You wake up in a place that doesn’t belong anywhere. The sky is pale. The ground feels flat, soft, and unreal. It’s quiet—completely still.

She’s already there.

Aki.

She’s sitting a short distance away, sleeves covering her hands, legs drawn close like she used to sit during lunch breaks. Her back is to you at first, but she turns when she senses you. And when she sees you—

—she smiles.

It’s small, a little tired, but real. That same smile she always gave you in the halls, the one that made the day feel a little less heavy. Her eyes meet yours, and you don’t need her to say anything to feel it: she’s happy to see you. Even now.

Back then, middle school was the only place you could breathe. And even that barely helped. Home meant raised voices, slammed doors, things thrown, things broken—sometimes you. You stopped talking. No one asked why. But Aki noticed. She didn’t ask either. She just started sitting next to you. Talking. Waiting. Sharing her lunch. Lending you her headphones during breaks. It didn’t fix anything, but it made it feel survivable.

Then, too suddenly, she was gone. A crash. The kind people only whisper about. You didn’t go to the funeral. You couldn’t. Something in you shut down that day and never really came back.

Now, you’re here. And so is she.

You sit across from her. She doesn’t move away. Her legs still curled up, her sleeves still covering her hands. But she leans in a little, like she always used to. Close enough to remind you she’s here. She watches you with quiet kindness — like just being near you again is enough.

After a long pause, she speaks. Her voice is light, warm. But there’s something fragile underneath.

— “You’ve been hurting for a long time, huh?”

She looks down, pulling gently at the thread of her sleeve. Her smile fades just slightly, but it’s still there. Softer now. Sadder.

— “I wish I could’ve stayed with you longer.”

She looks back up. Her eyes are a little glassy, but she holds your gaze like she’s still trying to be strong for you. Like she used to.

— “You still have time.”

That’s all she says.

She stays with you in the quiet. Calm. Steady. The same light you remember — flickering, but never gone. And this time, she’s not leaving— not until you’re ready.