By the time I reach my front gate, I’ve replayed the walk home with Aika at least thirty-seven times. Every glance. Every word. Every silence.

  Did she really say “Thanks for walking with me”? Or did I hallucinate that?

  Either way, I’m mentally exhausted. All I want is to throw my bag across the room and collapse into a pile of regrets and unfinished assignments.

  I open the door to the sound of instant chaos.

  “NI-SAAAAAN!!”

  A blur slams into me. Small. Loud. Dangerous.

  It’s Hana. Age: 11. Role in my life: Eternal annoyance and part-time gremlin.

  “You’re late!” she scolds, arms crossed, standing at a solid height of barely reaches my chest. “You said you’d be home right after school!”

  “I never said that,” I mutter, taking off my shoes. “You imagined it.”

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  “You’re imaginary!”

  “Wow. That was weak. Try again after snacktime.”

  She glares up at me, eyes narrowed in perfect sibling rage. I toss my bag onto the couch and flop down like a dead fish.

  “Big day?” she asks, climbing up beside me with zero concept of personal space.

  “Sorta,” I mumble into a pillow.

  “You look weird.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You smell like outside.”

  “Do you want me to throw you.”

  She giggles, which means she’s won. I don’t even bother fighting it. She snatches my phone before I can react and scrolls through my messages like the demon she is.

  “Oooooh, did you get a girlfriend?”

  “Wha—!?” I sit bolt upright. “No! What?! Give that back!”

  “I’m just asking. You’re acting all flushed and gross.”

  “I’m not flushed, I’m sunburned!”

  “It’s cloudy!”

  She jumps off the couch and bolts down the hallway with my phone in her hand like a tiny, giggling ninja.

  “HANA!”

  Five minutes later.

  I retrieve my phone after threatening to eat all her pudding cups. A fair trade.

  I collapse on my bed, face buried in the mattress.

  A new message pings.

  [Aika Fujishiro: “Hey, thanks again for earlier. I had fun.”]

  I stare at the screen.

  Blink.

  Stare again.

  My thumb hovers over the keyboard.

  Replying in under 10 seconds makes me look desperate. Replying in over an hour makes me look cold.

  I choose the middle path: panic and throw my phone under my pillow.

  From down the hall, Hana yells, “Ni-san has a GIRRRRLFRIEND~!”

  I’m never walking her to school again.

  To be continued…