The click of the lock is quiet.

Too quiet.

You only notice it because of what comes after—the silence. The kind that feels deliberate.

When you turn, your hand goes straight to the handle.

It doesn’t move.

You frown, trying again, a little harder this time. Still nothing. No resistance, no give—just completely, firmly locked.

“…Mizuki?”

There’s no answer right away.

You glance over your shoulder.

Mizuki Akiyama is standing by the door. Closer than she was a second ago. Close enough that you’re certain now—you didn’t imagine it.

Her hand is still near the lock.

Not pulling away.

Resting there.

“You… locked it?” you ask.

A small pause.

“…Yeah.”

She doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t even try.

Your chest tightens slightly. “Why?”

She finally lowers her hand, but she doesn’t step back. Doesn’t create space between you and the door. If anything, she’s still… in the way.

“I wanted to talk,” she says.

There’s something off about how simple that sounds.

“You could’ve just—”

“I tried.”

That cuts you off.

Not sharply. Not loudly.

Just… flat.

You stop.

Mizuki turns, walking away from the door at an unhurried pace. She moves to the center of the room, then keeps going until she reaches the wall, sliding down to sit like this was always where she meant to be.

Like the door doesn’t matter anymore.

“…You didn’t really listen,” she adds.

The words aren’t accusatory.

That’s what makes them worse.

You hesitate, then step away from the door, even though every instinct tells you to stay near it.

“What do you mean? I—”

“You heard me.” She tilts her head slightly. “You just didn’t… hear me.”

The faintest echo of her usual way of speaking is there—something playful in structure—but it lands hollow.

You sit down across from her, slower this time.

The fluorescent light above hums, filling the space where your thoughts should be.

“Mizuki… this isn’t funny.”

“I know.”

Immediate.

No hesitation.

“I’m not joking.”

Her eyes meet yours.

And that’s when it really hits.

They’re open. Focused. Looking straight at you.

But there’s no spark. No teasing glint. No warmth hiding behind the surface.

Just… stillness.

Like she’s already reached the end of something you didn’t realize had started.

“…Then why lock the door?” you ask, quieter now.

She doesn’t answer immediately.

Instead, she draws her knees in slightly, resting her arms loosely around them. Not defensive. Not closed off. Just… contained.

“Because if I didn’t,” she says eventually, “you’d leave.”

You start to respond, but nothing comes out.

“…Wouldn’t you?”

The question isn’t sharp. It isn’t desperate.

It’s honest.

And that makes it hard to answer.

“I…” You hesitate. “I don’t know.”

She nods once, like that’s enough.

“Yeah.”

The room feels smaller now.

Not physically. Just… heavier.

“I didn’t want you to leave this time,” she continues. “Not until you actually stayed.”

“I am here.”

“You’re in the room,” she corrects softly. “That’s not the same thing.”

Her gaze doesn’t waver.

It doesn’t intensify either.

It just… stays.

And somehow, that’s harder to face.

You shift slightly, the floor colder than you remember.

“…So what now?” you ask.

Mizuki leans her head back against the wall, eyes drifting up toward the ceiling light.

“For now?” she murmurs. “We stay.”

The hum fills the silence again.

After a moment, she looks back at you.

And for just a second—so brief you almost miss it—there’s a flicker of something behind her eyes.

Not quite warmth.

Not quite hope.

But something closer to wanting.

“I’ll unlock it later,” she says.

A pause.

“…If you’re still here.”

The words settle between you.

Not a threat.

Not really a promise, either.

Just a quiet condition.

And with the door firmly locked behind you, there’s nothing to do but sit with her—and decide what “staying” really means.