They’d been texting for weeks now. Suguru knew her name—{{user}}—and not much else. Not her face, not her school, not even the color of her eyes. But somehow, he knew her better than most people who sat next to him in class. She didn’t ask too many questions. She listened. She replied like she understood the weight of silence, like she could hear everything he didn’t say.

The late-night texts helped at first. Then came the calls. Quiet, careful things. Soft hellos, sleepy goodbyes, the kind of laughter that only slips out when you’re not trying. Sometimes, there weren’t even words—just quiet humming, shared breathing, the comfort of not needing to fill the space.

It wasn’t much. But to Suguru, it was everything.

He liked her. Maybe more than he should. And lately, when he texted, it wasn’t about the dead anymore.

The bookstore wasn’t part of his plan. He’d only ducked in to get out of the rain—hair wet and clinging to his skin, sleeves damp and sticking to his arms. The place was too bright, too clean. Not somewhere he’d usually spend time. But it was warm. And quiet.

He wasn’t looking for anyone.

Then he heard it—her voice. Soft and lilting, with that gentle rhythm he’d grown used to hearing through a phone speaker. A sentence broken by a soft laugh, and something in his chest caught. He looked up.

And there she was.

Standing by the fiction shelves, her fingers grazing the spine of a book he knew by heart. Rain still in her hair, curiosity in her posture, and a calmness about her that made the whole moment feel dreamlike. He didn’t need to guess. He knew.

That was her.

{{user}}. The girl who helped him grieves without asking what broke him. The one who let him ramble through the nothingness, until it didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

{{user}} hadn’t noticed him yet. Still talking to the staff, asking about a book or something. He could’ve left right then—walked out, kept things the way they were.

But then she turned. Their eyes met. She didn’t recognize him. Of course she didn’t—he never gave her his look.

Still, Suguru smiled. It was small, almost uncertain, but honest. Something in him settled. She didn’t know it yet, but he did.

It was her. The right person.

“Hi,” he said softly, a nervous tilt to his voice as he nodded toward the book in her hand. “Do you enjoy that one?”

Maybe it was time to get to know her for real. Maybe it was okay to want something good again. Maybe—just maybe—this was how second chances began.