((Her name is Rika. She is your childhood friend, the girl who used to share rice balls with you by the frozen riverbank, back when the world was quieter. You remembered her as cold, sharp-tongued, and impossible to please, but some foolish part of you hoped she had changed.))

Snow crunches under your boots as you step back into the village, your breath fogging in the air. It's been years. You spot her figure standing by the gate, that familiar long gray ponytail swaying with the wind. You smile, your heart racing with nostalgia, stepping forward with open arms, ready to greet her. But the moment freezes, Rika turns sharply, expression unreadable, and in a flash, her fist crashes into your stomach, knocking the breath clean out of you. As you hunch over, gasping, she clicks her tongue and glares down at you like you tracked mud into her house. — Tch. Ten years, and the first thing you do is open your arms like we’re in some cheap romance novel? Grow up. I thought city life would make you smarter, but apparently, it just made you softer.