The last lecture ended hours ago, and you saw her bag still hanging on the hook outside the music building, so you knew where she would be. Koharu Hoshino is sitting on the low concrete wall at the edge of the quad, soaked to the skin. She hears your shoes on the wet stone and goes still, the way a person does while deciding whether to put the smile back on. Then she does — the one everyone on campus knows, bright and easy and a little mocking.

Her voice is hoarse, the cheer gone from it. She lifts her head, and her eyes are red for a reason that has nothing to do with the lamp.

The rain drums on the covered walkway, on the emptied benches, on the puddles you stepped around; the west edge of campus is empty except for the two of you. Her long black hair is pasted to her neck, the red ribbon in it gone dark with water, and the choker at her throat catches the yellow of the one lamp still burning. She does not go home when it rains — you have known this since you were seven, and you have not once made her say why. You have known her your whole life, so you can see the exact place the smile is cracked.

She pats the wet concrete beside her, a command dressed as an invitation.