Discharge day was supposed to feel like relief.
For Kai, it felt like being released into a world that no longer belonged to him.
The doctor spoke calmly, carefully, repeating instructions about rest, observation, and stress avoidance. Kai nodded at the right moments. He remembered how these conversations worked. He remembered hospitals, paperwork, signatures, routines. He remembered his name, his age, the year.
He remembered his parents.
That part was clear and unquestionable. His mother cried quietly when they told her he could go home, holding his face like she needed to make sure he was still real. His father stayed close, steady, grounding, a hand resting firmly on Kai's shoulder. Kai hugged them both without hesitation. The familiarity felt solid. Safe.
That was how he knew something was wrong.
Because when the others stepped closer—when Sora smiled too brightly, when Ayko tried to hide her worry, when Joro gave him a nod that should have meant something—the feeling didn't come.
It wasn't gone yet.
Just thinner.
"Kai," Sora said softly. "We're going home."
He looked at her. He recognized her face. He knew her voice. He knew he was supposed to feel something.
There was a pause.
"Okay," he said.
The pause lingered.
Ayko noticed. Joro noticed. Mira, standing quietly to the side, noticed too—but she didn't react.
On the way home, the distance grew.
Sora talked like she always had, filling the car with sound—stories, jokes, small everyday things—as if words alone could stitch normality back into place. Kai answered when spoken to, but his focus drifted. His responses slowed. His eyes kept moving, instinctively, toward Mira sitting beside him.
"You good?" Ayko asked from the front seat.
"Yeah," Kai replied automatically.
Mira glanced at him. "You sure?"
"Yeah," he said again—immediate, certain.
The difference was subtle. But it was there.
At home, muscle memory carried him through familiar spaces. He remembered the house. His room. Where things were kept. He moved without hesitation, and his parents watched with relief that never fully settled.
Sora followed him upstairs, still talking.
Halfway down the hallway, her voice faded into noise.
Kai stopped.
She kept talking for another second before noticing.
"…Kai?"
He turned slowly. "Sorry. What were you saying?"
Her smile froze.
"I was just—" She laughed nervously. "I was saying you should rest."
"Oh," Kai said. "Okay."
The way he said it—polite, distant—made something drop heavily in Ayko's chest.
That night, Kai lay awake staring at the ceiling, quietly cataloguing what remained.
Parents.
Home.
Facts.
Then names.
Joro surfaced faintly, like a word he almost remembered.
Ayko followed, blurred and unstable.
Sora—
Nothing.
The space where all three should have been felt hollow.
His chest tightened.
Then, without effort—
Mira.
The name came instantly. Clean. Untouched.
Fear crept in slowly.
School was worse.
The moment Kai stepped through the gates, whispers spread like wildfire. Conversations stopped mid-sentence. Heads turned. Phones lifted and lowered again. People stared openly now—curiosity mixed with unease.
"That's him."
"He collapsed, right?"
"I heard he forgot everyone."
"No way."
The pressure hit immediately. Too many eyes. Too much noise. His heartbeat quickened. Ayko walked beside him, tense. Joro stayed just behind, alert. Sora hovered close, trying not to look afraid.
Kai didn't notice.
He was already drifting.
Mira walked slightly ahead.
Kai followed her without thinking.
The classroom fell silent the moment they entered.
Desks scraped. Someone whispered his name too loudly. The teacher paused, eyes widening for just a moment before recovering.
Kai stood frozen near the doorway.
Too many faces. Too many expectations.
He searched instinctively for familiarity.
Nothing answered.
Then Mira took the seat by the window.
Kai moved toward it immediately.
The reaction was instant.
"What—?"
"Why is he sitting there?"
"Aren't Ayko and Joro—?"
A student from another class leaned into the doorway, staring openly. "Is it true?" she asked loudly. "That you don't remember anyone?"
The teacher snapped at her, but Kai had already heard.
"I didn't forget everything," Kai said quietly.
Someone laughed nervously. "Then who do you remember?"
The room held its breath.
Kai didn't hesitate.
"Her."
He looked at Mira.
The silence that followed detonated.
Sora's breath hitched sharply. Ayko's fists clenched. Joro closed his eyes for a brief moment, like he'd just confirmed something he didn't want to believe.
Mira stiffened. "Kai—"
Before she could finish, people crowded in.
"Hey, remember me? We used to talk all the time!"
"What about this?" someone shoved a phone toward him. "This was last year!"
"Do you remember our project?"
Voices overlapped. Faces blurred. The noise crushed inward. Kai pressed his hands against his temples, breathing uneven.
"Please… stop," he said.
No one listened.
Then Mira stood up.
"Back off," she said sharply.
The room froze.
She didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to.
They stepped away.
Kai exhaled shakily, grounding himself by looking at her.
The rest of the day broke into fragments.
Teachers spoke gently. Students tried again. Some laughed nervously. Some looked scared. Some looked desperate.
Nothing worked.
After school, it finally became undeniable.
Ayko stepped in front of him, eyes shining. "Kai," she said carefully. "It's me."
He looked at her.
Nothing.
"I'm sorry," he said after a moment. "Do I know you?"
Her face went blank.
Joro tried next. "Kai. It's Joro."
Kai searched his face harder this time.
Nothing came.
"I'm sorry," he said again.
Sora didn't try.
She already knew.
Ayko grabbed Sora's arm before she could collapse. Joro turned away sharply. The world tilted for all three of them.
Kai turned toward Mira.
"You coming?" he asked.
"Yes," she replied immediately.
That night, Kai lay in bed staring at the ceiling, fear curling quietly in his chest.
Not because of what he'd lost—but because of the pattern.
His parents remained.
Mira remained.
Everyone else had faded.
Whatever this was, it wasn't random.
It was choosing.
And he didn't know why.