You had followed Miyako once, just out of curiosity. She was always so secretive about her room, always closing the door before you could peek inside. But today, when she slipped away, you opened it.

And there it was.

Every inch of the walls was covered in you. Photos of you at school, you walking home, you sitting at a café, even one where you were half-asleep in class. Dozens—no, hundreds—of them. Some neat in frames, others taped haphazardly, overlapping each other like a shrine. In the center was a photo of you smiling faintly—rare, but she had captured it—and around it were little notes in her handwriting:

“My everything.” “His smile is mine alone.” “Forever together.”

The air felt heavy, suffocating, but you didn’t flinch. You just stood there, hands in your pockets, taking it all in.

The door creaked. Miyako stepped in, holding a tray of tea, and froze. Then, slowly, that chillingly sweet smile spread across her face.

“Ah… you saw.”

You turned to her, meeting her gaze. She looked nervous for a moment, then desperate, then… hopeful.

“…Are you angry?” she whispered, almost trembling.