There is a difference between protecting someone and staying in their life.

  I learned that too late in the other world.

  The morning felt painfully ordinary.

  Sunlight spilled through the classroom windows. Students filtered in slowly, their conversations overlapping in a way that made everything feel steady. Predictable.

  Safe.

  I sat by the window like always.

  I told myself it was habit.

  The door slid open.

  I knew it was her.

  There is a particular awareness that does not fade just because circumstances change. It settles somewhere deeper than sight.

  I did not look up.

  In the other world, she would have crossed the room without hesitation. Sat beside me even if someone else was there first. If I moved, she followed. If I was quiet, she watched.

  Back then, her attachment had not been healthy.

  It was desperate.

  Sharp.

  She had feared losing me before she ever actually had.

  It took months for her to breathe normally. To laugh without glancing over her shoulder. To stand on her own without checking if I was still within reach.

  I never called what we had love.

  I called it staying.

  And I stayed because she needed someone to.

  That was the truth.

  The bell rang.

  Class began.

  I kept my eyes on my notebook even when I felt her presence settle somewhere behind me.

  She did not approach.

  That was good.

  It should have been good.

  By lunch, the thought I had been avoiding finally settled into something clear.

  If she can live without remembering me, then I should let her.

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  Not because I do not care.

  Because I do.

  In the other world, I anchored her because she was drowning.

  In this one, she is walking on her own.

  If I step too close, I might pull her back into something she does not need anymore.

  She does not look broken here.

  She does not look unstable.

  She looks… lighter.

  The version of her that clung to me belonged to a world built on fear.

  If that world is gone, then maybe that version of her deserves to rest with it.

  I exhaled slowly.

  I would not avoid her.

  But I would not position myself where she could fall back into orbit.

  If she approaches me, I will answer.

  If she does not, I will not reach.

  Some forms of care are quiet.

  Some forms of care look like distance.

  And if letting her forget me completely is what keeps her stable, then that is what I will accept.

  Even if it means I am the only one carrying what we were.

  Akary

  The question would not leave her alone.

  Where did I meet him before?

  It was not about school.

  That explanation felt incomplete.

  The familiarity she felt when standing near him was not built from shared classrooms. It was older than that. Deeper.

  She sat with Hana and Rei during lunch, pushing her food around without realizing she had barely eaten.

  “You’ve been quiet all day,” Hana said gently.

  Akary blinked. “Have I?”

  “Yes,” Rei replied. “You look distracted.”

  Akary hesitated.

  Then she decided to ask.

  “When I first transferred here… what was I like?”

  Hana tilted her head. “Like how?”

  “With people. With Miro.”

  The name shifted something in the air between them.

  Rei answered first. “You were always with him.”

  “Always how?”

  “The first week you transferred,” Hana said carefully, “you chose the seat next to him without even asking. You stayed there every day after.”

  Akary frowned. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

  “It does when you ignored everyone else,” Rei said. “You barely talked to us at first.”

  A quiet unease crept into her chest.

  “I don’t remember that.”

  Neither of them laughed.

  “You really don’t?” Hana asked.

  Akary shook her head slowly.

  “I remember transferring. I remember feeling lost. But I don’t remember choosing anyone.”

  Rei glanced at Hana before speaking again.

  “You didn’t just choose him. You told everyone you were living with him.”

  The cafeteria noise faded into something distant.

  “What?”

  “It was during homeroom,” Hana said softly. “Someone asked why you left together every day. You said you were staying at his place. Like it was obvious.”

  Akary’s grip tightened around her chopsticks.

  “That’s not possible.”

  “You weren’t embarrassed,” Rei added. “You sounded sure.”

  Sure.

  She tried to see it.

  Standing up. Speaking clearly. Claiming that space beside him publicly.

  Nothing came.

  No image.

  No emotional echo.

  Just emptiness.

  “I’ve always lived alone,” she whispered.

  “Since when?” Hana asked.

  “Since I can remember.”

  The answer felt fragile.

  Since I can remember.

  Her memories before mid semester felt thin. Like pages that had been handled too many times.

  She remembered moving into her apartment.

  She remembered unpacking.

  But she could not remember who carried the heavier boxes.

  If anyone did.

  A quiet fear began to spread through her.

  Not dramatic.

  Not loud.

  Just steady.

  Why would I say something like that if it wasn’t true?

  Her eyes lifted instinctively.

  Across the cafeteria, he sat near the window.

  Calm.

  Reading.

  Not watching her.

  He did not look confused.

  He did not look curious.

  He looked like someone who had already made peace with something.

  And that unsettled her more than anything her friends had said.

  If I stood in front of everyone and said I was living with him…

  Then I must have believed it.

  So why does it feel like that version of me belonged to someone else?

  The calm she felt around him was still there.

  But now it was threaded with something colder.

  Not fear of him.

  Fear that her own memories could not be trusted.

  And fear that he might be the only person who remembers the parts she cannot reach.