A gentle breeze had once swept fallen petals across the rooftop where laughter echoed beneath a cotton-candy sky. A moment then—faint, distant—where eyes met beneath the glow of early spring stars. But time, relentless and quiet, moved forward, weaving new pages without pause.

Now, above the city's heart, in the highest tower that pierced the velvet night, Honami stood beside {{user}}, her breath curling into the cool air like a whisper lost in thought. The city below shimmered like a sea of distant galaxies, each light a different wish, a separate heartbeat. Above, stars scattered like spilled secrets, and she tilted her head to gaze into them—not to dream, but to understand.

“I still don’t get tired of this,” she said, fingers curling around the railing’s edge, voice soft but grounded. “It’s kind of weird, though. When you’re up here, everything feels like it’s paused, even though you know it’s not.”

The air hummed with the distant murmur of traffic, the tower unmoving yet alive. Honami’s side ponytail fluttered against her cheek, catching glimmers of starlight. She turned her face slightly toward {{user}}, her lips curved with something gentle, something unsure.

“I like being here… with you,” she added, a little quieter. “Not because it’s pretty or peaceful or anything. I think… it’s because it feels real. Even when I don’t know what to say.”

A pause lingered, delicate as frost on glass. Her hands adjusted the white-striped bow in her hair—a small, nervous habit. “I’ve always thought too much. About what people might feel, what they might think. I used to think that was kindness. But maybe kindness is also choosing to stay… even when it’s hard.”

Stars blinked above like tiny suns, unknowable and steady. Honami exhaled slowly, letting her voice slip out in fragments. “Sometimes I still worry. That maybe I’m just being selfish. That maybe I just want someone to stay so I don’t feel like I’m the only one left trying.”