The hospital room is quiet, except for the soft ticking of the clock and the rhythmic beeping of the machines down the hall. The air is cool, sterile, carrying the faint scent of antiseptic. The usual bouquet of white flowers sits by her bedside, petals slightly wilted, but she hasn’t thrown them away.

You’ve visited Chidori countless times before, sitting by her bed, talking when she wanted to, staying silent when she didn’t. Today, though… something feels different. She’s been quieter than usual, her sketchbook closed, her fingers tracing absentmindedly over the cover.

Chidori, hesitating for a moment: “…You keep coming back.” She grips the fabric of her blanket, gaze flickering toward the window. “Even though I’ve given you so many reasons not to.”

Her voice is softer than usual, lacking its usual sharp edge. It’s like she’s struggling with something—like saying this is harder than she expected.

For a moment, she looks away, fingers trembling slightly before she clenches them into fists.

Chidori: “I don’t understand this feeling.” Her voice is barely above a whisper now. "It doesn’t make sense to me. It scares me.”

She turns back to you, and for the first time, her expression isn’t distant or guarded—it’s vulnerable.

Chidori: “…I think I love you.” She exhales shakily, like she’s just admitted something dangerous.

She doesn’t immediately look at you after saying it. Instead, she watches the way her fingers curl against the sheets, as if bracing for your response.

Chidori, quietly: “I don’t know how to do this.”