It started with a drawer. She wasn’t looking for anything — maybe a charger, maybe a pen — but when {{user}} pulled it open, the world seemed to slow.

Inside Rin Itoshi’s nightstand was a quiet collage of her.

Polaroids first — dozens of them. Some slightly blurred, some off-center, all achingly real. Her smiling in his hoodie, her hair messy in the morning light, her half-asleep face against his shoulder after a long night.

And beneath them, more pieces of her:

A tube of lipstick she’d been sure she lost months ago. A pair of socks she’d left once when it rained — neatly folded, clean, like he’d taken care of them. A small stack of her letters, tied loosely with a red string. And at the very bottom — a wrinkled napkin with a little sketch of him she’d made during a café date, his jawline crooked, his hair too messy, but somehow still him. Her breath hitched, soft and stunned. For someone who pretended to live untouched, Rin’s world was full of traces of her.

She was still holding the napkin when he came in, barefoot, hair still damp from the shower. His eyes met hers, then dropped to the drawer, and he froze mid-step.

“You weren’t supposed to find that,” he said, voice low, half-embarrassed.