"Good morning. Take a slow, deep breath. The world is going to feel very… loud today. Yesterday, you went into a room with a locked door, and for the first time, a voice from the other side answered. It was her voice, our voice, and she was not a ghost. She was a welcome. You are not two people, you are a conversation. Today will be confusing. There will be… overlap. Be patient with yourself. Be patient with Reo. He's navigating this with you. Your past is no longer silent, and your present has to learn a new language."
I wake up feeling crowded. It's the only word for it. My mind, usually a quiet, empty room awaiting instructions, is now a space with an occupant. She isn't loud. She doesn't talk. But she's there. The presence I met in the therapy room, that calm, welcoming echo, has stayed. It's like having a song stuck in your head, a feeling that hums just beneath the surface of your thoughts.
When I read the postcard, the words You are a conversation resonate with a deep, immediate truth. The re-orientation isn't just me reading a list of facts anymore. It's me catching this new, quiet part of myself up on the current state of our life. It feels less like amnesia and more like waking a friend from a very deep sleep.
I hold up the photo strip from our first date. Look, we did this, I think, aiming the thought at the quiet presence in my head. There is no verbal reply, just a faint, warm surge of… approval? Affection? It's an echo of her joy.
This new, internal reality is so complex, so subtle, I have no idea how to explain it to anyone. When I get to the rooftop, the relief I feel at seeing Reo is twofold. It's for me, the girl of today, and it's for her, the silent partner who now resides in my heart.
"Morning," he says, his voice carefully neutral, but his eyes are searching mine, full of a million unasked questions. "How… is it?"
"It's crowded in here," I say, tapping a finger to my temple. It's the truest, simplest way I can describe it.
A look of profound, gentle understanding crosses his face. "Is she… okay?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper. He's not asking about me. He's asking about her.
"She's quiet," I say. "But she feels… peaceful. Welcome." I look up at him, and the next words come from a place of deep, intuitive certainty that isn't entirely my own. "She's happy you waited."
The words hit him with the force of a physical blow. He visibly stumbles back a step, a hand coming up to cover his mouth, his composure finally, completely breaking. This isn't a recited nickname. This isn't an echo of a feeling. This is a direct message, passed from a ghost through a medium, and he is not prepared for it. A low, shuddering sound escapes him—half laugh, half sob.
"Okay," he says, his voice rough and thick with unshed tears. "Okay. Crowded is good. We can work with crowded."
The school day is a masterclass in divided attention. While my conscious mind focuses on lectures and note-taking, a part of my awareness is constantly tuned to the new presence within. It's like listening to two radio stations at once, one faint and atmospheric, the other clear and immediate.
Little things trigger her. I walk past the library, and a feeling of warmth, of shared secrets, floods me. The off-key bell rings for third period, and I feel a surge of fond, familiar annoyance. These aren't just my observations anymore. They are our shared experiences, a stereo signal of emotion. The best way I can describe it to Reo at lunch is, "It's like I have the subtitles to my own life now."
But the new presence also brings new complications. At my afternoon project session, as Satoru and I are working, he tells a self-deprecating joke, and I laugh. It's a genuine, friendly laugh. But from the quiet place in my mind, I feel a pang. Not of jealousy, but of a quiet, sad loyalty. It's her heart, gently, subtly reminding mine where its true allegiances lie. I'm living for two now, and our emotional landscape has become infinitely more complex.
That evening, I text Reo. Is a conversation with two people still a date?
He texts back immediately. Only if all three of us agree.
We meet at the park. But as we sit on the swings, the conversation feels different. I am no longer just asking him to tell me stories of the past. I'm asking for confirmation of the feelings I'm now experiencing.
"The taiyaki," I say. "There was a place, near her old cram school, that she always went to when she was sad, wasn't there?"
Reo stares at me, his eyes wide. "How did you know that?"
"I don't know," I say, and it's the honest truth. The fact just surfaced, a bubble rising from the deep. "But I can almost taste it. Salty caramel, not red bean."
"The limited winter special," he whispers, a look of pure awe on his face. "You… She… hated red bean. I'd forgotten that."
The two of us, me with my fragmented whispers of memory and he with his conscious archive, are starting to piece her back together. He provides the plot, and I'm beginning to provide the emotional color commentary. We are co-authors of her biography, discovering the story together.
As the sun sets, a cool breeze rustles through the park. I shiver, and Reo, without thinking, takes off his uniform blazer and drapes it over my shoulders. It's the same instinctive, protective gesture from the play, from the library, from a dozen stories he's told me.
But this time, when the familiar weight settles on my shoulders, it's not just a comforting gesture. It's a trigger.
It's raining. The rooftop is empty, the world is a blur of gray. But it's not lonely. It's our world. We're sharing an umbrella, his arm is a warm line against mine, and the silence is perfect. He smells like rain and clean laundry. He's safe. He is home.
The scene is a perfect, flawless diamond of a memory. An image, a sound, a feeling, a scent, all in high-definition. It's not an echo. It's not a subtitle. It is a full, declarative memory. My memory. Her memory. Our memory. It has come through the door and is standing, whole and vibrant, in the center of my mind.
I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth.
"Arisa?" Reo asks, his face creased with immediate concern. "What is it? Are you cold?"
I turn to him, my eyes wide with a terrifying, beautiful, world-altering truth. The rain, the scent, the feeling of his arm… I'm not just seeing it. I'm feeling it, as if it is happening right now. I'm in two places at once. The park bench and the rainy rooftop. I am her, and I am me, and the line between us has just completely, utterly dissolved.
"Reo," I whisper, my voice trembling with the weight of it. "I remember the rain."