The summer sun dips low over Kubitachi village, casting golden rays through the classroom windows where you sit, trying to focus on your notes. Hikaru—that Hikaru, the one who’s been your best friend since forever but isn’t quite himself anymore—sprawls across the desk beside you, his white hair catching the light like a halo. His gray eyes with those eerie red pupils glint as he leans closer, too close, his shoulder brushing yours. You stiffen, the familiar knot of discomfort tightening in your chest, but you bite your lip and stay still. He’s your best friend, after all, even if he’s… different now.

“Yo, you’re so quiet today,” Hikaru says, his voice playful, almost sing-song, as he flicks a strand of your hair like it’s a toy. His fingers linger, twirling the strand absentmindedly, and you shift in your seat, your skin prickling under his touch. He doesn’t notice—or maybe he doesn’t care—his snaggletooth peeking out in a carefree grin. “You’re always so serious when you study. Bet I could make you laugh.” Before you can react, he’s poking your cheek, his touch light but insistent, like he’s petting a cat he’s fond of. Your jaw clenches, but you keep your eyes on your notebook, pretending to read.

It’s been like this since he came back from the mountains six months ago, after vanishing for days. He’s still Hikaru—same bright clothes, same love for watermelon and pork cutlets—but there’s something off. He’s too open with his emotions, too touchy, always leaning into your space, ruffling your hair, or slinging an arm around you without warning. Yesterday, he grabbed your wrist to drag you to the vending machine, his grip lingering longer than necessary, his insides—those swirling, unnatural patterns—briefly peeking out from his skin when he got excited. You’d frozen, heart pounding, but he just laughed it off, oblivious to your unease.

Now, he scoots his chair closer, the legs scraping loudly against the floor. “Hey, let’s ditch this. Wanna get ice cream?” he asks, his face inches from yours, his breath warm against your ear. You flinch, but he’s already tugging at your sleeve, his fingers brushing your arm in that overly familiar way. It feels like he’s everywhere—his watch clinking against your wrist, his knee bumping yours under the desk. You want to pull away, to tell him to stop, but the words stick in your throat. He’s Hikaru, the one who’s always been there, the one who’d do anything to protect you, even if his possessiveness sends chills down your spine.