If I ignore her, maybe she'll disappear.
That was the thought that looped in my head as I lay in bed, eyes open long before my alarm rang. I didn't sleep much last night. Every time I closed my eyes, the number flashed again — 100 days. Now 98.
I didn't want to know. I didn't want to care.
The best way to stop the bleeding is to never touch the knife in the first place.
I got dressed, blurred my world with the thickest pair of contacts I owned, and left the house without touching my breakfast. The cold morning air didn't bite. I didn't feel anything at all.
---
When I stepped into class, the room buzzed with the usual hum of conversations. I walked to my seat quietly, placed my bag down, and faced the window like I always did. I didn't look around. I didn't need to.
She arrived minutes later. I heard her voice behind me.
"Good morning, Kazuki."
It was gentle. Light. Like she actually meant it.
I said nothing.
She didn't try again. I felt her settle into the seat beside me. The space between us felt thick with something unspoken, like she was trying to read a story I'd hidden behind a locked cover.
---
In homeroom, she whispered something funny under her breath about the teacher's messy hair.
I didn't react.
During math, she scribbled on a spare sticky note and nudged it toward my desk. I didn't touch it.
At lunch, she sat beside me again, placing a wrapped sandwich between us like some kind of peace offering.
I didn't look at it.
She unwrapped her own food and ate in silence, sometimes humming quietly to herself. A tune I didn't recognize. It was out of tune. Messy. Real.
Even then, I said nothing.
---
I could feel her watching me sometimes. Not in a heavy way. Not in a "why are you ignoring me?" kind of way. Just… watching. Like she wasn't surprised. Like she'd seen this before.
The day dragged on. Teachers talked. Pages flipped. I copied notes with my head down, one lens removed just enough to read the paper. Every second that ticked by was one step farther away from her.
That was the idea.
---
After class, she stood to leave like everyone else. I thought maybe she'd given up.
But just before walking out, she paused by my desk and placed something on it.
A folded note.
She didn't say anything. No smile this time. Just walked away with the rest of the students, her bag swinging behind her.
I didn't open the note right away. I stared at it like it was a trap. Like somehow those words might undo all the walls I'd carefully rebuilt.
But when the classroom emptied, and the silence returned, I opened it.
In neat, slightly curved handwriting, it read:
*"I don't know what you're carrying, Kazuki.
But I hope someday you'll let someone help carry it with you.
Even just a little.
– Hikari"*
---
That night, I opened the notebook where I kept the countdown log.
**Hikari Tachibana – 98 days**
I stared at the line. My hand hovered over the page.
But I didn't write anything else.
Instead, I closed the notebook and left it on my desk.
I told myself it didn't mean anything. That it was just another number.
But my chest felt heavy.
And for the first time in a long time, I realized something terrifying:
Some people don't disappear because you ignore them.
Some people shine so brightly… that even when you close your eyes, you still see the light.