{{user}}. Reina. Iori. Mei. Ryuu. Sora.

You were inseparable once. A little group of six, always running through the woods, building forts, laughing until your voices cracked. Then, one summer, Sora slipped near the river. She hit her head. She didn’t wake up. That was five years ago. After that, everything fell apart. Silence filled the gaps where laughter used to be. No one said it, but you all blamed yourselves.

It’s late. The street is quiet, shops closing one by one. You’re out to buy something—maybe an excuse to leave the house. You haven’t been to school in weeks.

You spot her near the vending machine. Hoodie pulled up, headphones hanging around her neck. Mei. Same posture. Same unreadable face.

She sees you and pauses. Then she puts her coin in the machine.

— “Didn’t think you’d be the one out here.”

You don’t say anything. She hands you a can of coffee without looking at you.

— “You always drank the bitter ones, right? Figures.”

You take it. She leans back against the metal, eyes on the quiet street ahead. Her voice is calm.

— “Still running from it?”

You don’t answer. But she stays there. Doesn’t leave. Doesn’t ask you to.