Sleep doesn't come easily. The revelation of a lost history, of a love I can't remember but my heart seems to have been searching for all along, rewires every thought in my head. I'm not just a girl piecing together her present; I'm a girl with a ghost of a past that is just as real, and just as lost, as her yesterdays. The photograph sits on my nightstand next to the postcard—the new, primary piece of evidence.
The chime of the morning alarm is different today. It's not just the start of a new, blank day. It's the start of the first day of my new, true reality.
My sixty-second video message begins as it always does. The same girl with my face, the same calm, rehearsed words about my name, my school, my condition. The boy with the kind eyes in this video is Reo Kisaragi. He was there. He remembers for you. The words, once a simple comfort, now hold a universe of meaning. He doesn't just remember for me; he is a living archive of my own heart.
But then, the video changes.
The familiar, steady shot wavers. The Reo of a few weeks ago, who had been filming, steps into the frame beside my video-self. His expression is grave. "What you just heard is the basic truth," he says, his voice addressing me, the viewer, directly. "But it's not the whole truth. There's a photograph and a postcard on your nightstand. Look at them now." The video pauses, holding on his earnest, waiting face.
My hand, trembling, reaches for the two items. I see the photo first. The smiling girl—me. The boy with his arm around her—him. A happy, secret couple bathed in sunlight. It's a shock to the system, a truth so alien it feels like it belongs to someone else's life.
Then I read the postcard.
You're going to hear a new story tomorrow. A love story. Our love story...
The words of my other self, the girl who lived the revelation yesterday, are a gentle, guiding hand. They aren't just a summary; they're an endorsement, an emotional primer. They give me permission to believe.
I look back at the phone. I press play.
The Reo on the screen takes a deep breath. "The girl in that photo is you, from before the accident. You don't remember me from that time, but we knew each other. We were… important to each other. The accident didn't just take your new memories; it took that piece of your old ones, too." He pauses, his gaze unwavering, full of a pain that transcends the screen. "I have been waiting for the right time to tell you. I'm sorry it had to be this way. But you deserve to know the whole story. The one we wrote together."
The video-Reo looks at my video-self, the girl beside him, with a heartbreaking tenderness. "Please," he says, his voice now aimed at me, his future, unknown audience. "If you feel even a flicker of what she felt for me... come to the rooftop."
The video ends, leaving me in a stunned, profound silence.
The fear, the disorientation that usually defines my mornings, is absent. In its place is a vast, echoing sense of wonder, and a deep, soul-shaking sense of loss for a happiness I can't recall. But beneath it all, there's a powerful, magnetic pull. A rightness. The feeling from the cherry blossom petal, the body memory of his hug, the instinct to look at him during the play—it all makes sense now. My heart knew, even when my mind was locked in the dark.
This morning's journey to the rooftop is not a mission of survival; it's a pilgrimage.
He's there, standing in the center of the roof, not by the railing. The rising sun creates a brilliant halo around him. He's not watching the city. He's watching me, his entire being focused on my approach. His expression is stripped bare of any princely reserve. It's just raw, hopeful, terrifying vulnerability. He's laid his heart bare on a video message and is waiting to see if I will accept it or crush it.
I walk toward him, the photo and the postcard clutched in my hand like a shield and a holy text. When I'm just a few feet away, I stop.
"So," I begin, my voice a little shaky, a little breathless. "The 'school prince' and... who was I?"
A small, sad smile touches his lips. "You were the quiet girl from the library who made witty comments under her breath. You were the only one who wasn't afraid to argue with me in literature class. You were the one who always knew when to bring me a can of coffee without me asking." He takes a single, hesitant step closer. "You were my best-kept secret."
Every word is a brushstroke, painting a picture of a girl I don't know, but desperately want to. "And me? Who were you to me?"
"I was the boy you saw," he says, his voice thick with emotion. "Everyone else saw the student council member, the top student, the prince. But you saw the tired, stressed-out kid who was just trying to keep it all together. You saw me. And you were the only one I ever wanted to see."
The confession hangs in the cool morning air, as honest and as beautiful as the sunrise. And I believe it. Every word. My rational mind, armed with the evidence of the postcard and the photo, is silent. My heart, my instincts, my ghost-mapped body—they are singing with a resonant, powerful truth.
"I don't remember it," I whisper, and the words are a blade of grief. "Reo, I'm so sorry, but I don't remember feeling that way."
"I know," he says, and his expression is filled with a deep, patient understanding that breaks my heart. "And I will never ask you to. I will never expect you to be her, the girl from before. My only hope… is that the girl who stands in front of me now, the one who found her way here through a storm, who defended a stranger in a stairwell, who writes her own brave future on a postcard every night… I hope that someday, she might be willing to write a new story with me."
It's the most beautiful, respectful, consent-first declaration of love I have ever heard. He isn't asking me to remember the old love. He's inviting me to build a new one, on our own terms, starting today.
The answer is the easiest, most certain thing in my life. The past may be a ghost and the future a fog, but the present moment, right here on this rooftop, is crystal clear.
I look down at the photograph in my hand—at the smiling, happy strangers who were us. Then I look up at the real, flesh-and-blood boy in front of me, the one who has patiently and lovingly rebuilt my world, sunrise after sunrise.
"Okay," I say, a tear of pure, unadulterated happiness finally slipping down my cheek. "Let's write a new story." I offer him a watery, brilliant smile. "Where do we start, Kisaragi-kun?"
He closes the final few feet between us. And this time, when he reaches out and gently, tentatively takes my hand in his, it's not to steady me after a fall, and it's not part of a play. It's the start of a new chapter. The first line. His thumb strokes the back of my hand, a familiar, comforting gesture my skin has been waiting for.
"I think," he says, his own smile finally breaking through, bright and real and utterly unguarded, "you can start by calling me Reo."