person who'd talked about dreams and recognition, the guarded friend who'd pulled away when Miyu appeared.
"Maybe," I said carefully, "they're all real. Maybe you're not different people—maybe you're just a person with different facets."
"Facets?"
"Like a diamond. Each face reflects light differently, but it's still the same stone underneath."
She stared at me for a long moment, and I saw something shift in her expression. Surprise, maybe. Or hope.
"That's... actually beautiful," she said softly.
"It's also true."
We sat in comfortable silence for a while, the weight of the conversation settling between us. I could hear the distant murmur of other students, the soft rustle of pages turning, the occasional creak of old wood settling. But it all felt far away, like we existed in our own private bubble.
"Can I tell you about them?" Airi said suddenly. "The different versions, I mean?"
"I'd like that."
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, a gesture I was beginning to recognize as her nervous habit.
"There's the version that shows up in class. She's confident, articulate, always has an answer. She raises her hand and speaks clearly and never lets anyone see her sweat." Airi's voice took on a slightly different cadence as she spoke, more assured. "She's the one people see first, the one they remember."
"And?"
"And there's the version that hangs out with my friends. She's more relaxed, more playful. She laughs at Miyu's jokes and listens to Rika's advice and matches Saya's sarcasm." Her expression grew complicated. "She's... easier. Less intense."
"Less intense than what?"
"Than the version that sits alone in her room at night, drawing faces she's never seen and writing in a journal about dreams that feel more real than reality." Her voice dropped to almost a whisper. "The version that feels like she's suffocating most of the time, like she's living in a world that doesn't quite fit."
My bracelet pulsed, and I felt an echo of recognition so strong it made me dizzy.
"And then there's the version that talks to you," she continued, looking directly at me. "And she's... I don't know what she is. She says things I never planned to say, feels things I never planned to feel. She's honest in a way that terrifies me."
"Maybe that's because you don't have to perform for me."
"Why not?"
I considered the question, trying to find words for something I felt but didn't fully understand.
"Because I'm not looking for any particular version of you," I said finally. "I'm just... looking for you. All of you."
The conversation shifted after that, becoming lighter but somehow more intimate. We talked about books and movies, about the strange sense of displacement we both felt, about the way certain songs could make you feel homesick for places you'd never been.
Airi told me about her journal, how she'd started writing down her dreams because they felt too important to lose. How sometimes she'd wake up with tears on her face and no memory of why she'd been crying.
"What kind of dreams?" I asked.
"Different ones. Sometimes I'm in a place that looks like this world but feels... more. Like everything is turned up to eleven. The colors are brighter, the emotions are stronger, the connections between people are more real." She paused, studying my face. "Sometimes I dream about people I've never met. But in the dream, I know them. I know their voices, their laugh, the way they think."
"Do you dream about me?"
The question slipped out before I could stop it, and I immediately regretted it. Too direct, too presumptuous.
But Airi didn't seem startled. Instead, she smiled—not one of her performance smiles, but something soft and real.
"Yes," she said simply. "I dream about you."
My heart stopped. "What... what do I do in these dreams?"
"You listen. You see me—not the version I think you want to see, but the version I am. And you're not afraid of it." She looked down at her hands. "In the dreams, I'm not afraid either."
"Afraid of what?"
"Of being too much. Of being not enough. Of caring too deeply and scaring people away." She glanced up at me. "I've always been... intense. Even as a kid. I feel things too strongly, think too much, want too much from life and from people."
"That's not a flaw."
"Isn't it? People don't like intensity. They like easy, comfortable, predictable. They like the version of me that's calm and collected and never makes them feel like they need to match my energy."
I thought about my own life, about how I'd spent years trying to be less invisible, less forgettable, more interesting. How I'd watched people from the sidelines and wondered what it would be like to be someone who drew attention without trying.
"I think," I said carefully, "that you've been around the wrong people."
"Maybe. Or maybe I've just been the wrong version of myself."
"There is no wrong version of yourself. There are just versions that fit different situations, different relationships, different moments in time."
She looked at me like I'd said something profound instead of just honest.
"How do you do that?" she asked.
"Do what?"
"Make everything sound so simple. So... possible."
I almost laughed. Because nothing about this felt simple. Everything about being near her, talking to her, feeling this impossible connection was complicated and confusing and wonderful and terrifying all at once.
"Maybe it's because I'm figuring it out too," I said. "Maybe I'm just as lost as you are, but we're lost in the same direction."
We talked until the library started to empty, until the golden afternoon light faded to deep orange and the shadows grew long across the floor. Other students came and went, but we remained in our little bubble, lost in conversation that felt both new and ancient.
At some point, Airi pulled out her sketchbook—not to show me, but because she said she thought better with a pencil in her hand. I watched her fingers move across the page, creating shapes and shadows that gradually resolved into faces, expressions, moments captured in graphite.
"You're really good at that," I said, watching her shade in the curve of someone's smile.
"It's just practice. And observation." She glanced up at me. "I watch people a lot. Try to figure out what they're thinking, what they're feeling."
"What do you see when you look at me?"
The question seemed to surprise her. She set down her pencil and really looked at me, her gaze moving across my face like she was memorizing every detail.
"I see someone who's been invisible for so long that he's forgotten how to be seen," she said finally. "But also someone who's starting to remember. Someone who's waking up."
The words hit me like a revelation. Because that was exactly how I felt—like I'd been sleepwalking through life until I ended up here, in this place, with these people, with her.
"And now?" I asked. "What do you see now?"
She smiled, and it was radiant. "Now I see someone who's awake. Someone who's present. Someone who makes me feel like I can be awake too."
My bracelet pulsed warm against my wrist, and for a moment, I could swear I saw it glow softly through my sleeve.
I glanced down quickly, hoping she hadn't noticed, but when I looked back up, Airi was staring at something just over my shoulder, her expression carefully neutral.
"The library's getting pretty empty," she said, her voice slightly different—more controlled. "We should probably think about heading out soon."
I followed her gaze, confused by the sudden shift in topic. A few students were still scattered around the tables, but it wasn't unusually quiet.
"Yeah, probably," I agreed, though something felt off about the moment. There was a tension in the air that hadn't been there before, like she'd seen something that had made her retreat into herself.
But then she turned back to me, and her smile returned—softer now, more thoughtful.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "For today. For listening. For making me feel like all my different versions are okay."
"Thank you for showing them to me."
We stared at each other, and I felt that familiar pull, that sense of connection that went deeper than words. Whatever had just happened, whatever she might have seen or not seen, didn't seem to matter. The understanding between us remained.
Instead of probing, I simply said, "I'm glad you're here."
"Me too," she whispered.
And in that moment, surrounded by books and fading light and the promise of something extraordinary, I felt more real than I'd ever felt in my life.
My phone buzzed with a text from Taichi: dinner in 10 if you want to join
I showed Airi the message, and she checked her own phone.
"Saya's been texting me," she said. "Apparently I missed some important festival planning meeting."
"Are you in trouble?"
"Probably. But it was worth it." She started gathering her things, closing the sketchbook and tucking her pencil away. "This was... exactly what I needed."
"Same."
We walked out of the library together, the evening air cool against our faces. The campus was beautiful at this hour, golden light spilling from windows and the sound of students laughing in the distance.
"Yuuma?" Airi said as we reached the point where our paths would diverge.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For listening. For seeing me. For making me feel like all my different versions are okay."
"Thank you for showing them to me."
She smiled, and it was like the sun breaking through clouds.
"Same time tomorrow?" she asked.
"Same time tomorrow."
As I watched her walk away, my bracelet pulsed once more—warm, steady, full of promise. And for the first time since arriving in this impossible place, I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
Even if I didn't understand what that meant yet.