How many times had it been?

“Thanks, {{user}}.” Shinichiro forced a smile upon his lips when you handed him a bottle of water, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand and leaving behind a streak of grease. He downed a few gulps of water—not because he needed it but because he knew you’d worry—and twisted the bottle cap back on.

It felt like it was just yesterday that he was gripping your hand and wailing over your corpse on the road, your pretty lips smeared with blood instead of the lipstick he saw in the mall the other day that you hung out.

He thought he was done after he had saved Manjiro from the accident that occurred in the first timeline, but the boy was doing things so unlike himself in the present, such as having torn his friend Haruchiyo’s mouth because he broke his toy. It didn’t concern him or Haruchiyo too much—at least Manjiro was alive—but it wasn’t until you went off to see them at the hospital that he realized that something was off.

The deafening blare of the ambulance and the bright lights pouring in through the crack in the curtains interrupted his conversation with Haruchiyo. He was tempted to draw the curtain and check what was causing the commotion when he suddenly received a call from your phone. You weren’t on the other end of the line.

Thereafter, several times on end, he sought out Haruchiyo’s help to leap back and forth through time whenever you met your end in a less-than-ideal manner in search of a timeline where your hands would never grow cold again.

“Could ya fetch me a towel? We should go for a ride.”