(Opening Re-Orient Card - Arisa's Voice)
"Good morning. Your name is Arisa, and your history is no longer a ghost. Yesterday, Reo showed you a page from your old diary—a list of reasons why the girl from our past fell in love with him. You will not remember her feelings, but when you look at him today, you will see for yourself that every single reason on her list is still true. It's Monday. Your parents are gone, the house is quiet again. Yesterday was for learning about the past. Today is our turn to make a memory of our own. He's going to ask you on a proper date after school. Say yes."
Reading the morning's instructions feels less like a lifeline and more like the first page of an exciting new chapter. The words our past don't sting with the ache of loss anymore; they hum with the quiet resonance of a discovered truth. The girl who wrote that list is not a stranger. She is a part of my story, the foundation upon which this new self is being built.
When I meet Reo on the rooftop, the air is different. The fragile, tentative newness of the weekend has settled into something more solid, more real. He's leaning against the railing, and as I approach, a slow, genuine smile spreads across his face. It's not the princely smile for the masses, or even the sad, patient smile of the guardian. It's just his. And I can see the tiny, faded scar above his left eyebrow.
"Good morning," he says, his voice softer than usual.
"Morning," I reply, a blush creeping up my cheeks. Knowing that another version of me had secretly catalogued the details of his face makes looking at him feel like a delicious, shared secret.
"So," he begins, pushing off the railing and turning to face me. "My calendar informs me that today is a Monday. And that there are no disciplinary hearings, cultural festivals, or parental interventions scheduled for this afternoon."
I can't help but laugh. "A rare and precious occasion."
"Indeed," he says, and the playful light in his eyes makes my heart skip a beat. "Which is why I was hoping… after school… you might be free to attend a previously scheduled event that was unavoidably postponed due to a city-wide power outage, an overzealous drama club, and a minor coup in the student government." He takes a small, nervous breath. "Arisa Tsukimi, would you be willing to try again, and go on a real, uninterrupted first date with me?"
His formality is so endearingly awkward, so completely him. The boy who tries really hard. It's Reason #8, right off her list.
"I think…" I say, pretending to check my own imaginary calendar. "My schedule is miraculously clear."
"Excellent," he says, a wave of genuine relief washing over his face. "I'll meet you at the gate after the last bell."
The school day is a sweet, agonizing eternity. Every tick of the clock is a countdown. Nami is, of course, ecstatic, offering a million suggestions for what I should do with my hair and providing a running, whispered commentary on the romantic suitability of Reo Kisaragi ("He's a 10, but he probably alphabetizes his bookshelf." "That just makes him an 11, Nami.")
Finally, the bell rings. I practically float out of the school building. He's waiting for me, just as he promised, leaning against the old brick wall of the school gate, his school bag slung over one shoulder. He's not looking at his phone or off into the distance. He's just watching for me.
"Hi," I say, my voice a little breathless.
"Hi," he replies, his smile making the whole world feel brighter. "Ready?"
"For what?"
"To start at the beginning," he says, and he leads me not toward the train station or the bus stop, but back down the familiar path toward my house. We walk past the crosswalk where my accident happened, and for a second, a cold shadow passes over me. Reo seems to feel it too. His hand finds mine, his fingers lacing through mine with a comfortable, practiced ease. The warmth of his touch chases the shadow away.
Our destination, it turns out, is the small, quiet park just two blocks from my house. The one with the swing set. The one from the picture Satoru had shown me.
"This is it?" I ask, confused.
"This is where it began," he confirms. "The real beginning. Before the library." He gestures to the swing set. "I used to see you here sometimes, after school. You'd just be sitting on the swings, reading, shutting out the world. And I… was too scared to talk to you."
The image is so vivid: him, the cool, popular school prince, too intimidated to approach the quiet girl with a book. It's a complete reversal of the public narrative.
"And one day…" he continues, his gaze distant with the memory, "you left your book behind. This one." He taps the copy of The Last Starwatcher that I'm carrying in my bag. "I found it. I knew I had to return it to you. That was my excuse to finally talk to you. The library came next."
We sit on the swings, side-by-side, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows on the ground. For a while, we don't talk, just gently swing, the rhythmic, peaceful creak of the chains the only sound. It doesn't feel like a date. It feels like a memory, playing out in real time.
"Tell me another one," I say quietly. "Another 'before' story."
So he does. He tells me about the first time it rained while they—we—were on the rooftop, and how they shared a single, too-small umbrella, and how my hair had smelled like cherry blossoms. He tells me about the time I fell asleep in the library and woke up with his school blazer draped over my shoulders, and how I pretended not to know it was his.
Each story is a small, precious gem. They aren't grand adventures; they are the quiet, interstitial moments that make up a life, a connection. He speaks of the girl in the past with a deep, loving reverence, but his eyes are on me, the girl in the present. He's not just recounting memories; he's offering them to me, allowing me to be a part of them. He's rebuilding the bridge, plank by plank.
As the sun begins to set, turning the sky a brilliant, soft orange, he stops swinging. "Okay," he says. "My turn to ask."
"Ask what?"
"Tell me a memory," he says, his gaze soft and serious. "A new one. Tell me the best moment of Day One. The real Day One. Our first date, the second time."
I think back to yesterday's beautiful, chaotic whirlwind of a day. The cafe, the bookstore, the laughing fit in the photo booth. "The photo booth," I say immediately. "The third picture. Right before the flash."
His expression softens with the memory of it. "What was that moment like for you?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper.
I look at our hands, still loosely joined between us. "It was… quiet. In my head. For the first time all day, I wasn't thinking about my amnesia, or my parents, or Itsuki, or even our lost past. All I could think about was how close you were, and how your eyes are not really black but a very, very dark brown, and how, in that one single second, I felt completely and utterly happy." My confession hangs in the quiet, golden air.
He gets off his swing and comes to stand in front of me, taking both of my hands and gently stopping my motion. He is so close now, close enough for me to count the lashes around his very, very dark brown eyes.
"Arisa," he says, my name a soft prayer. He's looking at my lips, and my heart does a frantic, spectacular flip in my chest. This isn't part of a story from the past. This isn't a rehearsal for a play. This is here. Now. The next line in our new chapter.
He leans in slowly, giving me every possible second to turn away, to say no. His gaze is a question, a final, silent check for consent. And my answer is to close my eyes.
His lips are softer than I could have imagined, and the kiss is impossibly gentle. It's not a kiss of grand, dramatic passion. It's a kiss of quiet discovery, of profound relief, of two stories finally, finally finding their way onto the same page. It tastes of sunshine and milk tea and a promise kept.
It's our last first kiss, and the first kiss of the rest of our lives.