7:56 AM.
I was more anxious than usual.
Not the kind that punches you in the gut or makes your hands shake. Just... quieter. Closer. Like the world had tilted slightly overnight and no one noticed but me.
It wasn’t new. Just… amplified.
A sharper buzz under my skin.
I blamed it on the weather. Or the stairs. Or the silence that followed me home last night.
I didn’t believe I had powers.
I believed I had anxiety.
Still, I walked slower than usual.
Same route. Same sidewalk. Same cracked pillar outside the community clinic.
The same overgrown road divider with last year’s campaign poster still flapping on it.
And then I saw her.
Hina.
We didn’t really know each other.
But we passed each other often—just enough for polite nods and small acknowledgements near the ramen shop.
She lived a block over from me, I think. The kind of neighbor who existed in glimpses.
And she was clumsy. I’d seen it a few times. Keys dropped. Bags tilted. Once, she knocked over a crate of oranges outside the market and apologized to every fruit individually.
So when I saw her walking ahead, holding a stuffed paper bag in both arms, that same thought returned:
There was a curb up ahead—slanted, uneven, stupidly placed.
Her foot landed right near the edge.
I winced—
But she didn’t fall.
Not even a stumble.
She adjusted her step without thinking and kept going, turning the corner like nothing happened.
I exhaled. This time, for real.
Maybe I was just being dramatic.
Maybe the thing with the kid was a fluke. A one-time freakout.
Maybe my brain just needed someone to shove a reset button inside it.
Honestly, if I kept “predicting” accidents that didn’t happen, I’d be due for a psych eval by next month.
I shook the thought off.
It was fine. Nothing happened. The world didn’t crack open.
It was just another day.
10:12 AM.
School was... normal.
Or at least, the version of normal I remembered from a few days ago. Before the stairs. Before the girl on the bike.
I kept my head down. Took my usual seat by the window. Tried not to look like someone who was trying not to look like something was wrong.
I wasn’t good at it.
But I’d been doing it long enough that most people didn’t bother anymore.
The only one who still seemed to notice was .
Ethics teacher. Guidance counselor. Permanent ghost in the hallway.
I saw him near the vending machines on the second floor. He didn’t say anything—just looked in my direction like he was reading the creases on my forehead.
I ducked into the stairwell before he could catch up.
It wasn’t that I didn’t like him. He just made me feel like I was already caught.
Like he knew something I hadn’t said yet.
12:45 PM.
I ate lunch on the roof. Same spot I always claimed—the one where the rusted AC unit blocked you from view unless you really leaned.
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Most of the other third-years were inside. Studying. Pretending to. Laughing over videos on their phones. Planning cram school, college interviews, futures.
I picked at a lukewarm onigiri and listened to the city.
Sometimes I wondered if anyone else noticed how thin the air felt at this height. Like the sound of everything was always a second too late.
Eighteen.
Slightly older than most of the class—not that anyone asked why.
The truth was… I didn’t talk until I was five.
Not really.
Doctors said it was a developmental thing. Not physical. Just... delayed.
By the time I caught up, everyone else had already started school.
So I started late. Stayed behind. Watched from the back row.
Maybe that’s why I still felt like a shadow in every room.
Or maybe that’s just how I am.
4:02 PM.
The ramen shop was quiet when I stepped in.
It always was around this time. Post-school. Pre-office crowd.
The old man behind the counter barely looked up as I sat.
He just handed me water and went back to watching whatever baseball game he’d muted.
It was routine. That was the point.
No questions. No smiles. No pressure to say anything unless I wanted to.
I drank the water. Let it settle in my throat.
Ate the first few bites of ramen in silence.
Then I blinked.
The taste was different. Less bitter. Less weird.
I frowned slightly.
I muttered. “”
The old man grunted from behind the stove.
“”
I looked at him.
He didn’t turn around.
Just kept stirring.
But it landed.
A quiet attempt at cheering me up.
The ramen shop equivalent of a hug.
I didn’t say anything.
But I finished the bowl.
4:38 PM.
I stepped outside, tugged my jacket tighter, and lit a cigarette.
Not with my usual disposable one.
But with the old silver lighter I’d finally gotten back from the repair shop.
It clicked open with a solid, satisfying snap.
The flame caught clean. No sputter.
The smoke hit softer than I expected.
Smooth. Familiar. Muted.
I leaned against the rusted crate stack behind the shop and let myself settle.
The wind felt nice.
The sky was that soft pre-dusk grey where you couldn’t tell if it was going to rain or not.
For a moment, I didn’t feel broken.
Just… paused.
---
Then I heard it.
The door to the shop creaked open.
“”
It was Hina.
I stiffened.
She stepped out, holding a paper bag and waving behind her.
Then her eyes landed on me.
And the cigarette.
We both froze.
She blinked.
“” she half-bowed, half-turned like she was about to disappear around the corner.
I opened my mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again.
But she was already hopping onto her bike.
The paper bag jostled in her front basket.
Then, without looking back, she pushed off.
---
I hesitated.
Then I moved.
Didn’t really know why.
Didn’t feel like a choice.
Just instinct.
I caught up with her a few blocks later.
She wasn’t riding fast—just steady, weaving slightly to avoid potholes.
Then she stopped.
Crouched beside her back wheel. Chain was off.
“” I said.
She jumped slightly, then turned.
“”
She smiled—not big, just enough to count.
“”
I knelt down.
“”
Chain wasn’t too bad. Just loose. Greasy. Took a bit of coaxing.
“” I asked, glancing at the overloaded basket.
She laughed quietly.
“”
“”
“”
“”
“” she shrugged. “”
She didn’t sound bitter.
Just… tired.
Not in a dramatic way. In the way people sound when they’re used to being needed.
I nodded, wiping my fingers on my sleeve.
“”
“”
“”
She smiled again.
Then hesitated.
“”
“”
“”
---
We didn’t talk much on the way.
She pushed the bike slowly, her front basket tilting with every bump.
Plastic bags rustled with half-wrapped bakery items, juice boxes, a pack of drawing pencils, and something that looked suspiciously like a mini rice cooker.
“,” she explained when she caught me looking.
I didn’t respond. Just kept walking beside her.
Her house was close. A corner unit with a faded mailbox and a cracked tile path.
She didn’t invite me in. Didn’t need to.
“” she said, brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek.
“”
I almost said
But something else sat in the back of my throat.
That cigarette. Her seeing me smoke. That when she did.
What if she said something? What if she told a teacher?
Worse—what if she told ?
Mr. Riku had been hovering since the first week this year. Watching me too closely. Like he could hear my thoughts crackling through the walls.
I don’t want Mr. Riku on my ass. Not more than he already was.
“” I said, more defensive than I meant to be. “”
“”
“”
Her eyes widened slightly.
Then she waved both hands fast—clearly flustered.
“”
She paused, panicking halfway through her own sentence.
“”
She buried her face in her hands for a second.
“”
I… didn’t hate it.
“” I said finally.
She nodded, cheeks still a little pink.
“” she added.
“”
And just like that, she turned and disappeared into the house.
I stood there on the sidewalk for a second longer.
The lighter in my pocket felt heavier than it should.
The sky above still hadn’t cleared.
But it didn’t feel quite as heavy anymore.
