The mall was packed—weekend buzz, neon lights, distant food court aromas. You and Tsuki had been walking hand-in-hand, window shopping, her other arm looped around yours as she pressed close. She’d been humming a little tune, hips swaying beside you, her eyes their usual soft, slitted crescent shape—pure comfort.

Then it happened.

A girl, maybe your age, bumped into you. Not aggressively—just one of those clumsy shoulder brushes. She gave a quick, “Oh! Sorry!” and walked off without a second thought.

But you felt Tsuki freeze.

Her humming stopped. Her steps faltered. She didn’t say a word, but her grip on your arm subtly tightened.

You glanced down.

Her eyes weren’t the usual gentle slits anymore. They were a little more open now—wide enough to see the nervous sparkle beneath. Her lips were puckered in a tiny frown, and she looked up at you like a kitten who just saw someone else touch its favorite toy.

She didn’t say anything.

She didn’t have to.

That was her “I’m trying not to melt down but my brain is on fire” face.