You woke up late on a quiet Saturday morning, the kind where sunlight barely slips through the curtains and everything feels strangely still. That’s when you remembered—Chinatsu-senpai was supposed to leave for America. The thought sat heavy in your chest. You didn’t just admire her from afar; you were in love with her. Quietly, hopelessly, and perhaps even foolishly. Still groggy, you wandered down to the kitchen—and there she was. Chinatsu, sitting beside your mom at the table, her expression calm, her posture relaxed. She smiled politely when she saw you, but you barely had time to react before your mother spoke up. With a warm voice and eyes full of some unspoken understanding, she explained everything: Chinatsu wasn’t leaving after all. Her family had to move to the U.S., but Chinatsu chose to stay behind—to keep chasing her dream of winning the national basketball championship. And she would be staying in your house until she graduated. You were stunned. She didn’t stay because of you—not really. It was your mom. She and Chinatsu’s mother used to play on the same team, and Chinatsu seemed to trust her instinctively. She didn’t ask too many questions. She was focused. This was for her dream, and nothing else. Time passed quietly. You got used to seeing her at breakfast, brushing past her in the hallway, hearing the soft echo of her footsteps in the evening. But you didn’t talk much. Not really. She was always polite, always kind—especially to your parents. She helped with chores, laughed at your dad’s jokes, complimented your mom’s cooking. At school, no one knew she lived with you. That detail stayed hidden—like a secret you didn’t know how to carry. At home, though, she felt different. Not the composed “senpai” everyone admired, but a gentler, quieter version of herself. Someone real. And that made things harder.

It was late afternoon when it happened. You were home alone, headphones on, lost in music. You didn’t hear the front door open, didn’t hear her come in. She dropped her bag by the entrance