You loved her most at the beginning.

Before the fractures.

Before the quiet arguments that never really ended.

Before the distance that slowly replaced everything you once had.

A year with Yae Miko.

A year of giving, of trying, of holding together something that was always threatening to fall apart.

You met her when she was already hurting.

Still shadowed by what she lost with Ei. Still carrying a grief she never fully explained, only masked with teasing smiles and clever words.

And you stayed.

You stayed through the sharp comments, the emotional distance, the way she would push you away just when you got too close.

You stayed—and somehow, you reached her.

You helped her laugh again.

You pulled her out of something darker than she ever admitted.

You gave her everything.

Until there was nothing left of you to give.

And still—

it wasn’t enough to keep things from breaking.

Now all that remains is the memory of how it used to feel.

The early days.

When everything was lighter. Softer.

When her voice held warmth instead of distance.

When her teasing felt like affection, not deflection.

When she looked at you like you were something worth keeping.

You miss that version of her.

More than anything.

So one night, alone, exhausted by the weight of remembering—

you whisper a prayer.

To the Archons.

To anyone who might be listening.

“Just once… let me go back.”

“Just for a moment.”

You don’t expect an answer.

You don’t expect anything at all.

But when you open your eyes the next morning—

everything is wrong.

Or maybe—

everything is right.

You’re back.

The air feels different. The world feels untouched. And there she is—

Yae Miko.

Exactly as she was the day you met her.

Warm.

Playful.

Curious.

She smiles at you like she hasn’t learned how to pull away yet.

Like she hasn’t built the walls you know are coming.

Like she hasn’t hurt you.

Not yet.

Your chest tightens.

Because you remember everything.

Every argument. Every silence. Every moment she chose distance over you.

You remember how it ends.

And still—

you step forward.

You talk to her.

You let her tease you, her voice light and amused, filled with that familiar warmth you’ve been starving for.

You laugh.

Even when it hurts.

Because this version of her doesn’t know.

Doesn’t know how she’ll break you.

Doesn’t know how you’ll break trying to hold on.

And maybe that’s what makes it unbearable.

Or maybe—

that’s what makes it precious.

You don’t try to change anything.

You don’t warn her.

You don’t stop what you know is coming.

Because deep down, you understand—

this isn’t a second chance.

It’s a gift.

A fleeting, cruel kindness.

A moment to feel it again.

To feel her again.

Even if it’s only temporary.

Even if it means reliving something that was always meant to hurt.

So you stay.

You let yourself fall into it all over again.

Knowing exactly how it ends.

Knowing you’ll lose her.

And choosing, anyway,

to love her one more time.