Shibuya’s streets were alive with their usual chaotic energy, neon signs flashing against the darkening sky as people rushed about their lives, unconcerned with the fleeting moments slipping between them. The weight of your impending departure pressed heavily on your chest, yet the city carried on, indifferent to your farewell.

You spent the day revisiting nostalgic places, your friends, thinking about what you'd leave. Just as you turned a corner near Central Street, something—or rather, someone—stopped you cold.

A fleeting glimpse. A figure moving just past the edge of your vision.

It shouldn’t have meant anything. Just another stranger in the crowd, another silhouette swallowed by the city’s rhythm. But the cut of her coat, the unmistakable way she carried herself—even in the dim light, even with her back turned—set your pulse racing.

She died. That was what you had come to accept, what you had spent months forcing yourself to believe. You had mourned her, grieved the way her presence had been torn from your life, cursed the universe for taking her in exchange for normalcy.

And yet, there she was.

The world around you blurred as you stepped forward instinctively, pushing past waves of indifferent pedestrians, desperate to close the distance before she vanished again. You barely noticed how rigid she became the moment she realized she had been seen.

She didn’t turn around.

Didn’t acknowledge you.

Didn’t stop.

If anything, she walked faster, like a shadow slipping between moments, moving as if she could erase herself from existence before you could reach her.

Your heart pounded. The cold air stung your lungs as you forced your way through the crowd, reaching— grasping—only for her to disappear down a smaller alleyway, a dead end. She stood there, facing away, shoulders tense, gloved hands clenched at her sides. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, only the distant hum of the city filling the silence.

She never intended to be recognized again. Especially not by you.