The number above her head hadn't stopped glowing in my memory.
*100 days.*
It blinked behind my eyelids when I tried to sleep. It hovered in the steam of my breakfast the next morning. It clung to the corner of my vision as I walked to school beneath gray skies.
I told myself what I always did: *It's not my business. It never is.*
But my chest still felt heavy.
---
At school, I kept my head low. I wore my blurred lenses like a shield, the world reduced to hazy shapes and colorless shadows.
When I stepped into the classroom, I heard her voice before I saw anything.
"Morning, Kazuki!"
My name, spoken like it meant something. I flinched. Didn't reply. Just walked past her and sat down, facing the window.
Whispers bloomed around the room.
"She's talking to *him*?"
"Doesn't she know he's weird?"
"Maybe she didn't hear the rumors…"
But Hikari didn't seem to care. If she heard them, she didn't show it.
---
Third period came. Group activity. My stomach sank as the teacher announced partners. I waited for the usual — that awkward pause where no one wanted to be stuck with me.
But then:
"I'll go with Kazuki!"
Silence followed her words.
I looked up. Even through the blur, I could feel eyes burning into me. Disbelief. Confusion. Pity.
I didn't move. Didn't answer. But the teacher clapped her hands and moved on, like it was already decided.
---
When we sat together, she leaned in slightly. "Sorry. I didn't mean to surprise you," she whispered.
I gave a small shake of my head. "It's fine."
She smiled, then flipped open her notebook. For the next few minutes, she filled in the assignment, talking softly as if we were old friends.
"You don't talk much, huh?" she said casually.
"I guess not."
"That's okay. I talk enough for both of us."
A laugh escaped her lips, light and unbothered. Then her expression shifted. More thoughtful.
"Some girls told me not to talk to you," she said, almost like she was commenting on the weather.
"They said you're weird. That you wear those lenses to avoid people. That you never look anyone in the eye."
I stiffened. Kept writing. "And you listened?"
She tilted her head. "Nope. I don't like people who talk behind others' backs."
Then, with a playful smile: "Besides, I think weird is more interesting."
I paused. That... wasn't the answer I expected.
"You don't even know me," I said.
"Not yet."
Her smile softened. "But I want to."
---
By the end of the activity, we'd finished early. She talked about music, old childhood cartoons, her favorite kind of ice cream. I gave short answers, but she didn't seem to mind carrying the conversation.
Before she left my side, she turned and said, "You look like someone who's carrying something heavy."
I didn't respond.
But she looked at me with gentle eyes — not pity, not curiosity. Just understanding.
"It's okay," she said. "I like people who carry quiet things."
---
That night, I sat at my desk with a blank page open in front of me.
I reached into the drawer and pulled out an old notebook. The one I hadn't touched in months.
I flipped past names I tried to forget. People whose numbers I watched drop to zero.
Then I wrote:
**Hikari Tachibana – 100 days – Day 2.**
She had 99 days left.
I stared at the page for a long time. My hand hovered over the line. I almost crossed it out.
But I didn't.
I closed the book, shoved it back in the drawer, and leaned back.
*I should stay away from her.*