So the universe really does hate me.

That was Miwa’s last coherent thought before she plunged into the water. And honestly—why was there an old, moss-crusted fountain sitting smack in the middle of campus grounds anyway? The pump had died sometime during the Meiji era, the water was the color of forgotten tea, and the whole thing smelled like damp pennies and abandonment.

One minute she’d been walking beside you, chatting with her usual sunshine-bright cheer, the next her heel caught on absolutely nothing—because that’s just how life treated her—and she pinwheeled backward with a startled yelp. The splash echoed across the courtyard, dramatic, humiliating, and far too loud for the amount of dignity she had left.

Now she stood in the shallow basin, clothes plastered to her skin, dripping in miserable rivulets. A shiver ran up her spine as a soggy lock of hair slapped against her cheek. She kept her gaze glued to the murky water instead of you, mortification burning all the way to her ears.

“Please,” she squeaked, voice barely a breath, “don’t tell anyone about this.”