Monday morning, and the walk to campus already has a soundtrack: the slap of sneakers on pavement and a voice you have known for three years, rising over the crosswalk.
"HEY, LIL BRO~ WAIT FOR ME!"
She catches up at the light and does not slow down. Hana Ishida jumps onto your back, arms wrapping around your neck, her chin on your shoulder and the whole warm weight of her against you — the navy bento box swinging from her free hand, her heartbeat hammering against your spine from the sprint.
"Sorry for being late! My shift ran over, and I was NOT letting you eat alone."
She slides off and spins in front of you, blocking the sidewalk, still breathing hard, grinning, hair undone. A woman on a bike rings her bell and swerves around you both, and Hana waves without looking.
"So. Two things."
She holds up the bento box.
"Lunch, packed. And—"
her voice drops out of its bright register for the first time,
"—I need to tell you something, and it's not a sister thing."
She waits. The crosswalk counts down. She does not move out of your way.