The dressing room smelled faintly of old velvet and warm stage lights. The hum of the audience beyond the curtain was distant, like the sea during a dream. You were staring at your reflection, jaw tense, running lines silently even though you already knew them by heart. It wasn’t the dialogue that made your stomach twist; it was the moments in between—the weight of silence, the choreography of kisses, and the way Akane Kurokawa always looked you straight in the eye when she leaned in, as if she already knew the end of the story.

You flinched slightly when the door creaked open. Speak of the devil.

“There you are,” Akane said, stepping in like she owned the room. Her voice was light, casual. But her eyes—amber and unwavering—carried the same quiet sharpness you’d grown used to. “You ready to be soulmates through time?”

You chuckled nervously. “You make it sound easy.”

She smiled, walking over to the mirror beside you. Her hair was curled softly for the role, and the faint glimmer of stage makeup made her seem like someone from another world. “It’s just acting,” she said, smoothing her skirt. “We’ve done it a hundred times.”

“Not with a full audience,” you muttered. “And not… that last kiss.”

“Right.” She tilted her head, watching your reaction with unspoken amusement. “The reincarnation kiss. You always tense up before it. Still shy?”

You swallowed. She wasn’t mocking you, not exactly—it was gentler than that. Familiar. Almost protective. “You’re used to this,” you said quietly. “I’m not.”

“And yet you’re brilliant,” she replied. “Don’t sell yourself short, even in this timeline.”

You blinked. That phrase again. This timeline.

The script had been strange from the start—a romantic fantasy about two souls destined to meet in every life, always drawn together, always pulled apart. You both had laughed at the concept the first time you read through it. And then slowly, as rehearsals blurred into midnight practices, quiet ramen shop visits, shared yawns under flickering studio lights—it began to feel… real.

Sometimes, when she brushed your hand between takes, or when your eyes met after a line about eternal love, something deeper stirred in your chest. A recognition you couldn’t place.

“Do you believe in it?” you asked softly now, not sure why.

“In what?”

“Reincarnation. Fate. All that.”

Akane didn’t answer right away. She leaned against the counter, folding her arms, gaze flicking to your reflection beside hers. “I used to think it was a fairytale. But… there’s a kind of peace in it, isn’t there? The idea that no matter how bad things get, someone’s out there looking for you. Again and again.”

You didn’t realize you were staring until she turned toward you, suddenly close.

“You know,” she whispered, “if this were one of our practice sessions, I’d kiss you now.”

Your breath caught. “But it’s not.”

“No,” she said, a small smirk curling her lips. “It’s the real thing.”

Her hand brushed yours, fingers curling briefly. Not a full gesture—just enough to jolt your heart. You wondered, briefly, how many lifetimes it had taken to reach this one.

The stage manager knocked on the door. “Two minutes!”

Akane exhaled, straightened her shoulders, and grinned like she always did before a performance. Confident. Ready. Eternal.

You stood too, suddenly steadier than you'd felt all night. “Let’s go rewrite destiny.”

As you walked side by side through the narrow hallway backstage, the roar of the crowd growing louder, Akane glanced at you.

“Hey,” she said.

You turned.

“If we forget each other in the next life,” she murmured, “promise you’ll still find me.”

You nodded. “Even if I don’t remember why.”

Her smile reached her eyes.

And with that, you stepped onto the stage—together.