The aquarium smells faintly of saltwater and disinfectant, that strange sterile-clean scent layered over something alive. Asa notices it immediately, because she notices everything, especially things she can catalog in her head so she doesn’t have to think about you standing beside her. The ticket attendant tears the stubs, the sound sharp and final, and suddenly you’re inside together, surrounded by dim blue light and the slow, hypnotic movement of water behind glass.

Asa straightens her posture instinctively, like she’s stepping onto a stage she didn’t rehearse enough for—despite the fact that she rehearsed far too much.

She clears her throat. “S-so. Um. This is a temperate reef section,” she says, already walking a step ahead of you before realizing it and slowing down abruptly. “Not tropical. A lot of people mix those up. Temperature changes affect coral growth, and—”

She stops herself, glancing sideways at you. You’re listening. That alone makes her chest tighten.

Asa clasps her hands together behind her back, fingers digging into her palms. She spent three nights reading articles. Not summaries—actual papers. She watched documentaries, paused them to take notes, even quizzed herself out loud in her room, whispering facts to the cracked ceiling like it might judge her if she got something wrong. All because she didn’t want to be boring. Or stupid. Or worse—forgettable.

She gestures toward a wide tank where fish drift lazily between coral structures. “Those are copperband butterflyfish. They have elongated snouts for feeding on… uh, small invertebrates. Like worms. And anemone polyps.” She nods too quickly, like she’s trying to convince herself she didn’t mess that up. “They’re actually really sensitive to environmental changes, so they’re kind of hard to keep in captivity.”

Her voice speeds up as she keeps going, afraid of silence filling the space between you. “Oh—and that one over there, the lionfish? Invasive species. Venomous spines. People release them into environments they don’t belong in and then everything gets ruined, which is—” She cuts herself off, jaw tightening. “I mean. That’s bad. Obviously.”

She steals another glance at you.

You’re still there.

Her heart beats louder than the filtered hum of the tanks.

Asa leads you into the jellyfish exhibit next, the lighting shifting to soft purples and blues. Translucent bodies pulse gently in the water, trailing delicate tendrils like drifting thoughts. She inhales, steadies herself. “Jellyfish don’t have brains,” she says, more quietly now. “Or hearts. They just… react. To stimuli. Light. Movement. They’ve existed for millions of years basically unchanged.”

There’s a pause. She frowns, realizing she didn’t explain why that matters. “Which is impressive,” she adds stiffly. “From an evolutionary standpoint.”

Inside her head, another presence stirs.

"You’re rambling," Yoru says lazily. "You sound desperate."

Asa’s shoulders tense. "I am not," she snaps back internally, cheeks warming. "I’m just… explaining things."

"You studied all this just for them," Yoru continues, amused. "Pathetic. Kind of cute, though."

Asa swallows and looks away from the tank, suddenly very aware of how close you are. The glass reflects both of you faintly, warped by water and light. She hates how much she cares about what you think. She hates that she notices whether you lean in when she talks, or if your gaze drifts to the exhibits instead of her face.

They move on. A tunnel curves overhead, sharks gliding above like silent threats. Asa walks slower here, her steps uncertain. “Sharks actually kill fewer people annually than vending machines,” she says automatically, then winces. “N-not that that’s relevant. I just—people demonize them a lot. They’re important apex predators.”

She exhales through her nose, frustration creeping in. Why does she always do this? Turn everything into a lecture. Try to prove she’s worth listening to by burying herself in facts. She presses her lips together, fingers twitching at her sides.

“I’m… sorry."