Chapter 1: Prologue - A wish… there was a wish, wasn’t there?
Chapter Text
Homura dreamed she was falling.
Light and shadow bled together—soft, indistinct, like memories melting in warm water. She heard voices, or maybe just echoes: Madoka’s hand reaching, a smile dissolving into radiance. Then everything fractured, and the world snapped into silence.
Her vision blurred at once. The room around her was nothing but gentle shapes, pale and unfocused. She blinked, slow and disoriented, until instinct made her drag her hand across the bedside table. Her fingers brushed familiar plastic. Glasses. She slipped them on, breath trembling as the sterile white ceiling sharpened into place.
A hospital. Cool fluorescent light filtered through a frosted window, washing the room in quiet gray. Machines hummed steadily beside her. The sheets were stiff, pressed too neatly to feel lived in. The stillness was heavy—manufactured, curated.
Her heart lurched when she looked at her hand. Her finger—the one that should’ve held a soul gem ring—was bare. She checked her other hand, pulse quick and uneven. Nothing. No ring. No glimmer. No trace.
The absence was a punch.
A wish… there was a wish, wasn’t there? The thought drifted through her mind like a whisper she wasn’t supposed to hear. A light. Hers. Mine. Then nothing. The memory refused to take shape, slipping away every time she tried to grasp it.
Her chest ached—phantom and real all at once. She pressed a hand to the scar that had followed her through every timeline, even now. Her hair was still braided from sleep; she undid it slowly, fingers shaky, letting it fall over her shoulders. Standing was harder. Her legs trembled under her weight, the sudden weakness sending a wave of humiliation up her spine. She used to freeze time. Now she could barely steady herself.
Her eyesight had collapsed back into its old frailty. Her body felt small again, breakable. Magic hadn’t just disappeared—it had been erased.
When the hospital discharged her, the city outside felt unreal. Mitakihara glowed under soft haze, the calm too perfect, too precise. Electric cars whispered across immaculate streets. Pedestrians moved with quiet purpose, untouched by grief.
She walked into the small apartment arranged for her—one room, clean, sparse. A single warm lamp softened the otherwise sterile space. She steadied herself on the edge of the desk, legs still quivering.
The hum of the city felt distant.
No magic.
No grief.
Just ordinary peace—so calm it made her chest tighten.
Peace so ordinary it frightened her.
Days crawled forward. The city outside her apartment hummed with its curated stillness—electric trains gliding, soft electric nights, a world too peaceful to feel real. Each day blurred as Homura forced her body to remember how to move. Short, shaky walks. Careful stretches that left her trembling. The weakness was humiliating, but the alternative—lying still in silence—was worse.
Every morning she checked the window, watching students pass by on the sidewalks below. Ordinary, unburdened faces. She wanted to know if Madoka was safe—if Sayaka, Kyoko, Mami were truly alive here—but she couldn’t even make it down the stairs without her chest tightening. That helplessness knotted into something sharp, then refined itself into resolve. Recover. See them with your own eyes.
A week later, she stood outside her new classroom. The hallway’s fluorescent lights cast a clean, pale glow over everything. This time, I don’t have to be at odds with anyone, she told herself. This time… maybe I can live normally.
The classroom was lit entirely by cool fluorescent panels, bright but with no hint of natural light. Translucent windows, projection screens, the quiet buzz of electricity—everything too neat, too calm. Homura stepped inside with practiced posture and a carefully neutral expression.
But when she saw them—Madoka, Sayaka, Kyoko—alive, laughing, untouched by grief—her pulse stumbled. Relief washed through her so hard it nearly unsteadied her. They’re here. It’s really them.
Ms. Saotome smiled. “Why don’t you tell your classmates about yourself?”
Homura bowed with perfect form. “My name is Akemi Homura. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Her voice was polite, soft, but hollowed by precision.
Ms. Saotome wrote her name on the smartboard. “Akemi has been in the hospital for some time. I want everyone to help her out as she adjusts, okay?”
During the break, a few curious girls approached. “So, Akemi, what school were you at before?”
“Any club activities? Hobbies?”
Homura’s breath hitched. “I… um—” The words slipped away like water. You rehearsed this. Why can’t you speak? Her thoughts scattered, her pulse quickened. The soft hum of the classroom lights pressed in on her.
Before the silence could grow uncomfortable, a gentle voice cut through.
“Akemi?” Madoka stood beside her desk, hands folded, expression soft. “You have to go to the nurse’s office, don’t you? For your medicine?”
Homura blinked, startled. Her gaze drifted to Madoka’s hand—bare. No ring. No magic. So it really is gone. She forced a composed nod. “Ah… right. I should.”
Madoka smiled shyly. “Then I’ll take you. I’m the nurse’s aide.” She turned to the others, cheeks pink. “Sorry—Akemi needs her medicine. We’ll talk later.”
“Oh! Sure—see you later, Akemi,” one said.
Homura followed Madoka into the hallway. Their footsteps echoed softly; diffuse daylight filtered in from the upper walkway’s glass ceiling above the adjacent hall.
Madoka murmured, “Sorry about them. Everyone’s just curious.”
“It’s fine. Thank you.” Homura’s voice came out stiff, too formal.
Madoka giggled. “You don’t have to be so serious. We’re classmates. I’m Kaname Madoka—just call me Madoka, okay?”
Homura hesitated. “…Then, thank you… Madoka.” The name tasted fragile.
Madoka brightened. “And can I call you Homura?”
Homura tensed. “If you want. I… don’t usually get called that.”
Madoka’s smile softened. “It’s a nice name. Warm—like a flame.” She flushed, laughing. “Sorry, that’s weird.”
“…Not weird,” Homura murmured. “Just… kind.”
In the nurse’s office, cool white lights gleamed faintly overhead, the frosted interior window diffusing only the building’s ambient glow rather than sunlight. Homura lay on the cot as Madoka fetched her medicine. The sterile scent, the orderly drawers, the soft hum of machinery—all of it felt too clean.
If I close my eyes… will this disappear? Will I wake in the dark again? The pills were bitter on her tongue, grounding but not comforting.
Flashes hit her without warning: Mami’s fall. Sayaka’s scream. Kyoko’s lonely stand. Madoka dissolving into light. Her breath stumbled.
Those lives… those losses… only I remember.
During physical education, Homura was reminded—harshly—of how fragile her body had become in this world of calm air and fluorescent stillness. Only a few stretches into warmups on the outdoor track and her chest seized, lungs burning as if the sun itself weighed on her ribs. She bent over, hands braced on her knees, breath shallow and uneven.
“Is she really that weak?”
“She can’t even jog a lap…”
“Such a pretty face, too. We thought she’d be strong.” A light laugh followed. “Guess looks can be deceiving.”
“Hey, cut it out,” another girl snapped. “She’s been bedridden for almost a year—what’d you expect?”
Their voices carried across the open field, each comment a pinprick in the hot, too-bright air. There was no gym, no echo—just the exposed stretch of track and the sting of being watched from every angle. I once moved through armies of nightmares without breathing hard, she thought. And now I can’t even survive warmups. The teacher finally waved her to the sidelines, and Homura retreated beneath the shade of a nearby tree, the only sliver of cool relief in the entire field. She pulled a towel over her head, hiding her face as her breath scraped raw in her throat. Her expression stayed blank, but humiliation burned hot beneath it.
Madoka passed by with a bottle of water, the sunlight catching softly on her hair. “You should take it easy,” she said, voice low—gentle enough to cut through the sting.
Homura accepted it without lifting her gaze. “…Thank you.” For a moment, the warmth in Madoka’s tone eased the tightness in her chest. Then it faded, leaving only the familiar quiet and the hum of the city beyond the schoolyard.
After school, Homura walked alone, the late-afternoon light stretching long shadows across the courtyard. The city’s curated stillness clung to everything—the quiet hum of distant traffic, the soft glow reflecting off glass walkways. When the school gates came into view, she stopped.
There they were—Madoka and Sayaka chatting under the pale sky, Kyoko leaning lazily against the rail, Mami waiting with that gentle, steady smile. All four of them together, perfectly ordinary, the picture of a life untouched by grief.
Mami…? The sight hit her like a breach in reality. The memory of Mami’s death sliced through her—sudden, vivid. Yet here she stood, warm and alive, the world holding her as if nothing had ever been taken. If Mami is alive… if Kyoko is alive… then Nagisa…? The hope rose too quickly, sharp enough to hurt.
Her pulse stumbled. Her chest tightened. The air felt thin, unreal. Not now… not here… The world tilted as the light blurred and the silhouettes of the girls rushed toward her, distorted by her failing vision.
Then the ground slipped away, and everything went dark.
“Homura!”
By the time she opened her eyes again, she was back in the nurse’s office. The cool hum of the fluorescent lights pressed gently against the stillness, a sterile calm that felt almost too clean.
“You collapsed outside,” the nurse said softly. “Some classmates brought you in.”
Homura turned her head. The girls lingered nearby—concerned, but with the distant politeness of people who didn’t know her yet. Madoka sat closest, hands fidgeting against her skirt.
“Um… Homura… are you okay?”
Sayaka scratched her cheek. “You really freaked us out for a sec.”
Kyoko leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. “If you’re that frail, don’t push yourself.”
Mami smiled gently. “I’m glad you’re safe.”
Their voices were soft, tentative—kindness without history. Homura felt that distance like a thin pane of glass between them. They don’t know me here. Not yet. But they’re alive… they’re here…
“…Thank you,” she whispered. Only I remember. The thought left a hollow ache in her chest.
The nurse’s office felt too still, the world outside moving in muffled fragments. Laughter drifted faintly from the courtyard beyond the frosted window—soft, weightless, untouched by anything cruel. Is this peace earned… or something fragile that could shatter the moment I breathe too hard?
Her body trembled—part exhaustion, part the quiet terror of not knowing where she fit in a world that had buried all its scars.
That night, she dreamed again: the same endless sky, the same distant radiance. Madoka’s voice floated somewhere just beyond reach—warm, familiar, and blurred like a memory sinking underwater. She woke before dawn, breath catching, her lashes damp.
The city outside her window glowed blue in the early light—soft, still, too perfect.
For the first time, Homura wondered if memory itself wasn’t a gift at all, but the price of surviving a miracle.
The next day passed quietly, softened by the same dreamlike rhythm that carried the city from morning to dusk. When the final bell rang, Homura packed her things with her usual deliberate calm. But as she reached the door, a voice cut through the low hum of the classroom lights.
“Homura!” Madoka hurried up to her, Sayaka and Kyoko trailing a few steps behind. “Would you like to come hang out with us after school?”
Homura blinked, taken off guard. “…With you? And them?” Her voice wavered despite her best effort to keep it steady. “Why?”
Madoka tilted her head, expression gentle beneath the soft fluorescent glow. “You seem lonely. I thought… maybe it would be nice if you made some new friends.”
The words struck something deep and raw. Friends… after everything… Her fingers tightened around her bag strap, the gesture small but tense.
Kyoko shrugged, half-looking away. “Don’t get the wrong idea. But if Madoka says you should come along, then fine.”
“…All right,” Homura murmured. “I’ll come.”
They led her through Mitakihara’s elevated glass walkways, the city mirrored beneath them—soft reflections, pale sky, the hum of electric rails drifting through the air. The curated calm of the world pressed in from every side. Eventually, they reached a sleek, modern apartment tower washed in warm evening light.
When the door opened, Homura froze.
Mami greeted them with her usual composed warmth. A small girl peeked from behind her, then tugged at her sleeve.
“Welcome home, everyone!” chirped Nagisa.
Homura’s breath hitched. Nagisa… too? Her vision blurred—not from weakness, but from the surge of memory clawing at her: Charlotte’s teeth, Mami’s body falling, the witch’s grin. And now here Nagisa stood, alive, bright-eyed, smiling up at Mami as if none of it had ever happened.
Homura’s knees buckled.
“Homura!” Madoka caught her before she could hit the floor. “You look pale…”
Homura clung to Madoka’s sleeve, trembling. “…This world… it’s too much.” Her voice cracked under the weight of emotion she couldn’t name.
Sayaka frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Kyoko raised a brow, suspicion flickering. “Yeah… you talk like you know something we don’t.”
Mami’s concern deepened. They all looked at her—but none of them understood.
Homura stared down, pulse unsteady. Of course they don’t understand. Only I remember. Panic crawled up her spine. “N-no, that’s not what I meant,” she forced out. “It’s just… my heart condition. The surprise got to me.”
Her excuse wavered, but in this gentle world, it was enough.
Sympathy eased their expressions.
Madoka squeezed Homura’s hand, warm and grounding. “Don’t worry, Homura. I’ll stay by your side.”
Sayaka smirked. “Already spoiling the new girl?”
Madoka’s face flushed crimson. “N-no, it’s not like that! I just—she looked so lonely!”
Mami clapped her hands lightly, her voice warm and steady. “All right, that’s enough teasing. Come in; I’ll make tea.”
The apartment glowed with soft golden light, the faint scent of steeping tea drifting through the air—ordinary, peaceful, impossibly gentle in a way that made Homura’s heart ache.
That night, Homura sat by her window, knees drawn close, with her lamp switched off, the city’s pale blue glow spilling across her like an old wound catching the light. Mitakihara’s stillness pressed against the glass—soft, careful, too pristine to feel alive. Her reflection hovered faintly in the pane, half-formed in the dimness: a girl caught between timelines, between worlds, between selves.
“If this world is real,” she murmured, voice thin, “why does it feel like a lie?” Her fingers curled against her chest, right over the familiar ache of a scar no one here knew existed. “You’re alive. Smiling. Safe. And I should be happy… but it feels like I lost you again.”
“Madoka,” she whispered, almost afraid to hear the name aloud in a world that had never spoken it in grief, “you’d tell me I did the right thing. You always believed in me.” A breath—unsteady, half a laugh, half a sob—escaped. “But I loved you. More than time. More than this world. More than myself. And I’d do it all again if it meant seeing you one last time.” Her voice trembled. “And still… I wanted more. I wanted you to look at me the way I looked at you—just once. To know you saw me.”
The confession slipped out before she could stop it. Silence flooded in, heavy as the fluorescent hum seeping through the window from the city below.
“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “That’s what ruined everything. Wanting more. Wanting you.” She stared at her hands—steady, but trembling in the glass’s reflection. “That love turned me into a devil.” A breath shuddered through her. “So why can’t I stop?”
She leaned her forehead against the cold pane. The glass thrummed softly with the city’s muted electricity. “Did you do this? Or did I?” Her voice was barely audible. “I can’t tell what’s real anymore.”
“You told me to live,” she whispered. “But what kind of life is this? A world that erased everything we fought for… and still, I’m supposed to smile and pretend it’s enough. You’re alive, smiling… and somehow peace feels like it’s mocking me.”
Her next breath wavered. “Maybe I want this world to crack—just a little,” she admitted, voice raw, “just so all this pain would mean something.” The thought twisted in her stomach. “What kind of person thinks like that? Craving hurt just to feel real?”
The city glowed softly beyond the glass—flawless, indifferent.
“If you’re still watching,” she breathed, “tell me I’m not the only one left carrying this.”
She curled in on herself, fingers brushing the faint outline of that old scar beneath her shirt. “I’ll live,” she whispered. “Even if it hurts. Even if I have to pretend this perfect peace isn’t built on a grave no one remembers but me.”
Across the city, in her softly lit bedroom—walls dimmed by sheer curtains—Madoka lay awake staring at the ceiling. The stillness of the house settled around her like a held breath. Moonlight filtered through the fabric in pale, shifting ribbons, brushing over her blankets in cool, wavering patterns. It felt too quiet, too delicate, the kind of calm that made loneliness echo a little louder.
She pulled the blanket closer, chasing warmth. Her phone’s glow briefly lit the room as she scrolled without purpose, more to watch the light move than anything else. Eventually she set it aside, the screen fading back into darkness.
Her thoughts drifted—circling, persistent—back to the transfer student with the distant, haunted gaze. Homura… she looked like she’s carrying something heavy. The feeling wouldn’t leave her. There was something familiar about that expression, something she’d seen only in rare, vulnerable moments on her mother’s face when she spoke about regret… and in her own reflection on nights she cried without understanding why.
Madoka rolled onto her side and hugged her pillow, her chest tightening. I want to be her friend. But what if I say the wrong thing? What if she’s hurting and I can’t reach her? The worry stung more sharply than she expected. Why does it feel like she’s already lost something—something she can’t talk about?
Outside, the same pale moonlight brushed against both their windows. Two girls separated by silence and a truth only one remembered, each whispering into the night—neither knowing the other was awake, haunted by the same quiet pull.
As the days quietly threaded together, Homura slipped into a rhythm she didn’t trust. Mitakihara moved around her with its gentle, curated calm—soft fluorescent mornings, glass walkways glowing under pale skies, evenings washed in quiet light. The world was ordinary in a way that felt almost artificial to her, but the routine dulled her fear into a faint, constant hum—still there, buried beneath repetition.
Months passed. Gradually, she found herself settling into the group’s orbit—listening to Madoka’s gentle humor, offering dry, precise remarks to Sayaka and Kyoko, sharing warm tea with Mami while Nagisa perched on her lap or tugged at her sleeve. It all felt so natural it frightened her, as if this gentle circle had always been complete.
It reminded her, painfully, of that dreamlike labyrinth born from her own despair—the one where they had stood together against the darkness. Back then, it was an illusion built from grief. But here, in this world without magic, that impossible wish breathed again.
The trembling, withdrawn girl she’d been at the start faded into calmer composure. It was easier to hide behind that steady exterior—easier to protect the fragile parts of herself—whether anyone noticed or not.
One night, when the city lay still under its tender glow, Homura found herself unable to sleep. She stood by her window, the glass reflecting her faint outline against the pale lights outside. The world felt too quiet—too perfect.
Her thoughts spilled out in a whisper. “Sayaka doesn’t care for Kyosuke anymore… not like before. But he never broke his arm here, did he?” Her voice shook. “And Kyoko… she transferred to Mitakihara? She lived in Kazamino. Why would she uproot her whole life?” She pressed her fingertips to the cold glass, breath fogging the pane. “But I’ve seen it—Sayaka and Kyoko live together now. They’re… happy.”
Her heart twisted. “Mami should’ve died in that crash… but she’s alive. And Nagisa—she’s with her. Did Mami find her after her mother passed away? Is that why they’re together?”
Her breath trembled, fogging the glass again. “And Hitomi… she isn’t even with them anymore, is she?” The words came out small. “Not because they fought. Not because anything went wrong. She just… drifted away.”
She swallowed, the ache sharp and familiar. “Her schedule was always so rigid in the old worlds. Lessons, clubs, tutors, committees… That never changed. But this time, Madoka found a new circle first—Mami, Sayaka, Kyoko, Nagisa.” A pause. “And me.”
The quiet stretched.
“Hitomi didn’t have the time to keep up. So the world let her slip to the edges.”
Homura’s voice softened to a fragile murmur. “Even that feels intentional. Like this world rearranged itself so Madoka wouldn’t be lonely… but not so obviously that anyone would question it.”
Her voice wavered between confusion and awe, frustration and relief—tones that didn’t belong in the same breath but lived together in her chest anyway. “None of it makes sense,” she whispered. “It’s too real. Too ordinary. Not like a dream at all.”
She clasped her trembling hands together, the gesture tight, desperate. “It’s too real,” she murmured. “Too vivid. This hurt… it’s not illusion.” She stared into the shadowed city. “This world isn’t fake—it can’t be.”
Her voice softened—breathless, reverent. “Walpurgisnacht never came this April… it never appeared. Everything that used to break us just… never happened.” She swallowed, her voice steadying. “That has to mean this world is real. The pain is real.”
And for the first time, Homura allowed herself to believe that this world—and everyone in it—might finally be real enough to stay.
Chapter 2: If it helps, take it.
Chapter Text
The classroom held a bright, steady stillness—the kind that made every small movement feel sharper than it should. Bright ceiling panels washed the room in an even, overexposed white that pressed against the glass partitions, catching on desks, hair, notebooks. The faint scratch of pencils and the low breath of ventilation filled the space with a contained, almost clinical calm.
Madoka sat rigidly at her desk, eyes drifting in and out of focus as the numbers on the page blurred together. Her pencil hovered, erased, hovered again—nothing settled the way it should. The brightness made the paper too stark, the equations too loud, as if every misstep would reflect cleanly off the glass around her.
Sayaka leaned back with a groan. “Math again. Fantastic. My favorite way to suffer.”
Kyoko nudged her knee under the desk. “Just write something. Numbers aren’t gonna fight you.”
Sayaka shot her a look. “They absolutely will.”
Their banter drew a quiet reminder from the teacher, softened by the overwhelming white of the room.
Madoka tightened her grip on her pencil. The quiet felt heavier than it should—too still, too bright. She let her eyes drift toward Homura across the row. Even in the washed‑out glow of the ceiling panels, Homura’s posture was composed, her focus unwavering as she worked through the assignment. There was a steadiness in the way she moved—precise, deliberate—that made Madoka’s own scattered thoughts feel almost loud by comparison.
Madoka wondered how Homura saw this assignment. She always finished quickly, with a composed certainty that never felt boastful—just steady.
Sayaka leaned over. “You stuck?”
“A little,” Madoka admitted.
Kyoko slouched forward. “Ask Homura. She’s good at setting stuff up. Freakishly good.”
Madoka hesitated. Turning to Homura meant interrupting that focused calm, stepping directly into the quiet concentration she carried so naturally. The idea made something tighten in her chest—not embarrassment, just a kind of awareness.
“I’ll try again first,” she murmured.
She lowered her pencil, but her thoughts wandered—to Homura’s precise posture, the way her eyes sharpened when she concentrated, the quiet steadiness she brought into every room like a second heartbeat.
Madoka swallowed. Did she look lost?
Later, the corridors carried the same overexposed clarity that defined the entire building. The ceiling panels washed the hallway in a uniform white, so bright it flattened depth and turned the long stretch of glass partitions into a mirrored passage. Reflections layered faintly over one another—faces, bags, motion—quiet silhouettes drifting across the glass.
Madoka shifted her notebook in her hands as she walked. Sayaka and Kyoko had split off to grab lunch, leaving Madoka to sift through the lingering haze of the lesson on her own.
A few steps ahead, someone slowed his pace, glancing back with a polite, almost tentative nod—a boy she recognized from class but had never spoken to directly. He adjusted the strap of his bag before approaching at a respectful, careful distance.
"Kaname, right?" he asked. His tone was mild, steady. "You were working on the algebra set earlier. If you ever want help… I don’t mind. I’m decent at it." No pushiness, no awkward confidence—just quiet sincerity.
Madoka blinked, surprised but not put off. "Ah—yes. I’m not very confident with it."
"Most people aren’t at first," he said, offering a small, encouraging nod. "I’m Aida Keisei. We sit near each other, so… if you ever need a different explanation, feel free to ask."
Madoka bowed her head slightly. "Thank you. I’ll keep it in mind."
Sayaka rejoined her just then, casting a quick glance between them. "Everything okay?"
"Aida was just offering math help," Madoka said.
Sayaka hummed, neither suspicious nor teasing. "If it helps, take it." She gave Aida a polite nod before heading off again.
Kyoko wandered past next, flicking a candy wrapper neatly into a recycling bin. "If you’re good at explaining stuff, she could use it. Kaname overthinks everything." Her tone was blunt but not unkind.
Madoka exhaled, grounding herself. "Right… just studying."
Aida didn’t linger. He simply nodded once, then stepped aside to let her pass, merging back into the hallway’s washed-out brightness.
Madoka held her notebook a little closer—not flustered, just unsettled by thoughts she couldn’t quite name, the bright corridor swallowing the rest of the hallway noise around her.
As classes wrapped up, Madoka and Homura walked side by side down the corridor, the ceiling panels casting long, uniform bands of white across the glass walls. Their steps settled into a steady rhythm—unhurried, familiar.
The washed‑out brightness of the hall softened the edges of everything, even their silence. Madoka shifted her bag higher on her shoulder. “I’m heading to the library,” she said, keeping her voice level. “Aida offered to help me with the math assignment. We’re going to review a few things.”
Homura’s stride slowed only slightly, the way someone pauses to sort through memory. “Aida Keisei,” she echoed. “The boy who sits a few seats over?”
Madoka nodded. “Mm. He explains things clearly. I think it’ll help.”
“I see.” Homura’s tone remained composed—neither reluctant nor overly interested, simply attentive. She closed her notebook against her chest with that careful precision she carried into everything. “If it helps you understand the material, then it’s sensible.”
Madoka’s fingers brushed the edge of her pencil case. “I won’t take too long. I just want to get a handle on it.”
Homura glanced over, her expression unreadable but not distant. “You don’t need to tell me your schedule,” she said quietly. “Just focus on what you need to learn.”
The words weren’t dismissive—they were soft, almost gentle—but the quiet that followed settled into Madoka with unexpected weight, something she didn’t yet have the language for.
When the session ended, Madoka stepped out with a quiet exhale, her pulse steady but unfocused. She paused just inside the glass‑paneled entrance, notebook held loosely at her side as she let the library’s bright stillness fade from her eyes. Aida’s explanations lingered in her thoughts—clear, helpful—but something in her chest still felt tight, a quiet strain she couldn’t name. After a moment, she pushed into the hallway.
Aida spoke with an even, measured tone. “Here—when you move this number over, the equation balances.”
Madoka leaned just close enough to see his notes clearly. “So I only change the sign when I divide or multiply?”
“Right.” Aida nodded once. “You’re following the logic.”
She copied the example into her notebook, frowning when her numbers didn’t align with his. “I… didn’t get the same answer.”
“That’s fine.” His voice held no judgment. He drew a clean line through the mistake and wrote the corrected version beside it—precise, patient. “Most people trip over that rule at first.”
Madoka let out a slow breath, steadying her hand. “I’ll get there.”
“You will,” he said simply. “It’s repetition more than anything else.”
He paused, searching for a clearer angle. “You draw, right? Think of these as shapes. You rough them in first, then refine the line. It doesn’t have to be perfect immediately.”
Madoka considered it, her shoulders easing. “That… actually helps.”
“Good.” His smile was brief, reassuring rather than playful.
Working through the next problem, she hesitated only once. Aida leaned slightly toward her—not intrusive, just enough to point out a misplaced sign. “Check that again.”
“Oh—right. I forgot to flip it.” She corrected it, the solution falling into place. “That feels better when it actually works.”
“Exactly. That’s the rhythm.”
Madoka set her pencil down, letting a small, quiet relief settle in. “Thanks. I understand more than I did this morning.”
Aida closed his notebook without flourish. “You’re picking it up. Keep at it, and you’ll be steady on these before long.”
When the session ended, Madoka stepped out with a quiet exhale, her pulse steady but unfocused. She paused just inside the glass‑paneled entrance, notebook held loosely at her side as she let the classroom brightness fade from her eyes. Aida’s explanations lingered in her thoughts—clear, helpful—but something in her chest still felt tight, a quiet strain she couldn’t name. After a moment, she pushed into the hallway.
Outside, Homura waited near the elevated walkway, posture composed, arms relaxed at her sides. The cool evening air brushed past them, and the recessed walkway lights cast soft, uniform strips of white across the glass rails. Reflections shimmered faintly around Homura—subtle, layered—making her seem seamlessly part of the structure’s calm geometry.
“How was it?” Homura asked. Her voice was soft, steady.
Madoka tightened her grip on her bag. “It was… helpful. Aida explains things clearly.” Her eyes stayed low for a moment before she lifted them to meet Homura’s.
Homura’s gaze held no judgment—only a measured, attentive quiet. “…I see.” Her steps fell in beside Madoka’s as they began walking, each movement deliberate, unhurried.
Madoka let the silence settle before speaking again. “We only reviewed a couple of chapters. I’m still figuring things out, but… I’ll keep working at it.”
“I’m sure you will,” Homura said, her certainty gentle rather than firm. Her attention shifted briefly to the walkway ahead, unreadable in the clean glow of the overhead panels.
Madoka hesitated, then followed. Seeing Homura there—calm, patient, waiting for her without expectation—untied something in her chest she hadn’t realized was knotted. The walkway lights traced subtle highlights along Homura’s hair, not dramatic, just precise, as if she were another reflection folded neatly into the evening’s quiet symmetry.
Madoka adjusted her pace to match Homura’s, steadying her breath as the cool evening air threaded between the buildings. Overhead, the walkway’s recessed lights cast an even, white glow across the glass surfaces, the brightness softening reflections into faint, ghostlike streaks. The air felt suspended in that familiar Mitakihara stillness—quiet, measured, as if the world held itself one breath away from motion.
They crossed the elevated path at an unhurried pace. Below, hybrid cars slipped by in muted traces of color, their presence reduced to a distant hum beneath the steady current of the city’s electric grid. The uniform glow flattened the shadows around their feet, giving the walkway a strange sense of length, as though it extended farther than the space should allow.
Madoka tightened her hold on her bag—not out of nerves, but in search of the right words.
“What did you think of math today?” she asked, her voice low and even.
Homura glanced over. “I finished the assignment quickly. It wasn’t difficult.”
Madoka nodded. “You pick up patterns fast.”
“You will too,” Homura replied, her tone quiet and assured.
Madoka felt her shoulders ease slightly. “Do you still draw sometimes? You mentioned it once.”
“A little,” Homura said. “Not often.” A small pause. “Why?”
“Aida compared math to sketching earlier,” Madoka said. “It made me think of you—how precise you are. Like you see the structure before the rest of us do.”
Homura’s expression shifted—not flustered, just reflective. “I hadn’t considered it that way.”
Madoka looked ahead at the walkway, the glow from the overhead panels folding cleanly across the railings. The truth of what she’d said felt heavier than embarrassment—more like clarity settling into place. “It’s something I’ve noticed.”
“It isn’t silly,” Homura said, before Madoka could retreat from the thought. Her voice held a quiet sincerity. She smoothed her sleeve once, a familiar grounding gesture.
Madoka glanced at her hand, then at Homura’s steady profile. The silence between them tugged at her gently—an ache she didn’t yet understand, but one that felt unmistakably real.
It had been several months since Homura transferred in—long enough that her presence had settled naturally into the rhythm of their days. Even so, Madoka often caught her thoughts drifting toward her in quieter moments, drawn by a faint thread of concern she couldn’t fully name.
She remembered fragments of Homura’s first day: Ms. Saotome’s steady introduction, Homura’s precise bow, the measured tone in her voice that sounded both composed and fragile. The mention of her recent hospital stay had drawn a subtle hush over the room—an unspoken shift. A few girls tried asking light questions, but Homura’s answers came out clipped, tangled, as if every word had to be sifted through before it reached the air.
Madoka had stepped in without thinking. “Akemi? You have to go to the nurse’s office, don’t you? For your medicine?” The relief in Homura’s posture had been small but immediate, her shoulders easing as the tension dissolved.
Madoka still remembered the brightness in the hallway that day—the overhead lights casting long white bands across the floor, her hand resting lightly on Homura’s desk, the quiet exchange that made Homura’s guardedness soften just a little. Even then, Homura’s movements had been deliberate, almost practiced, each gesture measured with care. Madoka had wondered whether that ease came from grace or effort.
She still wondered.
Now, as they crossed another elevated walkway, the recessed lights above them cast soft, uniform reflections along the glass railings. Madoka felt that same pull again—a quiet, steady desire to understand the girl beside her, not out of worry or curiosity, but something deeper, more patient. She didn’t have a name for it yet, only the sense that it mattered in a way she hadn’t fully grasped.
Later that night, the city settled into its faint electric hum. Keisei sat at his desk, the lamp casting a small, steady pool of white across his open notebook. The glow contrasted with the cooler ambient light filtering in from the street below, giving the room a muted, suspended stillness. His pencil hovered, unmoving.
He replayed the day in small, quiet fragments—not the study session itself, but the lead‑up to it. How many times had he noticed her brow crease during class? How often had he almost said, If you ever want help, I can explain it, only to stop short because the moment never felt quite right? He’d told himself it wasn’t important. She had friends. She wasn’t alone. His offering might’ve sounded presumptuous.
But today, she had actually listened. Not out of politeness—she had genuinely tried. Trusted him enough to try.
That meant more to him than he’d expected.
He leaned back, eyes drifting toward the window. The city outside wasn’t dramatic—just a layered wash of soft neon and white signage reflecting faintly along the glass, shapes folding over one another like a distant mosaic. Mitakihara’s electric quiet made everything feel slightly removed, as if the world existed behind a pane of light.
Somewhere out there, Madoka was likely getting ready for bed, her notebook stacked neatly beside her. Maybe she was reviewing the steps he’d shown her. Maybe she’d already forgotten all of it. The uncertainty brushed against him—not painfully, but with a muted ache.
He wondered what held her attention so firmly elsewhere. He wasn’t jealous; the feeling sat differently in his chest. It was more like standing at the edge of something he didn’t have the map for. That stillness Madoka had when Homura spoke to her—the shift in her posture, the way her focus quieted—he’d noticed it long before today.
He had never expected to be the center of her world. But having even a corner of it—being someone she could turn to, even for something as small as algebra—felt like a step he hadn’t allowed himself to imagine.
His pencil rolled toward the edge of the desk. He caught it, hesitated, then traced a few faint, idle lines—nothing intentional, just motion to settle the air around him. The marks didn’t form anything. They weren’t meant to.
At least today, he thought, I finally said something.
A soft reminder light blinked on his phone before fading, a quiet cue about tomorrow’s assignment. Normal. Uncomplicated. He switched off the lamp. The room dimmed, leaving only the diffuse glow of the city through the glass. Outside, a train hummed across the elevated track, its lights slipping past in a smooth, electric arc before fading into the distance like a breath dissolving into the night.
Chapter 3: I’m glad I could help.
Chapter Text
The afternoon sun washed the classroom in white‑gold—too bright, too clean, the kind of curated light that made Mitakihara feel more like an exhibit than a school. Sunlight fractured through the floor‑to‑ceiling windows in geometric slabs, catching on the metal legs of desks and the glossy floor. Every small sound felt unnaturally crisp inside that brightness: the slide of notebooks, the muted click of pencil caps, the soft scrape of Madoka’s chair.
Madoka rubbed the ridge of her pencil between her thumb and forefinger. Not shaking—just restless, carrying that quiet, hollow off‑balance feeling that followed her through days when something small was out of place. She’d felt it since morning.
Not because of Aida.
Because Homura had been distant in a way she couldn’t name—present, but wrapped in a stillness so complete it made the room feel larger around her.
Madoka watched Homura pack her notebooks with careful precision—aligning edges, smoothing corners, each movement deliberate. A habit from someone who relied on order the way others relied on certainty.
“Um—Homura?” Madoka asked at last, her voice softer than she meant.
Homura paused mid‑motion and turned toward her—attentive, restrained, as if she were listening for something beneath the words.
“Yes?”
Madoka hesitated. Asking Homura for anything always stirred something warm and unsettling in her chest.
“Aida offered to go over something I didn’t understand in math,” she murmured, eyes lowering. “I… didn’t want to go alone. Would you come with me?”
A quiet moment followed. Not surprise—Homura rarely showed that—but a subtle shift, like she was adjusting some internal balance.
“If you want me there,” Homura said, voice low, “I’ll come.”
Madoka exhaled—small, relieved. “Thank you.”
Outside, a flock of birds crossed the sky in eerie synchronicity—wings moving as one, perfectly aligned. Mitakihara always seemed too synchronized.
But when Homura stepped beside her, the world steadied.
It felt real again.
Balanced.
The hallway light softened into cool echoes as they walked. Their reflections slid along the glass walls beside them, faint and wavering.
Madoka drifted a half step closer—enough to hear Homura clearly, but not enough to draw attention. “Do you think today will help me understand it better?”
“The topic isn’t complicated,” Homura said. “I don’t know his teaching style yet. But… we’ll manage it together.”
Madoka let out a quiet breath. “Yeah… I wasn’t even sure I followed earlier.”
“You’re not the only one,” Homura replied. “He chooses his words carefully.”
Silence settled around them—soft, steady.
Madoka’s gaze drifted to a row of bright yellow lockers catching the afternoon light. “Do you ever think the school is… too bright? Like it wants to be looked at.”
Homura didn’t smile, but her exhale carried a faint recognition. “It does feel proud of itself.”
Madoka nodded, subdued. “Sometimes I think the windows get cleaned more than anything else here.”
“I’ve never seen anyone clean them,” Homura said.
Madoka’s shoulders loosened. “Yeah. Me neither.”
Their conversation faded gently.
“Sometimes I think I’ll see someone reflected in the wrong place,” Madoka said, voice low. “Like the glass is… rearranging things.”
“You’re not imagining it,” Homura murmured. “The glass bends light strangely. It makes the world feel layered.”
Madoka’s fingers brushed her sleeve. “Like we’re walking inside a painting someone kept reworking.”
“That’s… accurate,” Homura said.
Madoka looked down, embarrassed. “I just notice it sometimes.”
Their shoulders brushed—brief, accidental. Madoka felt her breath catch.
“It’s… easier when you’re here,” she whispered.
Homura kept her eyes forward. “If it steadies you, then it’s not difficult. Staying beside you.”
Warmth rose quietly in Madoka’s chest, small but steady.
They continued down the corridor, the world beyond the glass shimmering in its clean, unreal stillness.
The warmth held between them.
And it followed them to the library.
The library was mostly empty—sterile, too quiet, the kind of engineered stillness that made Mitakihara feel more like a controlled environment than a functioning school. Glass walls stretched upward into the mezzanine, catching the afternoon light in pale reflections that shimmered faintly, as though the building itself was trying to breathe.
Aida waited near the back, posture straight, notebook opened with mechanical neatness. Everything about him looked orderly, intentional—like he’d been here long before they arrived.
He stood when he noticed them. “Kaname. Akemi.”
His voice was soft, careful, deliberately unobtrusive. The kind of boy who never took more space than he thought he was allowed.
Predictable.
Safe.
Madoka bowed slightly. “Thanks for waiting.” Her voice trembled just a little—not from shyness around Aida, but from how the sterile brightness of the room made Homura feel farther away, harder to hold onto.
Homura offered a small nod. “Thank you for including me.” Her tone remained even—soft, polite, unassuming. She wasn’t trying to blend in; she simply lived quietly.
They didn’t sit immediately.
Aida shifted. “Did you walk here together?”
Madoka nodded. “Mm-hm. It was so bright it felt like we were walking inside a giant lamp.”
Aida blinked. “That… is surprisingly accurate.”
“Madoka noticed it first,” Homura said—not teasing, only stating a fact with her usual quiet sincerity.
Madoka flushed lightly. “I just… thought it looked strange.”
Aida’s lips twitched. “If the school is trying to impress us, I hope it grades kindly.”
Madoka let out a small, muffled breath behind her hand. “I… don’t think it would,” she whispered.
Homura inclined her head—solemn, thoughtful. “It maintains itself meticulously. High standards often extend elsewhere.”
Aida let out a soft breath—something like a laugh but muted for the quiet space.
For a moment, the three of them existed in simple middle‑school normalcy—fleeting, grounding.
Then Aida gestured to the seats. “Alright. The quiz tomorrow shouldn't be too bad. Let’s walk through the main parts.” His tone was strictly academic, free of implication.
They settled in. Pencils tapped softly. Pages turned with gentle precision. Footsteps echoed faintly from the mezzanine. A librarian passed with a stack of books, her reflection sliding across the glass like a pale, distorted double.
Aida began explaining the first problem with methodical clarity. Madoka tried to follow—she really did—but her attention drifted sideways, drawn toward Homura’s quiet presence.
Aida noticed, but misread. “If it's too fast, I can slow down,” he offered gently.
Madoka waved her hands quickly. “No, no—I’m good! I just… got distracted by, um… geometry.”
Homura looked at her—not judgmental, not teasing, simply observing with calm sincerity. “If something confuses you, you can say so. It’s not a flaw.”
Madoka’s cheeks warmed. “I—I know. I just didn’t want to interrupt.”
“If the geometry becomes hostile, I’ll intervene,” Aida said with a faint smile.
Madoka laughed nervously, and the brief banter dissolved into focus.
Homura leaned slightly forward—attention sharp, posture softened just enough to show she was listening. She watched Aida’s explanation, then quietly reached over and rotated Madoka’s notebook a few degrees so the numbers aligned neatly.
Her fingertips brushed the page.
“This method is cleaner,” she murmured—low, private.
Madoka’s thoughts stilled. Her shoulders loosened. A breath eased out of her.
“Oh. That… makes more sense.” Her smile bloomed warm, earnest. “Thank you.”
The warmth gathering in her chest had nothing to do with formulas.
Aida saw the exchange from the corner of his eye. His polite smile dimmed—not in jealousy, but in quiet realization.
A recognition.
A soft step back into his own space.
By the time the library lights dimmed—a gradual shift into muted amber that softened the edges of the shelves—the sky outside had thinned into pale ribbons of white and worn gold. Through the glass, the city held its practiced stillness, almost deliberate in how carefully it arranged itself.
Aida offered a small wave. “See you tomorrow.”
Madoka returned it politely, though her attention had already drifted toward Homura—quietly, instinctively. They stepped onto the elevated walkway, its glass railings catching the last faint traces of fading light.
Their footsteps settled into a gentle rhythm—light, absorbed quickly by the open air. Below them, the city’s electric hum threaded through the distance, soft and even.
“It felt easier today,” Madoka said, her voice low.
Homura glanced over. “The material?”
Madoka shook her head. “No. Just… being there with you.”
Homura drew a quiet, steadying breath—small enough to nearly disappear.
“…I’m glad,” she said.
Madoka smiled, modest and warm, a subtle curve that softened her expression.
They walked in silence for a stretch. Not empty—simply gentle, cushioning the slow fade of daylight.
“Near the end,” Madoka murmured, “I thought Aida was going to ask something complicated.”
Homura considered. “He does seem like someone who worries about explaining things clearly.”
Madoka let out a soft breath—not quite a sigh. “I… wasn’t sure I’d follow if he did.”
“You understand more than you think,” Homura said.
Madoka lifted her hands slightly, embarrassed. “Sometimes it feels like guessing.”
“That’s still sincerity,” Homura answered quietly. “Not deception.”
A small, surprised laugh slipped from Madoka, carried lightly by the breeze.
The walkway stretched ahead into the surreal twilight—polished glass, faint reflections, the city below arranged in careful symmetry.
Madoka slowed, raising a tentative hand toward the railing. “Our shadows look stretched,” she observed softly. “Like the light isn’t sure where we begin.”
“It’s the lamps below,” Homura said. “They reshape anything they touch.”
Madoka withdrew her hand. “Sometimes it feels like the city does that on purpose… smoothing the edges.”
Homura paused. Her eyes followed the shimmer below. “Sometimes I think so too. Everything feels… arranged.”
Madoka’s expression gentled. “Even then… it still shines. I don’t think it knows how to be anything else.”
Something in Homura went still. “You see things kindly,” she murmured. “I never did.”
Madoka’s cheeks warmed. “I just try to look closely.”
“No,” Homura said, softer. “It’s… reassuring.”
Madoka’s eyes lowered, a quiet smile forming—small, sheltered.
City lights shimmered across the glass like washed-out watercolor.
Madoka’s fingers brushed her sleeve. “When you’re there… things feel a little clearer.” Her voice barely rose above the wind.
Homura’s breath caught—subtle, but real.
“…Madoka,” she said, the name softened.
Madoka looked up—meeting her gaze without stepping closer, without pressing the moment. Just open. Just honest.
Homura held her gaze. “I’m glad I could help.”
Madoka’s smile settled—quiet, steady, held close to herself.
For her, that was enough.
She didn’t question why.
The next morning, the classroom buzzed faintly with pre‑lesson murmurs. Homura stood by her desk, arranging her materials with the measured precision of someone who needed order the way others needed air. Each motion was quiet, deliberate. Controlled. A way to keep the rest of herself contained.
Aida approached with a small stack of graded worksheets held neatly in both hands.
“Akemi,” he said, voice low and steady. “Do you have a moment? I had a question about yesterday’s method.”
His tone remained strictly academic—polite, careful, never intrusive. He stood with the posture of someone who tried not to disturb the air around others.
Predictable.
Safe.
Homura nodded. “Of course.”
They stepped into the hallway, just outside the classroom. Morning light filtered through tall glass panels in thin, pale gold bands, reflecting softly off metal railings and polished tile. Aida laid out the worksheet with a methodical precision that reminded Homura faintly of her own habits.
Before speaking, he glanced toward the window. “The light’s harsh today,” he murmured. “Feels… too early for this much brightness.”
Homura followed his gaze. “It is sharper than usual.”
Aida sighed—not dramatically, just honestly. “Feels like the school wants to wake us up whether we like it or not.”
A faint exhale left Homura. Not amusement. Not warmth. Just acknowledgment. “That sounds like something it would do.”
Aida’s lips curved slightly. “Kaname said something similar yesterday. About the building showing off.”
Homura blinked. “…She did?”
“Mm.” His tone softened. “She makes things sound more alive than they probably are.”
Homura didn’t disagree. Madoka always saw life where others saw surfaces.
Aida tapped the worksheet. “Anyway—this part. Last night I thought I understood it, but looking at it now… it feels like my brain quit halfway through.”
Homura leaned in slightly, scanning the line. “The teacher explained it poorly. You’re meant to isolate the term, not expand it.”
Aida stared. “That… makes much more sense. Why didn’t they say that directly?”
“Because clarity is rarely convenient,” Homura said, tone flat.
Aida let out a quiet, startled laugh. “You’re funnier than you seem, Akemi.”
Homura blinked. “…I wasn’t trying to be funny.”
“That’s why it works,” Aida said lightly.
Homura lowered her gaze again, uncertain how to respond. Compliments—humorous or otherwise—always landed strangely, like they were meant for someone else.
Halfway through the next problem, Aida added—offhand, unaware of the knife-edge beneath his words—“Kaname seemed more confident with you there.”
The sentence dropped into Homura like cold water.
She froze.
Only for a heartbeat.
But enough.
Aida continued, oblivious. “She’s trying really hard. I think she admires you.”
Homura lowered her eyes to the worksheet. “…She shouldn’t,” she murmured.
Aida blinked. “Why not?”
“There’s nothing admirable about me.” Her voice didn’t waver. It was the steady, practiced certainty of someone who had repeated the truth to herself too many times to question it.
Aida watched her—quietly, without pity. Simply listening.
“Well,” he said softly, “I admire her.” A gentle smile touched his face. “She makes people want to improve.”
Homura exhaled slowly. “She does.”
Aida nodded. “You do too, in your own way.”
Homura’s head rose slightly—surprise slipping through her usually guarded expression.
Aida went on, matter‑of‑fact, sincere. “People pay attention when you speak. Not because you demand it. Because you’re precise. Clear. It stands out.”
And the world tilted.
Not violently.
Just enough for the floor to feel less stable beneath her.
This peaceful world wasn’t built on the ruins she remembered.
Madoka fit here—effortlessly, naturally.
But Homura… didn’t.
Not entirely.
Not yet.
Still, moments like this—quiet, ordinary, free of danger—made her wonder if she could learn how to exist in a life that didn’t demand sacrifice.
A life where she wasn’t required to fight or break or bleed.
A life where she was allowed to stay.
After school, Madoka sat at her desk, tracing circles on her notebook. The house was quiet in that Mitakihara way—soft, steady, almost too calm, as if the air itself refused to disturb anything.
Homura had spoken to Aida after class.
That should’ve been ordinary.
Students talked. Teachers checked in. People paused each other in hallways without consequence. It happened every day.
So why did her chest ache in a way she couldn’t name?
It wasn’t sharp. Not dramatic. Not jealousy—she knew that instinctively. It was quieter than that. A slow, widening ache, hollow but not empty, like something in her had shifted places without telling her why.
She pressed her palm over her heart—gentle pressure, grounding.
She simply felt it.
A soft, aching displacement.
Like she’d spent the entire day standing in sunlight she didn’t notice until it was gone—until Homura wasn’t beside her.
She leaned back, staring at the faint pencil marks on her page. “Homura talking to someone else shouldn’t matter,” she whispered. “She’s allowed to. It’s normal.”
Her throat tightened.
“But I… wanted to walk home with her.”
Saying it aloud made the feeling both fragile and strangely solid.
“…I just wanted to be with her,” she breathed. “More than before.”
She didn’t have a name for the feeling settling quietly in her chest—something soft, something growing, something forming in the unspoken spaces between them.
But she knew who it reached for.
And she knew it wasn’t small.
Homura stood by her apartment window, hands gripping the cool metal frame like it was the only solid thing in the room. The city below glowed under soft rainlight—quiet, meticulously ordered, too serene for how violently her thoughts churned beneath the surface.
She exhaled, shaky and thin. “Why does this still hurt?” she whispered—to no one but herself. She always talked to herself when the memories pressed too hard. It was the only way to keep them from swallowing her.
Aida admired Madoka.
Of course he did. Everyone did. Madoka was gentleness and warmth and light that didn’t burn.
“But he said people pay attention when I speak,” Homura muttered, jaw tightening. “Precise. Admirable. Why—why would he think that?”
Admirable.
The word snagged inside her chest like a hook she couldn’t pull free.
“Why would anyone look at me—after everything—and see something worth admiring?” Her voice cracked, barely audible. “They shouldn’t. He shouldn’t.”
She’d seen Madoka admire her before—in other lives, other timelines. But those memories were soaked in crisis, colored by desperation and fear.
“That admiration wasn’t real,” she told herself harshly. “None of it mattered. It only happened because she had no one else. Because the world was ending.”
Not here.
Not in this world.
A world that didn’t need her.
She pressed her forehead lightly to the glass. “Don’t think about it,” she whispered. “Don’t—don’t go back there—”
But her thoughts slipped anyway.
Unbidden.
Unstoppable.
A witch’s scream.
A sky tearing open.
Madoka collapsing.
Madoka fading.
Madoka dying in too many ways to count.
Homura’s breath hitched. Her hand rose to her mouth instinctively, as if she could physically keep the memories from pushing out through her teeth.
“It’s over,” she whispered. “It’s over. It’s over. Stop thinking—stop—”
But the memories struck like a spike behind her eyes—sharp, electric, merciless.
Her fingers tightened on the frame until her knuckles whitened. “I hate this,” she hissed under her breath. “I hate how it follows me. How it crawls into every quiet moment. How it never lets me forget.”
If anyone—anyone—ever forced her to speak about it…
A cold tremor scraped down her spine. “I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t tell them. I can’t tell her. There aren’t words for what I saw. I’d fall apart. I’d—”
Her voice failed, collapsing into a thin gasp.
Her reflection smeared across the glass—warped, ghostlike, barely a shape. “Madoka admires me,” she said hollowly. “But she doesn’t know me. Not the parts that broke. Not the parts I can’t put together.”
She understood why people admired Madoka. “Kindness is easy. Light is easy,” she whispered. “But me?”
Precise. Rare. Worth paying attention to.
The words tasted wrong even in her mind.
She shook her head. “No. That’s not me. He doesn’t know me.”
The old weight draped itself across her shoulders—familiar, suffocating. “I’m nothing but what’s left,” she murmured. “Fragments. A shape carved out of grief.”
And yet—
Madoka had asked her to come today.
Not because she had to.
Not because she pitied her.
But because she had wanted her there.
“That shouldn’t matter so much,” Homura whispered. Her voice trembled. “But it does.”
And it pressed back—gently—against the rising panic. Gave her just enough air to breathe.
She lifted a trembling hand, resting her fingertips against the cold glass. Her reflection trembled back at her.
“…I’m glad she asked me,” she whispered—to the glass, to the fading light, to herself.
The words shook—fragile, uncertain—but they were true.
Saying them felt dangerous. Like stepping onto new ground after years of walking through ruins.
But it also felt… alive.
And that tiny truth—small and trembling and real—held her together just enough to stand.
Outside, the rain softened into a fine mist, gleaming under streetlights like something half‑imagined.
Surreal.
Still.
Almost miraculous.
Chapter 4: I forgot… what it’s like to be human.
Chapter Text
The days slipped by with the muted, steady rhythm of Mitakihara’s glass hallways—sunlight drifting across desks in slow gradients, announcements echoing softly through the speakers, and the faint hum of the building’s air system blending with the quiet shuffle of notebooks and projected displays. Everything felt calm. Too calm. A world running exactly as it should, untouched by anything chaotic.
Homura woke before sunrise, her room washed in a pale, washed-out gray. Stillness pressed into the walls. For a long moment she didn’t move at all—only breathed shallowly as a slow, throbbing ache pulsed behind her eyes. Her limbs felt heavy, each breath uncomfortably warm in her chest.
She shifted and tried to sit up. The motion sent a sharp wave of dizziness spiraling through her, forcing her to grip the blanket with trembling fingers.
“…Oh.” The sound barely escaped her lips. She steadied herself, eyelids squeezing shut. “I’m… sick.”
The realization hit with quiet disbelief. She hadn’t felt this in years—truly sick. Feverish. Weak in a way that came from within, not from battle or magic or the weight of memory.
“Right…” She pressed a shaky hand to her forehead as heat pooled beneath her palm. “No magic. No Soul Gem. Just… normal.” The word felt foreign, like something she’d read but never lived.
For someone who had survived timelines, rewound countless days, and walked through worlds that never existed anymore, being undone by a fever felt strangely humiliating. A dry, humorless breath slipped out. “Pathetic.”
She tried to swing her legs to the floor but nearly folded forward. Her body trembled with the effort of simply holding herself upright. When she finally managed to sit, she leaned heavily against the bedframe, breath thin and unsteady.
The quiet of morning amplified everything—the hum of the refrigerator across the room, the whisper of early traffic outside, the soft patter of rain beginning against the glass. She swallowed, throat raw.
“I can’t go to school like this,” she whispered. “I can barely stand.”
Guilt prickled in her chest. Madoka will worry. The thought settled like a weight. She pushed her damp bangs back with unsteady fingers. “I should at least text her,” she murmured. But lifting her arm felt like too much. She let her hand fall, useless.
Her reflection in the dark window stared back: pale, fragile, painfully human.
Homura lowered herself back under the blanket, curling toward the thin warmth as another chill crept across her fevered skin. “Just for today,” she breathed. “I’ll be fine tomorrow.”
But she knew it wasn’t true. She hated the feeling—this fragile, breakable weakness. She hated imagining Madoka’s face tightened with worry, hands held to her chest like something precious was slipping away.
“…I forgot what it’s like,” she whispered into the pillow. “Being someone who can break.”
Madoka woke to the gentle, rhythmic buzz of her phone against the nightstand—soft enough to blend with the low hum of her room’s air system, yet sharp enough to pull her from sleep. Pale morning light seeped through her sheer curtains, washing everything in muted gold as she reached blindly for the device.
A single notification glowed on the screen.
Homura: I’m sorry. I won’t be at school today. I’m not feeling well.
Madoka sat upright instantly, her blanket sliding into her lap. The text felt wrong in a way she couldn’t articulate. She reread it once. Twice. A third time.
Homura never missed school.
Homura never admitted weakness.
Homura never sent messages like this.
Madoka pressed a hand against her chest, as if steadying something trembling beneath her ribs. She typed a reply with stiff fingers—Are you okay? Do you need anything?—but hesitated before sending it.
Her thumb hovered.
Her breath shook.
This wasn’t the sharp panic of danger. It was quieter, deeper—an ache that grew slowly, settling beneath her sternum and refusing to leave.
She hit send.
No read receipt.
No typing indicator.
Just the stillness of her room reflecting back at her.
Madoka swallowed hard. She swung her legs to the floor and crossed the room to pull her curtains open completely. Warm, filtered light flooded in, glinting off the glass of her desk and the soft pink tones of her walls.
But the brightness didn’t reach the knot of worry tightening inside her.
“Homura… please be okay,” she whispered into the quiet, her breath fogging faintly against the cool morning air drifting through the cracked window.
As homeroom began, the classroom filled with the soft hum of overhead lights and the muted shuffle of students settling into their seats. Morning sunlight filtered through the tall glass walls, refracting into quiet gold patterns that drifted across desks and polished floors. The room felt too bright, too open for the mood Madoka carried in her chest.
Ms. Saotome swept in a moment later, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. She tossed her bag onto the desk with a dramatic sigh. “Class, I swear—if one more man tells me he’s ‘emotionally unavailable,’ I’m becoming a nun. Don’t test me.”
A few students snorted. Sayaka sank into her arms with a groan. Kyoko muttered, “Pretty sure she said the exact same thing last week.”
But Madoka didn’t hear any of it.
Homura’s desk was still folded into the floor, its surface seamless and untouched. Morning light brushed over the empty panel, leaving no sign she usually sat there.
Madoka’s stomach tightened. She unlocked her phone for what felt like the hundredth time.
Homura: I won’t be at school today. I’m not feeling well.
Her own reply sat beneath it like a plea suspended in glass.
Are you okay? Do you need anything?
The message sat marked as read.
No response.
No explanation.
Just a small gray icon that made her chest ache.
Sayaka nudged her gently. “Madoka? You’re staring at the door like it owes you money.”
Madoka blinked, startled back into the room’s brightness. “Sorry. I’m just… worried.”
Kyoko leaned forward from behind them, her voice low. “About Homura, right? She doesn’t skip. Ever.”
Sayaka frowned, lowering her voice. “She seriously didn’t answer you?”
Madoka shook her head, clutching her phone tighter than she meant to. “She saw my message. But she didn’t write back. She always replies.” Her voice wavered. “Something’s wrong.”
Kyoko clicked her tongue, but the edge in her tone was softened by concern. “She’s sick, not dead. Maybe she passed out again. Relax.”
Madoka tried.
She tried to listen to the teacher’s lesson. Tried to focus on the light glinting across the smartboard. Tried to ignore the way her eyes kept drifting toward Homura’s empty seat.
Every vibration of her phone made her breath catch.
Every silence pressed heavier.
By lunch, her food remained untouched. She sat between Sayaka and Kyoko at their usual spot near the glass wall overlooking the courtyard. Sunlight rippled across the floor, but none of its warmth reached her.
Sayaka finally sighed, pushing her tray aside. “Alright. Enough. You’re gonna make yourself sick at this rate.”
Madoka’s hands curled together in her lap. “I can’t stop worrying. She didn’t sound like herself.”
Kyoko raised a brow. “Homura never sounds like herself.”
Sayaka shot her a glare. “Kyoko, shut up.”
Madoka inhaled shakily, meeting both of their eyes. “I want to check on her after school.”
Kyoko shrugged easily. “Makes sense to me.”
Madoka looked between them, her voice unexpectedly firm. “Will you come with me? Please?”
Sayaka blinked at the sudden intensity. “Uh—yeah. Of course.”
Kyoko smirked, crossing her arms. “Told you she’d snap eventually. And yeah, we’re coming.”
Madoka’s shoulders loosened slightly, though the worry clinging to her expression stayed rooted beneath the surface.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
After school, the three made their way through Mitakihara’s clean, glass-lined streets. The city shimmered softly in the late afternoon light—orderly, quiet, the air filled with the faint hum of distant traffic. Madoka led them past mirrored buildings and elevated walkways until the scenery slowly shifted.
The polished architecture gave way to narrower paths and older structures touched by age. At a fork in the road, tucked away between newer high-rises, stood a modest apartment complex—stone walls, weathered metal railings, soft lights flickering behind frosted windows.
Sayaka slowed. “Wow. Didn’t expect her to live somewhere like this. Feels… older than the rest of the city.”
Kyoko planted her hands on her hips. “Quiet, though. Fits her.”
Madoka hesitated at the entryway, tracing the brass nameplate with her fingertips.
Akemi Homura.
Just her.
“She never told me she lived alone,” Madoka whispered.
Sayaka peered over. “Wait—no family at all listed?”
Madoka shook her head, voice softening. “No other names.” The realization settled heavy in her chest. “She’s been by herself this whole time.”
Kyoko’s tone gentled. “Yeah. She has that look—like she doesn’t expect anyone to be around.”
Madoka lifted her hand and knocked.
The sound echoed faintly down the hall—hollow, lonely.
No footsteps. No reply.
Sayaka fidgeted. “Maybe she’s still out?”
Madoka’s phone buzzed.
Not Homura.
She stared down at her unread message—still sitting beneath Homura’s first, untouched.
“No,” she whispered. “She’s home.”
Kyoko frowned. “And you’re sure because…?”
Madoka pressed her palm to the cold door, eyes lowering. “She doesn’t leave unless she has to.” Her breath trembled. “Please… just answer.”
The stillness of the hallway pressed in, quiet and absolute.
The only reply was silence.
Homura woke to a muted, unfocused sound—knuckles against wood, softened by the narrow hallway and the old frame of her apartment door. It came again, clearer this time, gently reverberating through the thin walls. Morning light seeped through her curtains in pale, sterile stripes, too bright for the fever still simmering beneath her skin.
She didn’t move.
She couldn’t.
Her body felt impossibly heavy, as though gravity had doubled overnight and pinned her into the mattress. Even the thought of lifting her head sent dizziness shifting behind her eyes. Her limbs were unresponsive—foreign. The knock came once more, softer, almost hopeful.
Madoka.
There was no one else it could be.
A weak flicker of panic stirred in her chest before exhaustion smothered it. She attempted to push herself upright; her arm trembled violently, then collapsed uselessly beside her.
“…Not now,” she whispered, the sound barely forming.
Heat pulsed behind her eyes, a rhythmic, dragging ache that made every thought slippery. Her throat burned when she swallowed. Her heartbeat pressed uncomfortably in her ears—too loud for someone lying still.
Another knock—barely a tap. Madoka must have leaned in, listening.
Homura shut her eyes.
“If I get up… she’ll see me like this.” The words dissolved into the pillow.
The image flickered painfully: Madoka opening the door to find her flushed, shaking, hair tangled, undone by something as mundane as illness. No battle, no magic, no wound to conceal—just a human weakness she hadn’t felt in more than a decade.
It felt wrong.
Unfamiliar.
Humiliating.
A thin exhale left her. “I forgot… what it’s like to be human.”
Shame tightened beneath her ribs. “I should be able to handle this,” she whispered, voice cracking. “It’s only a fever. Humans walk. Humans stand. Humans answer doors…”
Her fingers twitched against the blanket.
They didn’t lift.
Eventually, the knocking faded into stillness—the thick, absolute silence of an old hallway with no neighbors awake yet.
Homura let out a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Relief and guilt washed over her together, indistinguishable.
“I’ll… apologize tomorrow,” she murmured, eyelids lowering. “It won’t matter. I’ll say I didn’t hear her. I’ll say I was sleeping.” Her breath thinned. “It’ll sound normal.”
A faint tremor ran through her as she curled deeper into the blanket, heat pressing at the edges of her vision.
Tomorrow she would be composed again.
Tomorrow she would walk the bright glass corridors like nothing happened.
Tomorrow she would smile—soft, distant, controlled—and Madoka would believe her.
But now, in the dim, quiet solitude of her apartment, Homura lay completely still—too weak to rise, too ashamed to be seen.
“…Just tomorrow,” she breathed. “I’ll be fine tomorrow.”
Madoka’s breath hitched the longer she stood at Homura’s door, her palm flat against the cold metal. The hallway’s dim lighting reflected faintly off the polished floor, casting thin bands of sterile white across her shoes. She knocked again—soft, careful, trembling. “Homura… please… say something.”
Only silence pressed back at her.
Not even a shift of weight. Not a breath. Nothing.
Her vision blurred. Tears gathered along her lashes, clinging stubbornly before sliding down her cheeks. She wiped them away quickly, almost ashamed to let the others see—but the worry inside her didn’t lessen.
Sayaka stepped forward at once, voice gentler than her expression. “Madoka… hey. It’s okay. We’re here. We’ll figure this out.”
Kyoko shifted her stance, arms crossed but gaze warmer than usual. “Yeah. She’s probably just asleep. Or wiped out. Sick people crash hard. Doesn’t mean she’s… y’know.” She hesitated, lowering her voice. “It doesn’t mean something’s wrong.”
Madoka pressed her forehead lightly to the doorframe. The cold metal cooled her skin, grounding her only slightly. “But what if she needs help…?” Her voice cracked. “What if she’s really hurt and I’m just standing here?”
Sayaka placed a steady hand on her shoulder. “You’re not standing here doing nothing. You came all this way for her. And we came with you. That matters.”
Kyoko nodded once. “Homura’s weird, but she’s not fragile. If she didn’t open the door, it’s because she couldn’t—or she didn’t want anyone to see her like this. She’ll talk when she can.”
Madoka sniffed, trying to steady her breath as her hands trembled. Sayaka gently guided her away from the door, her touch firm but careful.
“Come on,” Sayaka murmured. “It’s freezing out here. Standing in the hallway won’t help her.”
Kyoko hovered close at Madoka’s other side, her voice low. “We’ll come back tomorrow if she’s still out. No question.”
Madoka hesitated one last time, looking back at the silent door—a door framed in dim hallway light and quiet that felt too heavy, too absolute.
A small, broken breath escaped her. “…Okay.”
Sayaka and Kyoko stayed close as they walked away, Madoka wiping her eyes in quick, shaky motions. Their footsteps echoed softly along the corridor until they turned the corner.
Behind them, the hallway returned to stillness—sterile, quiet, untouched.
The door remained closed.
And Madoka carried that silence with her all the way home.
By the next morning, Homura stirred slowly, consciousness rising in uneven, weightless waves. The fever had broken sometime during the night, leaving her skin cool and clammy, her breathing steadier—but the heaviness in her limbs remained, a dull, dragging weight that felt fused to her bones. She pushed herself upright with effort, muscles protesting in slow, muted throb.
She wasn’t well.
But she wasn’t pinned to the mattress anymore.
Homura sat there for a long moment, letting the pale morning light seep through the thin curtains. The room felt washed-out, suspended in a soft gray stillness. No knocking at the door. No Madoka’s hesitant voice filtering in from the hall. Only the steady hum of her aging refrigerator and her own shallow breathing.
“…I should go to school,” she whispered.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her feet met the cold floor.
Her body answered immediately—an unmistakable wave of weakness sliding through her muscles.
She gripped the edge of the mattress to steady herself. “Right. I’m still… sick.” Saying it out loud felt unreal, like reciting someone else’s condition.
She stood anyway.
Took three careful steps.
Then stopped.
Walking was possible.
Navigating Mitakihara’s bright, glass corridors was not.
Homura pressed a hand against her forehead. The fever wasn’t there anymore, but the drained heaviness clung stubbornly to every movement. The world felt too sharp around the edges, every glint of light pressing strangely against her senses.
“Another day,” she murmured. “Just one more.”
She moved through the apartment in slow, deliberate motions: sliding open the curtains, pouring a glass of water, forcing down a few crackers that tasted like paper. Each action felt amplified by the silence, the stillness of the small room pressing into her from all sides.
Her phone lit up on the counter.
No new messages.
Guilt tightened inside her chest.
Madoka had cried at her door.
Homura reached toward the phone—stopped halfway, fingers curling back.
“If I text her… she’ll come again.” The thought constricted her breath. “I don’t want her to see me like this.”
She leaned against the counter until the brief wave of dizziness faded. The apartment felt too empty, too honest in its quiet.
“I’ll apologize tomorrow,” she whispered. “Properly.”
For now, she stayed wrapped in the muted cocoon of her apartment—moving with caution she resented, fragile in ways she refused to acknowledge.
Still sick.
Still ashamed.
But no longer bound to the bed.
Simply human, in a way she had forgotten how to be.
Madoka woke with a heaviness she couldn’t quite place—an ache settled just beneath her ribs, steady and quiet. Her alarm hadn’t gone off yet. Pale morning light was already filtering through her sheer curtains, soft and colorless, casting faint reflections across her walls.
She sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
The first thing she did—before pulling the blanket away, before even fully focusing—was reach for her phone.
No new messages.
Her breath caught.
Homura still hadn’t written back.
Madoka pressed her lips together, thumb tapping the screen off, then on again, as if the world might shift in those small movements and reveal a reply that wasn’t there.
Nothing.
She stood, fingers threading through her hair as she crossed the quiet room to pull her curtains fully open. Cool morning air drifted in through the small gap in the window—clean, muted, at odds with the tight, restless knot forming in her stomach.
Maybe she’s still asleep.
The thought steadied her only a fraction.
If Homura was sleeping, she was resting. Healing.
But the memory of yesterday’s silence at her door pressed back against that fragile comfort—the way she’d cried without meaning to, the way Homura never ignored her messages unless something was deeply wrong.
Madoka grabbed her uniform mechanically. She dressed quicker than usual, movements stiff, her backpack feeling heavier than it should—as if the weight inside her chest had spread to her arms.
Before stepping out of her room, she checked her phone again.
Still nothing.
Downstairs, her mother paused at the stove, spatula midair. “Madoka, sweetie—you’re up early.”
Madoka forced a small smile. “I just… didn’t sleep well.”
Junko observed her for a beat—sharp, perceptive—but chose not to pry. “Do you want something quick for breakfast?”
Madoka shook her head. “I’m not hungry. Thank you.”
She slipped into her shoes, fingers fumbling slightly.
Her phone buzzed.
Madoka inhaled sharply—hope flaring bright.
A weather alert.
Not Homura.
Her shoulders lowered, breath trembling as she stepped outside. The cool morning bit against her damp lashes. Sayaka and Kyoko weren’t at the corner yet. The street was empty, washed in soft gold light and early stillness.
Madoka held her phone close to her chest and whispered into the quiet air:
“Homura… please be okay today.”
Homura paused at the school gates, her hand tightening around the strap of her bag as the morning air slid cool and clean against her skin. Mitakihara always looked too composed at this hour—glass gleaming, walkways washed in soft white light, the whole city settling into its curated calm. She stood there for a moment, steadying herself.
Her body still ached. A faint tremor clung to her muscles, each breath slightly too shallow. She had slept—barely—but enough to stand, enough to walk, enough to try pretending she was fine.
That should have been enough.
She hoped it would be.
Inside, the glass corridors brightened sharply as she stepped in. Light fractured across the floor in thin planes, each reflection shifting with her movement. It was too bright for her still-sensitive eyes; every footstep rang too clearly in her ears.
You’re fine.
You look fine.
Just keep walking.
Students drifted through the hall in soft clusters, voices low, shoes tapping lightly on polished floors. Conversations washed past her—homework, clubs, weekend plans. No one looked twice. Mitakihara’s routine moved on without noticing how carefully she measured every breath.
But then she reached the classroom.
Madoka was already inside.
She sat with her shoulders drawn close, fingers curled lightly around her phone. The moment Homura appeared in the doorway, Madoka’s head snapped up—eyes widening, breath catching in a way Homura felt more than heard. Her whole posture unfolded with relief.
Homura’s heart stuttered.
She hadn’t prepared for this.
Madoka stood so quickly her chair rattled against its fixed base. “Homura!”
Homura froze in the doorway.
Madoka approached—quick, then slower halfway, as if she were afraid of pushing too hard. “You’re here,” she breathed, voice thin with emotion. “I was so worried…”
Homura forced a small, practiced smile. “Sorry. I’m alright now.”
Madoka’s gaze swept over her—quiet, perceptive—taking in the slight sway in her stance, the paleness clinging beneath her eyes, the stiffness in her movements.
“Are you sure?” Madoka asked softly.
“I’m sure,” Homura lied, drawing in a steadying breath. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”
Sayaka leaned back in her seat, arms crossed as she studied Homura with sharp concern. “You still look awful, you know.”
Kyoko huffed. “Yeah. Not dying, but definitely not ‘fine.’”
Homura held her composure, though a quiet embarrassment prickled under her skin. “I’m okay,” she said gently.
Madoka stepped closer—just a fraction. Her voice lowered, barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
The words stopped her.
Homura’s breath caught—small, fragile, real. For a moment, every piece of tiredness she’d hidden pressed against her ribs.
“…I’m trying,” she admitted very quietly.
Madoka’s expression warmed instantly, soft and bright in the morning light. “That’s enough.”
Homura looked away, unable to endure that kindness for more than a heartbeat.
As they returned to their seats, Homura felt each step echo through her bones—but something steadier threaded through the exhaustion.
Madoka was here.
Madoka cared.
That was enough to keep her upright.
And for the first time all week, Homura let herself believe the world might feel lighter tomorrow.
Sayaka and Kyoko walked home together that afternoon, the sky a muted sheet of gray above Mitakihara’s glass skyline. The air carried that clean, metallic stillness the city always held before rain—cool, precise, like the world was holding itself steady. Reflections from distant windows shimmered faintly across the pavement as they turned down a quieter street.
Sayaka nudged a loose leaf with her shoe, sending it skittering across the concrete. “Madoka’s been acting weird lately. And not just ‘Madoka’ weird—she was seriously freaked out over Homura being sick.”
Kyoko gave her a sideways glance. “She worries about everyone. That’s her thing.”
Sayaka shook her head. “Not like this. When I caught a cold last month, she brought me worksheets and juice. But with Homura? She was panicking. Like she thought something awful was gonna happen.”
Kyoko hummed, gaze drifting toward the glossy reflection stretching along a nearby building. “Maybe she’s just closer to Homura than she realizes.”
Sayaka slowed, brows knitting. “Close is one thing. But this morning she looked like she hadn’t slept. And when Homura walked in, Madoka practically lit up like the sun came back.”
Kyoko smirked faintly. “Sounds about right.”
Sayaka rubbed at the cuff of her sleeve, shoulders drawing inward. “I mean… I get it. Homura looked awful. But Madoka wasn’t just worried about her being sick.”
A small breath.
“It felt different. Like she was scared of losing her.”
Kyoko raised a brow. “And that’s what’s bugging you?”
“Yeah,” Sayaka admitted, voice dipping. “Because it wasn’t just concern. It felt… bigger. Like she didn’t know what to do with it.”
Kyoko let out a thoughtful breath. “Madoka’s never been good at hiding stuff. If something’s changing, we’ll notice.”
Sayaka kicked another leaf, softer this time. “I just don’t want her to get hurt. This feels like uncharted territory for her. She’s not used to feeling that strongly about someone.”
Kyoko’s tone softened—not much, but enough to cut through the cool air. “Then we keep an eye on her. Make sure she doesn’t crash and burn.”
Sayaka snorted, tension easing from her shoulders. “Yeah. Someone has to.”
Kyoko smirked. “Guess that someone’s you.”
Sayaka rolled her eyes, but a small smile tugged at her lips. “Whatever. Just… something’s changing. Madoka’s looking at Homura differently.”
Kyoko nodded once, the faint glow of early evening lights flickering across her face. “Yeah. I noticed.”
Their voices blended into the soft hum of distant traffic as the city’s early lights flickered on—cool glints against glass, blinking into life one by one as dusk drew in around them.
Chapter 5: You look like you’re waiting for something to go wrong.
Chapter Text
The bell released them into a corridor washed in pale afternoon light. Glass panels carried voices farther than they should have, each footstep slipping across the polished floor in a soft echo. Sayaka hooked her arm through Madoka’s without warning, her smile quick—tired at the edges, but genuine enough.
“Emergency meeting,” she declared. “Café. My treat. Probably.”
“Probably?” Madoka murmured, hugging her notebook.
Kyoko drifted to Madoka’s other side, chewing something wrapped in crinkling plastic. “She means ‘if Mami’s there.’ First‑round law.”
Homura kept half a step behind them, quiet by instinct rather than intention. Her fingers curled around her backpack strap. “If we’re citing rules,” she said softly, “there’s one about not eating in the hallway.” Her gaze flicked toward Kyoko’s snack.
Kyoko bit down harder out of defiance. “Can’t hear you,” she said around it.
Sayaka waved the moment off with easy exaggeration. “Come on, Homura. New café at the mall—cinnamon, warm lighting, the whole thing. Even you need a break from studying yourself into the void.” Her tone was light, mostly teasing, only brushing familiar habits.
Her glance passed over Homura—brief, unreadable, no sharper than the way she checked the weather.
“I don’t… take breaks,” Homura said quietly. Warmth didn’t sound unpleasant—just unfamiliar.
Madoka slowed enough to look back, offering a soft smile like an open door. “It might be nice,” she said. “We haven’t gone out together in a while.”
The way she said we pressed lightly against something in Homura’s chest. She adjusted her glasses—a gesture she still hadn’t trained out—and looked aside.
“If everyone is going,” she said, “I don’t mind.”
They spilled out through the school gates into late afternoon light. The walk to the station passed in easy fragments—Sayaka complaining about homework, Kyoko arguing with a vending machine, Madoka’s laugh threading through it all like something Homura wanted to follow.
The mall near the station rose up in layers of glass and steel, reflecting a sky already drifting toward gold. Inside, the air shifted cooler; polished tiles echoed their footsteps. They followed the smell of coffee and sugar to a small café tucked along the inner corridor.
Fogged windows, soft lamps, a painted sign with a little gold teacup. Sayaka pushed the door open with theatrical flourish. The bell above it chimed, thin and bright.
Mami was already there at a corner table, posture perfect, a pot of tea steaming between two cups. Beside her, Nagisa sat with her feet tucked under her, cheeks puffed out around a half‑eaten cookie. Powdered sugar dusted the corner of her mouth.
Nagisa looked up first. “Mama, they’re here,” she announced, words muffled. Then, brighter: “Hi!”
Mami’s hand twitched near the teapot, embarrassment flickering before smoothing out. “Welcome,” she said warmly. “I hope you don’t mind—I reserved a table when Nagisa heard the word ‘café.’”
“I was very helpful,” Nagisa added. “I pointed at the picture of cake.”
Madoka lit up, bowing slightly. “Good afternoon, Mami. Nagisa, thank you for saving us seats.”
“I also saved you the pink cookie,” Nagisa said, nudging a plate forward with solemn generosity. “It looked like you.”
Madoka laughed, startled and pleased. “Does it? Then I’ll eat it carefully.”
Homura inclined her head. “Thank you for inviting us,” she said, her voice more formal than she meant it to be. The warmth of the café pressed in around her, smelling of coffee, sugar, and something faintly spiced.
Kyoko had already claimed the chair opposite Sayaka, folding herself into it with a smug grin. “I called this seat by thinking about it,” she said.
“That’s not how that works,” Sayaka muttered, though she didn’t tell her to move.
They ordered with the disjointed chaos of people who had too many opinions—Nagisa pointing at every pictured dessert, Kyoko pretending to choose the most expensive option just to see Mami’s expression, Sayaka shifting her order once or twice. Nothing sharp, nothing lingering—just noise shaken off by the warm lights.
When the drinks and plates arrived, the table became a small, crowded island. Cups clinked, steam rose in thin threads, sugar packets crinkled. Outside the window, shoppers drifted past, their reflections overlapping with the soft glow inside.
“So,” Sayaka said, stirring her drink more than necessary. “How’s everyone handling the sudden ‘let’s give three assignments per class’ teacher conspiracy?”
Nagisa raised her hand. “I only get normal homework,” she said. “But I help Mama check her calendar, so I am also suffering.”
Mami hid a smile behind her cup. “It’s true. She reminds me of everything I would forget.”
Kyoko stabbed a fork into her pastry. “Homework is a scam,” she said. “You already did the time in class.”
“That’s not how it works,” Sayaka said automatically, but her tone was softer than her words.
“It could be,” Kyoko argued.
Madoka laughed under her breath, then glanced at Homura. “How about you, Homura? You always look so calm after tests.”
Calm. Homura’s fingers tightened briefly around her cup. “I… review things in advance,” she said. “It’s easier that way.”
Sayaka leaned forward—not probing, just curious. “Do you ever get nervous? Like, heart‑in‑your‑throat nervous?”
Homura thought of the way her chest sometimes seized, too tight, too fast. “Everyone gets nervous,” she said. “You just… learn not to show it.”
Sayaka sat back, thoughtful. “Yeah… that makes sense.” No edge, no suspicion—just a girl trying to understand someone a little different from her.
Nagisa reached for the cookie plate, then paused, her hand hovering as she studied Homura with a thoughtful, almost serious look. “You look like you’re thinking too hard,” she said plainly. “Like you’re here, but part of you’s somewhere else.”
Madoka’s breath caught, her fork lowering slowly. “Nagisa…”
Nagisa shrugged, unbothered. “Mama says people do that when they’re not used to relaxing. It’s not bad. It just means you’re still learning how to feel safe.” She nudged the cookie plate toward Homura like an offering. “You’re allowed to relax here.”
Homura froze—not embarrassed, not flustered, just… struck. “I’m… trying,” she said.
Madoka’s eyes softened, fingers brushing her cup. Steadying.
Sayaka shifted—not evasive this time, simply adjusting her seat. “Well,” she said lightly, “good thing today’s easy. No deadlines. Just wandering around a mall.”
Kyoko stretched lazily. “And snacks. Don’t forget the snacks.”
Mami’s smile was gentle. “We can take the afternoon slowly. No rush. Just… enjoy the time together.”
The tension eased into something warm. Homura breathed out—a small, controlled sound, but clearer.
Madoka glanced toward the corridor. “Maybe we could walk a little after this,” she suggested. “Just see where we end up.”
Kyoko nodded once, unhurried. “Yeah. Let’s wander.”
Madoka smiled. “I wouldn’t mind looking at the stationery shop…”
“There’s that music store on the second floor,” Sayaka added, eyes brightening. “The one with the listening stations—we haven’t been in a while.” Her tone stayed casual, aimed toward Madoka rather than away from Homura.
Mami tilted her head. “I do need to pick up a few things from the market, if no one minds a small detour.”
“Cheese?” Nagisa asked, hopeful.
Mami laughed. “Yes, cheese.”
Homura listened to them spin possibilities out of an ordinary afternoon, the ache in her chest shifting from something sharp to something almost bearable. “It sounds… nice,” she said quietly.
Madoka caught her eye again and nodded, as if they’d agreed on something important.
They left the café in a loose cluster, the bell’s thin chime fading behind them. The mall corridor felt different now—quieter, warmer—light pooling across the tiles in soft reflections. Homura could still taste the faint sweetness of tea at the back of her tongue, the echo of the group’s voices stretching ahead like a thread she wasn’t accustomed to following.
Mami guided them toward a small market tucked along one wing. The air shifted as they entered—cooler, carrying the faint scent of fruit, bread, and something crisp from the refrigeration units. Nagisa gripped the edge of the cart with purposeful intensity, narrating the shelves as if steering a ship.
“Tomatoes,” she declared. “Onions. Boring bread. Good bread.”
“There’s no boring bread,” Kyoko said under her breath. “Just bread people gave up on too soon.”
Mami checked vegetables with practiced calm, weighing them with a smooth efficiency that spoke of routine. Nagisa’s chatter never distracted her. Homura watched the quiet rhythm between them—the soft corrections, the way Mami listened without ever breaking pace. Something shifted in Homura’s chest, not sharp but distant, like remembering a language she no longer spoke.
Madoka moved to her side, close enough that their shoulders almost brushed. “They’re amazing together,” she whispered.
“They are,” Homura said. It was one of the few truths that didn’t feel dangerous to voice.
When Mami finished, they regrouped near the market’s entrance. “We’ll meet by the central fountain in an hour,” she suggested. “Plenty of time to wander.”
Sayaka appeared at Madoka’s elbow before anyone else could answer. “Music store?” she said, brightness just a little too pointed.
Madoka smiled. “You already made up your mind.”
“Obviously.” Sayaka looped their arms together, avoiding Homura’s gaze with subtle precision. “Come on. I need someone with taste to help me pick a playlist.”
Kyoko snorted. “You don’t need help proving you have none.”
Sayaka shot her a look. “You can still come heckle me if you feel like being wrong in public.”
Kyoko’s eyes flicked toward the directory screen, then toward Homura—thoughtful, assessing. “Nah. I’ll show Homura the snack stalls. Someone’s gotta make sure she doesn’t starve herself on principle.”
Homura blinked. “That’s not—”
“You’ll thank me later,” Kyoko said, already taking a few steps forward.
Mami chuckled. “We won’t be far. Call if you need anything.”
Nagisa saluted with both hands. “Aye aye, Mama.”
They split naturally at the escalators—Mami and Nagisa drifting toward the market’s entrance, Madoka and Sayaka rising upward on the slow-moving steps, while Kyoko and Homura remained on the main floor, the crowd flowing around them like a gentle current.
The snack stalls ringed the open atrium in a soft arc of warm light—crepes, takoyaki, soft‑serve, skewers. The air was thick with the smell of batter and oil, muted beneath the mall’s steady hum. Kyoko slowed as they approached, gaze sharpening with something close to reverence.
“See? This is real life,” she said, gesturing at the hanging menus. “Not worksheets.”
Homura’s mouth twitched. “I’m fairly certain eating everything would be impractical.”
Kyoko huffed a laugh. “Only if you lack commitment.”
She drifted toward a taiyaki stand, the lights above it warm and low. Homura followed a step behind, drawn more by Kyoko’s certainty than the food. The smell of sweet bean paste wrapped around them, familiar in a way Homura couldn’t name.
Kyoko ordered without hesitation. When she turned to Homura, her voice softened. “Go on. Pick something.”
“I don’t need anything,” Homura said.
Kyoko shook her head. “It’s not about need. Just… choose what looks good. You’re allowed to do that.”
The words landed quietly. Homura looked up at the menu—simple shapes, warm colors—then down at her hands. Want felt like a heavy word, one she wasn’t used to carrying. “Custard,” she said at last.
They stepped aside with their warm paper packets. Kyoko took a bite immediately, eyes closing as if the world briefly narrowed to flavor. “So?” she asked, her voice easy. “You actually enjoying yourself?”
Homura blinked, thrown by the directness. “Enjoying… this?”
Kyoko gestured loosely at their surroundings—the distant escalator hum, the drifting crowd, the slow comfort of a quiet afternoon. “You look like you’re waiting for something to go wrong.”
“That would be unlikely,” Homura said. It wasn’t quite a joke. Not quite a deflection.
Kyoko studied her for a moment. “I’m not trying to mess with you,” she said. “You’re always so wound up. Even now.” Her voice wasn’t sharp—just observant. “You don’t have to be. Not with us.”
Us. The word touched something fragile.
Homura stared down at the taiyaki in her hands. The heat seeped into her palms, grounding in a way she hadn’t expected. “It’s difficult to stop preparing for the worst,” she said quietly.
Kyoko didn’t fill the silence. She just took another bite, eyes drifting toward the moving walkway. “If something bad ever drops on us out of nowhere,” she said, “we’ll handle it. All of us. That’s how this works now.”
A breath escaped Homura—small, startled, almost a laugh. Kyoko’s mouth lifted at the corner.
“See?” she said. “Not a robot.”
“I was never—”
“Relax,” Kyoko murmured. “I’d still hang out with you if you were.” She bumped Homura’s shoulder lightly, the contact brief but steady. “Come on. Let’s walk before the others drag us someplace responsible.”
They moved through the atrium at an easy pace. Shop windows slid past in soft reflections—glass, pale light, faint movement. Homura found her breathing syncing with Kyoko’s stride, the rhythm unfamiliar but strangely steadying. It made her chest ache in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant.
Upstairs, the music store opened into a hush of filtered light and clean lines—more glass than walls, the air cool in a way that made sound feel thinner. The layout was familiar; they’d wandered through this place on past weekends, but the soft brightness still felt new each time. White grid‑like displays reflected the overhead lights in quiet angles. Rows of headphones hung in ordered symmetry beside touchscreens looping album previews, each one glowing with muted pastels labeled J‑pop, Anime, Classics.
Sayaka’s delighted noise cut through the quiet. “Yep. Still perfect.” She moved fast, slipping toward the nearest panel like someone returning to a favorite seat. Her fingers began tapping through menus before the screen had fully loaded, her reflection jittering across the glass.
Madoka followed more slowly, her steps soft. The openness of the room made everything feel suspended—the lights, the faint electronic hum, even the movement of other shoppers diffused into gentle shapes. “It’s still really pretty…” she whispered, almost to herself, as if the familiarity didn’t make it any less magical.
“Pretty? This is holy ground,” Sayaka said without looking away from the display. She pulled a pair of headphones down, testing them with the urgency of someone checking whether a beloved song was still exactly where she left it.
Madoka drifted to the station beside her. A pair of headphones waited on their hook, perfectly aligned. She lifted them with careful fingers, as though the slightest pressure might break the moment, and settled them over her ears.
The touchscreen responded to her touch, sliding through album covers in fluid motion—bright blocks of color, soft gradients, familiar silhouettes.
Then—
ClariS – Links
Her breath caught.
She tapped.
The first notes unfurled like color blooming across clear water—gentle, bright, carrying something she couldn’t put words to. The store receded. The white grids softened to a blur, Sayaka’s commentary faded into the background, and all that remained was sound and a warmth moving slowly outward from her chest.
Madoka’s eyes half‑closed. The song felt like memory she didn’t remember having—hopeful, bittersweet, light without being weightless. It touched something quiet inside her, something she hadn’t realized she’d learned to guard.
Sayaka nudged her with an elbow, soft enough not to startle. “What’re you listening to?”
Madoka didn’t remove the headphones. “Just… something nice.” Her voice was small, steady, glowing with something she hadn’t sorted out yet.
“Good,” Sayaka said, already turning back to her own screen. “That’s the whole point. Let it take over your brain.”
Madoka did.
She stayed with the song until the last tone faded into silence. When she finally lifted the headphones away, her palms hovered a moment before settling against her warm cheeks, grounding herself.
Sayaka looked over, eyebrows raised. “Found something you like?”
Madoka nodded slowly. “Yeah. Really… really like.”
They lingered in the aisles—Sayaka moving with restless curiosity from station to station, retracing familiar territory, and Madoka drifting in a quieter orbit, fingertips brushing the edges of jewel cases as if they were tiny windows. The store’s soft light pooled on the glossy surfaces, turning each reflection into a fragment of stillness.
No guitars. No instruments. Just muted light, gentle sound, and the quiet company of two girls sharing an unhurried afternoon.
An hour later, they regrouped at the central fountain—a circular pool framed in pale stone, water sliding down its surface in thin, constant sheets. The lights above cast soft reflections across the ripples, turning them into shifting patterns that moved like breath.
Mami arrived first, a modest shopping bag in one hand, Nagisa clinging to the other. The small loaf of bread she carried was wrapped with deliberate care, as if it were something precious. Kyoko and Homura approached from the opposite side; Kyoko finished the last bite of her taiyaki with unhurried satisfaction, while Homura walked beside her in quiet steps. Sayaka and Madoka descended the escalator, still caught in the remnants of some shared joke.
“Everyone find what they needed?” Mami asked.
“Food,” Kyoko said immediately.
“Music,” Sayaka added, sliding a glance toward Madoka before looking away.
“Cheese,” Nagisa declared proudly.
Madoka’s gaze flicked to Homura for a moment—soft, checking, warm. “I think so,” she said.
They fell into an easy drift toward the exit, their footsteps uneven but moving in the same direction, like small planets sharing an orbit. Beyond the glass doors, evening waited—cooler air, the faint smell of asphalt, car exhaust, and something distant and metallic.
Outside, other shoppers flowed past, nudging the group into a natural split. Madoka ended up beside Homura again, their shoulders nearly touching without quite making contact.
Nagisa, slipping between them and Mami for a brief moment, peered up with the intense curiosity only children carried so freely. She squinted at the pair as though comparing two shapes.
“You two look really happy next to each other,” she said, simple as a fact. “Did something good happen?”
Madoka paused mid‑step, breath catching in a soft, quiet way—more like a shy intake than surprise. “Oh…?”
Homura’s heart lurched sharply, breaking its rhythm. “Nagisa,” Mami said gently, a sigh woven into the word.
“What?” Nagisa asked, genuinely puzzled. “It’s true. Madoka’s face gets soft, and Homura stops looking like the world is about to fall down.”
“I don’t—” Homura began, then let the words dissolve. Correcting Nagisa would only make the moment heavier. She drew a slow breath, heat rising along her neck and ears.
Madoka’s hand brushed her sleeve, barely a touch—light enough to be accidental, intentional enough not to be. “It’s because I’m having fun,” Madoka said, her voice steady despite the color in her cheeks. “Being together like this… makes me really happy.”
Nagisa nodded as if this confirmed something she already suspected. “Then it’s good,” she said, and skipped ahead to rejoin Mami.
Sayaka moved closer to Kyoko, muttering something about kids saying whatever crossed their minds. Kyoko laughed under her breath.
Homura kept her gaze forward, every nerve acutely aware of the quiet space between her and Madoka—small, warm, impossible to ignore.
They parted near the station plaza, where the streets branched off toward their neighborhoods under a sky deepening into indigo. The first faint stars blurred against the city’s glow, barely visible through the soft haze of streetlights.
Mami adjusted Nagisa’s bag, the small weight shifting against her shoulder. “We’ll head this way,” she said, her voice warm but tired around the edges. “Thank you for today. It was… very nice.”
Madoka nodded. “It really was.”
“Next time, I’m picking the route,” Kyoko said, stretching with loose-limbed satisfaction. Sayaka nudged her with an elbow, a quiet huff escaping her.
“We will,” Sayaka said. “Arcade’s mine next time.”
“Bold for someone who got destroyed by a crane game,” Kyoko muttered.
Their bickering softened into the evening air as they turned down their street. Mami and Nagisa continued straight, their silhouettes blending into the quiet residential glow. That left Madoka and Homura, walking side by side along a narrower sidewalk washed in muted amber light.
For a while, nothing broke the silence but distant traffic and the soft scuff of their shoes on concrete. The storefronts gave way to low apartment buildings, their windows glowing faintly behind sheer curtains. A bus passed, its engine a low hum, sending a brief warm draft across their legs.
“You like days like this,” Madoka said gently, as if testing the shape of the thought before offering it.
Homura glanced over. “Days like this?”
“When nothing big happens,” Madoka said. “Just… normal things. A café. Wandering around. Everyone together.” Her smile was small but earnest. “You always look quieter. Not in a bad way.”
Quieter. Homura lowered her gaze to the shadows stretching ahead of them—elongated, softened by the streetlights, their outlines merging for a few steps before splitting again. “Normal is rare,” she murmured. “I don’t trust it to last.”
Madoka tilted her head, her voice low. “You talk like it’s going to disappear.”
Homura hesitated. She could have let the remark drift away, but the quiet around them felt too open for evasions. “Peace ends quickly,” she said. “At least… it has before. It makes you hold it too carefully.”
Madoka’s fingers brushed her sleeve, a touch almost weightless. “Then I’m glad you were with us today,” she said. “Even if it doesn’t last forever… we still had this.”
Homura’s breath slipped unevenly out of her. “So am I.” The words felt exposed, too close to something she wasn’t ready to name.
They slowed where the sidewalk split—one path leading toward the Kaname home, the other toward the station. The air carried a faint trace of coffee from a shop closing for the night, drifting briefly between them.
“You always walk me this far,” Madoka said.
Homura met her eyes. “I don’t mind the extra distance.” Too formal for what she meant. What she meant was: I don’t know how to step away from this.
Madoka’s smile warmed, soft and steady. For a moment, her lips parted as if she were about to say something more. But a car rolled past, tires hissing through a shallow puddle, and the small fragile window closed.
“See you tomorrow?” she said instead.
“Tomorrow,” Homura replied.
She stayed where she was until Madoka turned the corner, red ribbons catching the last light before disappearing. Only then did she turn toward the station, each step both lighter and strangely unsteady, as if balance required more effort than it had that morning.
That night, Madoka’s room settled into its familiar hush. The streetlights outside cast slow, amber bands across the ceiling, shifting whenever a car passed. She lay on her side, phone near her pillow, its screen dim and forgotten.
Nagisa’s words drifted back—not sharp, not embarrassing, just… persistent. You two look really happy next to each other.
Madoka pulled the blanket closer, her breath shallow in the quiet. “That’s not really…” Her voice thinned. “I just feel… at ease when she’s there.” The admission floated into the dark, small and uncertain. “Maybe it’s me who looks different.”
The memory of walking beside Homura rose uninvited—the muted hum of the mall fading whenever Homura drew near, the way laughter came easier around her, even on tired days.
“I like it when she waits for me,” Madoka whispered, a warmth blooming across her cheeks. “It makes things feel less… big.” Less like the world might tip if she didn’t step carefully.
Her hand pressed lightly over her heart, startled by how quickly it fluttered at the thought. “This is silly,” she said, though the room stayed quiet and open, offering no disagreement.
Outside, a late bus rumbled past the house, the vibration a soft tremor beneath the floorboards. The sound faded, leaving only the faint creaks of settling wood and the distant hum of the neighborhood.
Madoka closed her eyes. Beneath her worries about school, practice, and everything left undone, another thought pushed forward—gentle, steady, impossible to dismiss.
I want her to keep walking with me.
Sleep found her slowly, the kind that drifted in like fog rather than falling all at once.
Across town, Homura sat at her desk, pencil hovering over an open notebook that had long since stopped serving its purpose. The margin of the first page was crowded with half-finished formulas, tidy notes written out of habit rather than focus. None of it settled in her mind—the numbers slid away as soon as she looked at them.
The night hum of the city pressed softly against the glass, a distant, steady vibration. Car headlights swept brief arcs along her wall, thinning out as they passed. The analog clock on the shelf ticked evenly—unbothered, unhurried. Each second nudged forward whether she was ready or not.
Madoka’s laughter lingered in her mind—the quiet kind from this afternoon, not the bright, unguarded bursts of their earliest weeks together. These had been softer, shaped by warm light and the closeness of a shared table. They clung to her more tightly than she expected.
And beneath them, Nagisa’s voice: You look really happy next to each other.
Homura set the pencil down. Her hand rose to her chest without thinking, fingers settling over the faint, uneven rhythm there. It wasn’t racing the way it did on her worst days, but it felt… crowded. As though happiness required space she didn’t have, pressing outward from someplace she had spent too long keeping sealed.
“It’s showing,” she murmured, barely a whisper. Not a complaint—closer to disbelief.
A small stumble in her pulse made her draw in a careful breath. The familiar ache flared behind her ribs—mild, manageable, but enough to remind her why she avoided letting emotions swell too far, too fast. She focused on her breathing: slow in, slower out.
“If even Nagisa noticed…” Her voice thinned. “How long until Madoka does?”
The question hung in the quiet, heavy with too many years. All this time didn’t belong to this world alone—it reached backward, through timelines stacked like fragile pages she could no longer bear to touch. Memories the universe had discarded still clung to her, refusing to fade.
She closed her eyes, letting the darkness press gently against her thoughts. “It shouldn’t hurt,” she whispered. “Not now. Not after everything. Not when she’s here—safe, and real.”
The clock ticked on, indifferent to grief or hope.
Homura closed the notebook, the soft thud steadying her more than its contents ever could. She switched off the desk lamp, letting shadows gather in the corners of the room. Only a thin line of streetlight slipped between the curtains, stretching across the floor like a quiet path.
She lay down with deliberate care, one hand still over her heart. In the dark, images surfaced unbidden—Madoka’s silhouette framed by café light, the gentle cadence of her footsteps in the mall, the warmth in her voice when she said being together made her happy.
“Please don’t vanish,” Homura breathed, the words barely sound at all.
Her heart responded with another uneven beat—painful, precious, unbelievably alive.
Sleep came in thin fragments, never fully taking her under, never fully letting her forget the distance she kept and the hand she still ached to hold.
Chapter 6: She’s kind to everyone.
Chapter Text
The week settled into a soft, almost too‑predictable rhythm—Mitakihara’s particular stillness threading through each day. Mock‑exam posters cycled across the projection boards in quiet loops; shoes whispered over the polished floors; light shifted through the classroom’s glass walls in long, unbroken bands. Homura moved within it carefully, her steps measured, breath steady. Routine made the world feel manageable. Predictability made it breathable.
Madoka sat, bent over her notebook. Her pencil tapped, paused, then tapped again before she committed to a line. The yellow ginkgo leaf tucked between the pages peeked from the cover—pressed flat, delicate, a small memory she kept closer than she ever commented on.
Keisei passed between desks, offering summary sheets with a gentle, practiced ease. “They helped me,” he said, soft‑voiced. “Feel free to take one.”
Madoka accepted with a quiet thank‑you, her sincerity small but warm. Homura noticed the way Madoka’s fingers lingered on the paper—not for Keisei, but because kindness, wherever it came from, mattered to her.
As they packed up, Sayaka leaned close to Madoka. “Library later? We can suffer together.” Her tone was casual, light. “Aida’ll probably show up too, if you want to compare notes.”
Madoka nodded, though her mind was clearly somewhere else. The bell chimed, dispersing everyone into the corridor.
Homura adjusted her glasses and followed at a modest distance—near enough to stay within orbit, far enough not to hover. She had learned that balance well.
In the courtyard just outside the library wing, ginkgo leaves drifted like slow sparks through the still afternoon air. The space was quiet in that Mitakihara way—orderly, almost too serene, the soft hum of the building’s ventilation barely threading through the open corridor. Homura waited at the point where Madoka would naturally pass from class to the study wing—not too close, never intrusive—simply present, letting the familiar quiet settle over her like a practiced calm.
Madoka’s smile met her gently. “Heading to the library?”
“Yes.” Homura released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
They fell into step along the glass corridor. Light filtered through the floor‑to‑ceiling panels in long, pale bands, sliding across the polished floor with each shift of the clouds. Their footsteps softened against the smooth surface. Madoka held her notebook close, as if its weight steadied her thoughts.
“I still don’t trust that math unit,” Madoka admitted, her tone more sheepish than frustrated. “The teacher said it gets easier once you ‘see the pattern,’ but I think I keep looking in the wrong place.”
“You’re not,” Homura said. “You just rush the second step.”
Madoka blinked. “I do?”
Homura gestured lightly. “You skip isolating the variable because you assume you know where it’s going. When you slow down, your answers are always correct.”
Madoka let out a soft breath—closer to a shy laugh than relief. “When you put it like that, it sounds manageable.”
“It is, for you.”
Madoka’s cheeks warmed. She looked down, smiling at the faint reflections under their feet. “Only because you explain it in a way that makes sense.”
Homura didn’t answer, aware that anything she said might reveal too much.
Madoka continued, her voice gentle, slightly embarrassed. “And then in English today, the teacher asked me to read aloud, and my brain just… paused. Sayaka had to nudge me back into reality.”
Homura’s lips twitched. “I saw. You recovered quickly.”
Madoka shook her head lightly, but without real distress. “I stumbled over ‘ordinary.’ It’s such a simple word. I think I just got ahead of myself.”
“You were nervous.” Homura met her eyes briefly. “It doesn’t mean you did poorly.”
Madoka’s smile softened. “You always say that in a way that feels… reassuring.”
A leaf drifted through the open courtyard entrance beside them, carried on a faint cross‑breeze from the exterior walk. Homura caught it without thinking and tucked it into the edge of Madoka’s notebook. “For luck.”
Madoka held the notebook closer. “Thank you.” The warmth in her voice thinned into something quieter, more private—something Homura tried not to hold too tightly.
“I’m glad you waited for me,” Madoka added softly. “By the courtyard.”
Homura looked forward, steady. “I like walking with you.” Even as her heartbeat misstepped.
A few more steps of quiet passed before Sayaka rounded the turn in the corridor, waving off her own exhaustion. “Library? I’m gonna go hold a table before someone steals the good spot.”
Madoka glanced at Homura—not asking permission, just sharing the moment.
“I’ll meet you,” Homura said. “Something to take care of first.”
Sayaka nodded and tugged Madoka along. Madoka offered one last small smile over her shoulder before slipping into the library wing.
Homura waited—ten breaths, measured and steady—before following. Old habits. Old fears.
The library’s second floor felt suspended in a careful, curated quiet—the kind Mitakihara specialized in. Glass, soft light, and the faint scent of aging paper rose from the archive shelves, deepening as evening crept in. Sayaka and Madoka had claimed a corner table tucked against the interior railing overlooking the first floor, their pencils set out like small, determined weapons lined up for a duel.
Homura chose the seat near the tall windowed wall, where the muted afternoon light softened across her notebook in pale streaks.
Sayaka pointed at her notes with a grimace. “Shortcut for completing the square… or am I supposed to believe?”
“With steps,” Homura murmured, writing them out with clean, measured precision.
Sayaka groaned but followed the logic through, brightening as the answer fell into place. “Fine. Steps. Madoka, your turn.”
Madoka inhaled, whispered something like encouragement under her breath, and worked through the numbers slowly. When she finished, she looked toward Homura almost reflexively.
Homura gave a single, quiet nod.
Madoka’s shoulders eased; her smile unfurled in a soft, relieved curve. She didn’t know why Homura’s approval mattered more than getting the problem right—only that it always had.
Aida, settled in the adjacent seat with a neat stack of practice sheets, explained one question, apologized under his breath for miscopying another, and offered an alternate method for a third. He stayed unobtrusive, helpful without centering himself, and Homura appreciated the steadiness of that rhythm.
The room grew warm with shared concentration. Between problems, Madoka murmured small observations—how the rain streaked faintly along the tall windows now, how the second floor always smelled more like old bindings near the archive shelves. Homura answered quietly, listening more than speaking, grounding the cadence of their study session with her steady presence.
Near closing, Sayaka stretched until her spine popped. “Taiyaki run. Anyone coming?”
“I’ll catch the bus,” Aida said, gathering his papers with careful hands. “Good work today.” He nodded once toward Homura. “See you.”
Sayaka slung her bag over her shoulder. “I’m meeting Kyoko. You two take your time.” Her tone held no teasing, just tired fondness.
Madoka turned to Homura. “Thank you for helping.”
“You didn’t need me.” Homura closed her notebook gently. “But… I’m glad it helped.”
They descended the stairs together and moved through the glass corridor toward the exit. The automatic doors hissed softly as they opened, letting the cool, fine rain settle around them.
They stepped into the rain.
The rain arrived softly, then all at once—cool and fine, almost mist before it deepened. Homura opened her umbrella and angled it toward Madoka, keeping her own shoulder exposed to the weather, the fabric catching the steady patter in a muted, rhythmic hush.
Madoka’s hands curled closer around her bag. “You’ll get wet,” she said, voice small beneath the softened roar of rain against glass storefronts.
“I won’t,” Homura replied. The dampness seeping into her sleeve barely registered.
The narrow street outside the school’s perimeter guided them closer beneath the umbrella’s small circle of shelter. Rain tapped in even intervals, folding the world into something smaller, quieter, more enclosed.
“Aida invited people to study on Saturday,” Madoka said after a moment. “He, um… made a checklist for what everyone should bring.” Her smile twitched, shy and unsure. “It’s very organized.”
Homura nodded. “It will help you.”
Madoka hesitated, breath fogging faintly in the cool air. “Would you… walk me there?” The question slipped out quietly, as though she wasn’t certain she was allowed to ask.
“Yes.” Homura didn’t pause. “Of course.”
They reached the small convenience alcove near the residential turnoff, rain sliding steadily off the overhang. Homura stepped beneath it just long enough to buy a warm tea from the vending machine. The heat pressed into her palms before she offered it to Madoka.
Madoka startled softly at the touch. Then she laughed—quiet, breathy. “You notice everything,” she murmured, looking down at the can as though it offered more comfort than warmth.
“Not everything,” Homura said. The words she didn’t allow herself pressed just behind the ones she spoke. Only you.
Madoka held the tea closer, cheeks pink from cold and something gentler. “See you tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” Homura answered, steady despite the warmth pooling under her ribs.
Rain softened against the window, thinning into a steady whisper. Keisei closed his notebook slowly, letting the quiet settle around him. Madoka’s quiet thank‑you lingered in his mind—simple, sincere, the kind of warmth she offered without calculation, without performance. A natural gentleness.
He wasn’t naïve enough to mistake it for anything more. Madoka treated everyone with that same unobtrusive care. It was part of what made her steady—easy to be around in a world that often felt too polished, too bright.
“She’s kind to everyone,” he murmured, not as reassurance but as a truth he understood.
He let the thought rest there—small, unhurried, content to stay exactly that.
Homura lay awake, the day replaying in quiet fragments—Madoka’s smile, her voice, the soft brush of her sleeve. Each memory settled into her with a warmth she wasn’t sure she deserved, bright against the dim quiet of her one‑room apartment.
“I’m getting ahead of myself,” she whispered into the dark, turning onto her side. “She’s kind to everyone. I shouldn’t… want more just because she’s kind to me.”
The thought tightened something behind her ribs. She clutched her pillow lightly, grounding herself in the faint hum of her bedside lamp and the distant city noise softened by old walls.
“I can’t expect anything,” she murmured. “I can’t make her feel anything she doesn’t. That wouldn’t be fair.” Her breath wavered. “And if I let myself want too much, I’ll ruin this. I always ruin things when I hold on too tightly.”
She pressed a hand over her heart, steadying the uneven rhythm beneath her palm—an old, familiar fragility she’d learned not to fear but to live alongside.
“But I still…” Her voice thinned. “I still want to be near her. Even if it’s selfish.”
The confession lingered in the quiet, fragile and bare, too soft to break but too honest to ignore.
“She doesn’t owe me closeness. She doesn’t owe me anything,” she said more quietly, as if reciting something she needed to believe. “So I have to be careful. Patient. I can’t let her see how much I…” Her words dissolved into a breath.
“Don’t let me lose her,” she whispered, barely sound. “Not because of my own wanting.”
She rose early the next morning and walked through drifting ginkgo leaves on her way to school, reminding herself with each measured step: Be patient. Give her space to choose. Protect what that choice needs.
A few quiet days passed in a blur of routines, and Saturday arrived with a gentler, cleaner stillness—the kind Mitakihara always seemed to cultivate on weekends, when the halls were mostly empty and the light felt wider.
Homura walked Madoka toward the library wing, the late‑afternoon air still cool from the rain drifting in through the open courtyard. Their bags bumped softly against their sides as they followed the glass corridor, neither rushing. Madoka’s voice threaded through the quiet in soft, meandering lines.
“I hope the study group isn’t too packed,” Madoka said, adjusting her grip on her notebook. “Last time everyone crowded around one table and we spent more time bumping elbows than working.”
Homura listened, gaze ahead. “If it’s crowded, we can find another corner. The library has alcove seats near the archive shelves. Most people forget them.”
Madoka brightened. “Oh—right. The little shelf corner with the plants. I like that one.” A beat. “Do you still need to return your book?”
Homura blinked. “My book?”
“The one you were reading at lunch yesterday,” Madoka said. “You said the ending felt… unfinished.” She mimicked Homura’s subtle head tilt without realizing.
A soft warmth pressed at Homura’s chest. Madoka remembered that? “I thought I might look for something new.” She kept her voice even. “Since we’re already going.”
“That sounds nice,” Madoka said, swinging her keys lightly. “Maybe—if you want—you could show me the section you usually browse? I never know where to start.”
Homura steadied her breath. “If you’d like.”
They reached the library doors leading into the second‑floor study wing. The hallway beyond was quiet, the ceiling lights dimmed into their soft weekend hum.
“I’ll be just down the corridor,” Homura said, stopping by the nearby shelf alcove beside the window. Her voice stayed steady even as something fluttered sharply in her chest.
Madoka hesitated at the threshold. “Only if you want to.” Soft, almost uncertain.
“I want to.” It slipped out before she could second‑guess it—simple, honest.
Through the tall glass panels, the group was already gathering around their usual table. Madoka slipped inside, greeted by warm voices. Homura crossed to the alcove, fingertips brushing the spines. The familiar weight of ink and paper steadied her.
She chose a book almost at random—soft colors, worn edges—and settled onto the cushioned bench beside the window. She reread the same page, again and again, until the shifting shadows in the library marked the passing of time.
When Madoka emerged nearly two hours later, her hair slightly mussed and her cheeks warm from indoor heat, her smile softened at the sight of Homura. “You waited.”
“I said I would.” Homura closed the book gently, the motion quiet and deliberate.
They fell into step together, the corridor dimming as early evening light filtered through the glass. Outside, the courtyard glowed faintly—reflections drifting across the polished floor as they walked.
“Do you ever notice,” Madoka began softly, “how the air smells different right before winter really settles? Like everything’s holding its breath.”
Homura glanced at her. “It’s sharper. Quieter. Colors fade faster.”
Madoka brightened. “Exactly. I kept thinking about it during class today. It made me want something warm—like that taiyaki stand near the park.” She hesitated, shy but hopeful. “Would you… want to stop by? If it’s still open?”
“Yes,” Homura said, immediate and genuine.
Madoka’s smile spread slowly, warming the dimming corridor. “Then let’s go before they run out.”
They stepped through the courtyard doors and into the early streetlamps beyond campus, the light catching in yesterday’s puddles, scattering soft reflections around their ankles.
“Taiyaki?” Madoka asked, almost shy.
“Yes.”
They ate by the low stone wall near the walking path outside the school grounds, steam curling into the cool evening air. Madoka brushed a crumb off her glove, but another clung stubbornly. Homura reached out without thinking and swept it gently away.
Madoka looked at her hand, then at Homura, her smile lifting as though the small gesture settled something inside her. “See you Monday.”
“Monday.”
Homura watched the red ribbons disappear into the soft glow of the streetlamps, the ordinary world settling around her again—and for once, ordinary felt like something she could hope for.
Chapter 7: She tries. She’s just… stiff.
Chapter Text
The end of the school day settled over Mitakihara like a soft exhale—fluorescent lights dimming into their evening hum, desks sliding back into place, students packing up with the subdued steadiness the city seemed to encourage. Sayaka tapped her pencil against her notebook, restless energy coiled beneath her ribs. When the dismissal tone chimed—clean, precise—the classroom dissolved into muted motion, shoes whispering against polished floors.
The hallway held its usual curated stillness: glass partitions reflecting faint doubled silhouettes, curling posters shifting faintly in the filtered light, the low electric hum threading through every corridor. Sayaka caught her reflection in one of the glass walls—hair uneven where she’d run her fingers through it, expression hovering somewhere between overstimulated and worn down.
Kyoko drifted to her side, stretching like someone easing into consciousness. “You look like math ate your soul.”
Sayaka groaned. “It gnawed on it for forty‑five minutes.”
Kyoko clicked her tongue. “Should’ve let it finish the job. Less suffering overall.”
“Wow,” Sayaka muttered. “Deeply encouraging.”
“It chewed it and spit it back out,” Sayaka added under her breath.
Kyoko smirked. “You’d lose to anything with numbers.”
Sayaka shot back, “You can’t even count the change in your own pockets.”
Kyoko shrugged without shame. “That’s why I avoid carrying money. Problem solved.”
“Tragic life philosophy.”
“Practical,” Kyoko corrected.
Sayaka narrowed her eyes at her. “You act like you’d do better.”
“I wouldn’t,” Kyoko said easily. “But I’d surrender faster.”
Sayaka snorted despite herself.
They headed down the hall toward the shoe lockers, their reflections scattering across the glass in displaced fragments. Near the entryway, Sayaka’s gaze snagged—Madoka under the overhang, smiling softly at something Homura said. Homura’s posture, steady and carefully arranged, carried that quiet restraint she always held, like she was bracing against a pressure no one else felt.
Sayaka’s stomach tightened before she could stop it.
Kyoko followed her gaze, lips quirking. “There they are. The princess and her knight.”
“Don’t say that,” Sayaka muttered. “They’re just talking.”
Kyoko lifted a brow. “Yeah? And you look like that when you’re ‘just talking’ to people?”
Sayaka flushed. “You’re impossible.”
“Breaking news,” Kyoko murmured.
Sayaka huffed. “Let’s go. I’m starving.”
Kyoko raised an eyebrow. “You’re always starving.”
“Because I burn calories dealing with you.”
Kyoko nodded thoughtfully. “Fair. Emotional labor does drain energy.”
Kyoko fell into step beside her. “Guess I’m walking ahead, then. Safety protocol.”
Sayaka swatted her shoulder as they stepped out onto the quiet street beyond the gates, the glass building glowing softly behind them.
The convenience store glowed under the soft, diffused evening light—Mitakihara’s quiet, curated calm settling over the glass storefront. Sayaka moved toward the food warmers with familiar purpose, warmth fogging faintly against the glass. Kyoko lingered in the snack aisle, scanning shelves with the instinctive focus of someone who treated snacks like survival tools.
“Two onigiri and a chocolate bar,” Sayaka murmured, grabbing them with a practiced hand. “That’s it. Nothing else.”
Kyoko placed two meat buns into the basket without a word.
Sayaka gave her a flat stare. “You’re lucky I tolerate you.”
Kyoko’s shrug was casual, almost content. “Yeah. I know.”
At the counter, Sayaka checked her bag for her wallet. Kyoko was already sliding a 500-yen coin across the counter before she could protest.
“Don’t,” Sayaka muttered.
Kyoko offered a small, lopsided grin—less teasing, more matter‑of‑fact. “Too late. You can owe me later.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’d skip dinner without me,” Kyoko replied, no sting in the words, just a quiet truth.
They stepped into the evening air, the door’s soft chime fading behind them. Cool air settled around them, muted and familiar.
Kyoko stretched her arms overhead. “Feels better outside.”
“You didn’t pay for any of that,” Sayaka pointed out.
Kyoko hummed. “Makes it taste better.”
Sayaka gave her a side‑eye. “Normal people at least pretend to feel guilty.”
Kyoko blinked. “Why? I helped.”
“By enabling my terrible habits?”
Kyoko lifted the bag slightly. “By feeding someone who forgets half her meals.”
Sayaka hesitated—just a blink—before covering it with a snort. “Still dramatic.”
Kyoko stepped ahead by a pace. “Strategy.”
Sayaka bumped her shoulder lightly. “You’re exhausting.”
Kyoko glanced at her, expression mild but warm. “Yeah. But you don’t mind.”
Sayaka groaned into her hands. “Stop saying things like that.”
“It’s true,” Kyoko said, watching her reaction—not to tease, but to understand.
Sayaka shoved her with less force than before. “I take back liking you.”
Kyoko’s voice softened only a fraction. “No refunds.”
Before they reached the footbridge, their route curved past a narrow side street—one Sayaka rarely noticed, a quiet slip of pavement between two residential blocks. Kyoko stepped forward without thinking, then halted.
Someone else was already there.
Homura.
She carried a small pharmacy bag—plain, neatly folded at the top—and walked with the careful, even pace of someone managing her energy. It wasn’t weakness; it was control. The kind of control someone with a heart condition learned out of necessity, not fragility. The evening light softened her hair into muted violet‑black, the edges catching like thin strands of twilight.
Sayaka blinked. Homura never took this route.
Sayaka slowed mid‑step—not alarmed, just caught off guard.
Homura noticed them a heartbeat late. Her posture tensed reflexively, shoulders drawing in for an instant before she reassembled her composure with quiet precision. Sayaka caught the flicker. Kyoko did too.
“…Sayaka. Kyoko.” Her voice was steady, formal out of habit more than distance.
Kyoko lifted her chin. “Didn’t expect to see you here. You don’t usually come this way.”
Homura blinked once—calm, measured. “I don’t. I… needed to pick something up.” She lifted the small bag slightly. “Prescription refill.”
Sayaka’s expression shifted. That made sense. Homura wouldn’t risk skipping medication—not with her condition.
“You shouldn’t be walking alone this late,” Sayaka said, the concern slipping out sharper than she intended.
Homura’s breath caught faintly—surprise, not offense. “…It’s alright. I’m used to pacing myself.”
Kyoko shifted her weight and set her hands on her hips. “Madoka know you’re out here?”
A beat of silence. Homura looked aside. “…No. I didn’t want to worry her over something simple.”
Sayaka and Kyoko exchanged a look—quiet, mutual.
Sayaka stepped forward. “We’re heading that way. Just walk with us.”
Kyoko added, “Not escorting you. Just walking.”
Homura hesitated—not rejection, just calculation. Then something gentler, almost relieved, softened her expression. “…If you’re sure.”
“Yeah,” Sayaka said. “Come on.”
Homura fell in beside them, keeping a respectful distance, her stride controlled but not strained.
The three of them walking together felt odd—unfamiliar—but not uncomfortable.
Kyoko nodded toward the bag. “So. What’d you grab?”
Homura looked down at it. “Beta‑blockers. And supplements.” No embarrassment, just quiet fact. “The doctor adjusted the dosage.”
Sayaka nodded slowly. “Good. As long as you’re taking care of yourself.”
Homura’s expression softened—a small, genuine shift. “I’m doing my best.”
Kyoko hummed. “Madoka will relax a little hearing that.”
Homura’s steps faltered—not visibly, but perceptibly.
“…She worries more than she needs to,” Homura said softly. “I don’t want her carrying that weight.”
Sayaka let out a breath. “She’s always been like that.”
Kyoko muttered, “She’ll strap a heart monitor on you if you keep sneaking around at night.”
Homura blinked, confused but not offended. “A… monitor?”
Sayaka waved a hand. “Ignore her. She’s exaggerating.”
Kyoko shrugged. “Barely.”
A faint, tired smile touched Homura’s lips—small, but real.
At the next intersection, Homura slowed. “My apartment is this way.” She paused, dipping her head. “Thank you. For accompanying me.”
Kyoko waved her off. “Just get home safe.”
Sayaka hesitated, then said quietly, “Don’t disappear without telling someone. Seriously.”
Homura froze for a heartbeat.
“…I’ll try not to,” she said.
She turned down the quiet street, her silhouette thinning into the dimming evening.
Kyoko crossed her arms. “She’s something else.”
Sayaka exhaled. “…Yeah. But she looked okay today. Better.”
Kyoko nodded. “Yeah. Same.”
The street beyond the intersection was quiet, washed in the same muted glow that clung to the residential blocks. The three of them had split off only moments ago, Homura disappearing down her route with that careful, measured pace she used when she didn’t want to draw attention. Sayaka and Kyoko walked in the opposite direction, but the weight of the encounter lingered between them like an echo.
Sayaka slowed first.
“Kyoko… she really didn’t expect to see us.” Her voice was low, thoughtful—not hostile, just unsettled.
Kyoko crossed her arms tightly. "Yeah. She looked like someone opened a door she didn’t know existed."
Sayaka let out a breath, watching it wisp faintly in the cooling air. “She wasn’t cold. I kept waiting for her to be, but she wasn’t.”
“Didn’t see any claws,” Kyoko muttered. “Didn’t see her bite.”
Sayaka gave her a look. “Come on. I’m being serious.”
Kyoko’s expression softened. “I know. I’m just… trying to make it less tense.”
Sayaka rubbed her thumb along the edge of her sleeve, shoulders tight. “When she saw us, she looked—” She searched for the word. “Vulnerable. Just for a second.”
Kyoko nodded once. “She’s always like that when she’s not expecting company. Jumps a little inside, even if she won’t show it.”
Sayaka swallowed. “Madoka trusts her completely. And I want to—really. But something about her still scares me.”
Kyoko stopped walking. Not abruptly—just enough to make Sayaka notice.
“You’re scared because Madoka cares that much,” she said plainly. “Not because Homura’s dangerous.”
Sayaka’s eyes flickered. “…Maybe.”
“Homura’s weird,” Kyoko continued, tone steady. “She’s stiff as hell, keeps everything locked up, and doesn’t know how to exist like a normal person. But she’s not trying to hurt anyone. Especially not Madoka.”
Sayaka looked unconvinced but not dismissive.
Kyoko added, quieter, “And she looked… fine today. A little tired maybe, but fine.”
Sayaka let out a slow exhale. “Yeah. She did.”
They resumed walking, steps falling into quiet rhythm.
Sayaka hesitated before speaking again. “…Thanks. For not making fun of me.”
Kyoko snorted lightly. “Don’t give me ideas.”
Sayaka nudged her. “Seriously.”
Kyoko’s grin thinned into something more genuine. “Someone’s gotta keep you from spiraling.”
Sayaka’s posture eased, tension unwinding just enough to breathe again. “She’s still weird,” she murmured.
Kyoko shrugged. “So are you.” A beat. “We’ll figure her out. Eventually.”
Sayaka’s laugh came soft, worn around the edges but real. “Yeah. Guess we will.”
They continued on, the city lights reflecting faintly on the river ahead.
The evening air held the faint scent of wet pavement and distant traffic—the same quiet stillness they’d shared with Homura only minutes earlier. Sayaka nudged a crack in the tiled pathway with her shoe, shoulders tense, her mind still caught on the brief walk they’d had together.
“Madoka’s been acting weird,” she said quietly. “Like… seriously weird.”
Kyoko shot her a sideways glance. “Still thinking about her and Homura?”
Sayaka let out a slow breath. “How am I supposed not to? The way Homura looked when she ran into us—like she wasn’t expecting anyone to care where she was. And Madoka’s been glued to her ever since she got sick.”
Kyoko hummed. “Madoka freaked out pretty bad that week.”
“She wrote out a whole script in her notebook before we went to check on Homura,” Sayaka muttered. “And she knocked on that apartment door until her knuckles almost bruised.”
Kyoko grimaced. “Yeah. She looked ready to fall apart.”
Sayaka glanced down, voice softening. “She almost did. And now she’s with Homura every chance she gets. Even during study sessions she bolts the second she’s free.”
Kyoko snorted lightly. “Aida’s doing everything short of handing her his beating heart and she barely notices.”
Sayaka rolled her eyes but didn’t disagree. “It’s like she thinks Homura will vanish if she looks away.”
Kyoko nudged her. “That’s not new. You’ve seen the way she watches her.”
Sayaka winced. “I just… care about her, okay?”
“I know,” Kyoko said gently. “You’re annoyingly good at that.”
“Don’t make it sound like a flaw.”
“It’s not,” Kyoko said simply. “You just overthink everything.”
A thin fog of breath slipped from Sayaka’s lips as she sighed. “I hate seeing her twist herself up over someone who won’t even open up.”
Kyoko’s voice lowered. “Homura’s a locked box. Some people like puzzles.” Then, quieter, more honest: “And she’s not as bad as you think. You remember the mall? Girl didn’t know she was allowed to want a pastry unless someone said so.”
Sayaka blinked. “Oh. Right. When I dragged Madoka to the music store.”
Kyoko shrugged. “She tries. She’s just… stiff.”
Sayaka snorted. “Madoka likes lost causes.”
Kyoko slowed slightly. “You think Homura’s gonna push her away again?”
Sayaka hesitated. “…Yeah. Or worse.”
Kyoko didn’t scoff or argue. “Then talk to her. Before she runs herself into a wall.”
“She’ll say she’s fine.”
“Then bug her until she stops lying.” Kyoko’s lips curled just faintly. “You’re designed for that.”
Sayaka barked a small, reluctant laugh, tension easing. “Wow. Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
Their footsteps carried them onto the footbridge. The river below reflected the muted city glow—ripples catching the light like quiet breaths.
Sayaka leaned on the railing. “Feels weird,” she murmured. “We all used to walk home together. Before things started changing so fast.”
Kyoko shrugged. “Still the same people. Just… more feelings now.”
Sayaka shot her a sideways look. “That includes me?”
“Obviously.”
Sayaka laughed under her breath—small, real.
They stayed a moment longer before Kyoko pushed off the railing. “Come on. If we’re late again your mom’s gonna make me peel potatoes.”
“She always does,” Sayaka groaned.
“Then let’s earn it.”
They reached the apartment building a few minutes later, the stairwell humming with the low buzz of evening lights. Kyoko pushed the door open with her shoulder, letting Sayaka step in first.
Sayaka’s mother looked up from the stove the moment they entered, warm light spilling across the kitchen in soft layers—steam rising from the pot, the quiet clink of utensils threading through the room. The space felt lived‑in, grounding after the stillness outside.
“There you two are,” she said—not scolding, just relieved. “I was starting to wonder.”
“We stopped by the store,” Sayaka explained, holding up the bag.
Kyoko toed off her shoes. “We didn’t take that long.”
Sayaka’s mom waved her off with a smile. “As long as you’re home safe.”
Kyoko paused mid‑step, caught off guard by the casual warmth—far more natural than the early months when she’d nearly jumped out of her skin every time someone spoke to her gently.
Sayaka’s mom added, “Dinner’s almost ready. Wash up.”
Kyoko lifted the convenience bag. “We, uh… got snacks too.”
Sayaka groaned. “She means she paid for them.”
“That so?” her mom asked, amused.
Kyoko shrugged. “She forgot her money again.”
Sayaka’s mom laughed softly. “Sounds about right.”
The small apartment filled with the soft rhythm of evening: the simmer of miso, the hum of the ventilation fan, water running as Sayaka washed her hands. Kyoko lingered near the counter, leaning against it with a familiarity she would never admit she’d grown into.
Sayaka’s mom glanced at her. “You hungry?”
Kyoko blinked at the obviousness of the question. “…Yeah.”
“Good. Sit. You’ve earned it.”
Kyoko huffed a quiet breath—something like a laugh, something like disbelief—but she listened, slipping into her usual seat at the table.
Dinner settled into an easy warmth. Dishes clinked softly, casual conversation threading through the small space. Sayaka teased her mom about over‑seasoning; her mom teased Kyoko for inhaling rice like it was a competition. The kitchen light softened the room’s edges, drawing them closer.
For Kyoko, the warmth still carried a faint unreality to it—comfort she accepted more easily now but had never stopped feeling unworthy of.
Night settled quietly over the apartment, the city’s ambient hum thinning into a soft, distant murmur. Sayaka lay on her side atop her futon, the faint glow from the window tracing pale shapes across the ceiling. Below her, Kyoko slept on her back, one arm flung out like she’d lost a fight in her dreams.
Sayaka stared upward, her mind looping the evening on repeat.
Homura’s face hovered behind her eyelids—the tiny hitch in her breath when she saw them, the airtight composure she rebuilt within seconds, the way she held that small pharmacy bag with deliberate care. Not fragile. Not timid. Just someone who had learned to move through life without burdening anyone.
Sayaka exhaled, turning onto her back.
It stuck with her because Homura had looked… unguarded. Briefly. Like she didn’t know what to do with people noticing her. Like she hadn’t expected anyone to cross her path at all.
Sayaka pressed a palm to her forehead. “Madoka… seriously. What are you doing?” she whispered.
Because Madoka wasn’t just worried these days—she was unraveling. That week Homura was sick had carved something new into her: a fear so sharp it made her knock on Homura’s door until her hands shook. A fear she hadn’t let go of since.
Madoka bolted to her side the moment class ended. She double‑checked Homura’s schedule. She lingered in hallways, scanning for her like someone waiting for news.
And Sayaka was the one who saw what that was doing to her.
Kyoko mumbled in her sleep, a blanket sliding down her shoulder. Sayaka reached down, tugged it back over her, then sat up a little straighter.
She couldn’t keep pretending she didn’t see the strain in Madoka’s eyes. The way her smile tightened whenever Homura wasn’t around. The way she kept holding her breath, waiting for something to go wrong.
Sayaka’s chest tightened.
“I have to talk to her,” she murmured. “Before she tears herself apart over this.”
Madoka wouldn’t open up on her own—not when it came to Homura. She’d say she was fine. She always did. But Sayaka had known her long enough to hear the truth beneath it.
Sayaka let her head fall back against the pillow, staring at the dim ceiling.
Outside, she could imagine Homura still walking alone beneath cold streetlight—careful, precise, impossible to read unless you already cared enough to look closely.
Not a threat.
Not a mystery by choice.
Just someone who didn’t know how to be loved without flinching.
Sayaka let out a slow breath, tension easing but not disappearing. “Alright,” she whispered. “Tomorrow. I’m talking to her.”
Madoka needed someone to pull her back before she sank any deeper into her own fear.
Sayaka closed her eyes, the apartment settling into a steady rhythm around her.
Tomorrow would be messy. Awkward. Necessary.
A small, tired smile tugged at her mouth.
“Yeah…” she breathed. “We’ll figure you out.”
Chapter 8: Then why does it feel like she will?
Chapter Text
The last bell drifted through the classroom like a soft exhale. Chairs shifted back, notebooks snapped shut, and footsteps dissolved into the hallway’s muted hum. But Madoka didn’t move. Her pencil lay forgotten against an unfinished equation, her gaze drifting somewhere far beyond the page as if she were listening to something no one else could hear.
Sayaka closed her own notebook with a soft thump, watching her. “There you go again,” she said lightly. “Staring holes into the desk like it insulted you.”
Madoka blinked, cheeks warming. “Sorry… I was just thinking.”
“Yeah, you did that instead of eating.” Sayaka brushed eraser dust off her sleeve. “Again. I’m gonna get you a punch card soon.”
Before Madoka could answer, Aida approached, holding out a neatly folded cloth case. “Kaname, you left this on my desk.”
Madoka startled slightly. “Oh—thank you.”
Aida nodded with his usual gentle composure and moved on.
Sayaka watched him disappear down the aisle, then studied the distant look in Madoka’s eyes. You’re here, but you’re not here.
The hallway glowed with soft afternoon light filtered through the glass partitions, the kind that made everything look a little quieter than it really was. Madoka packed her bag in small, careful motions—zipper, notebook, pencil case—each movement just a little too hesitant.
Sayaka crossed her arms, hearing Kyoko’s voice in her head: Then talk to her. Before she runs herself into a wall. It was terrible advice. It was also probably the only thing that would work.
“Hey,” she said, keeping her tone light. “Walk with me?”
Madoka hesitated—a tiny pause, barely a breath—then nodded. “Okay.”
Wind drifted through the courtyard, moving the branches in slow, deliberate arcs. The late‑afternoon light filtered through them in pale, shifting patterns. They drifted across the walkway in loose, shifting shapes before Sayaka finally spoke, her voice quiet enough not to disturb the stillness.
“You’ve been off,” she said gently. “Way off. You forget to eat; you don’t hear people calling you; by second period you already look done.”
Madoka’s smile flickered—small, automatic, brittle at the edges. “I’m just tired.”
Sayaka nudged a pebble with the side of her shoe, letting it skitter across the walkway. “It’s not just tiredness and you know it.”
Madoka looked down, shoulders curling in. “I’m fine.”
Sayaka exhaled through her nose, steadying her tone. “Is it… someone?”
Madoka’s blush rose instantly, soft but unmistakable. “I—I don’t know what you mean.”
Sayaka watched her closely, the pieces sliding into place whether she wanted them to or not. “Madoka… you worry about Homura like she’s made of glass.”
Madoka’s fingers tightened around her bag strap. “I just… don’t want her to break.”
Sayaka’s pace slowed. “Madoka, she’s not going to shatter.”
Madoka’s voice barely rose above the wind. “Then why does it feel like she will?”
That pulled Sayaka up short.
Madoka swallowed, her voice trembling with something deeper than fear. “Sometimes it feels like she’s balancing on something I can’t see. And if I don’t pay attention… she’ll fall.”
Sayaka’s chest tightened—not with frustration, but dread. “Madoka… you can’t carry someone like that. You can’t do their feeling for them.”
Madoka shook her head. “It’s not guessing. I just… know.”
“Madoka.” Sayaka pressed her lips together. “No one just knows. Not like that.”
Madoka stopped walking, turning toward her with a sudden, fragile clarity. “She won’t tell anyone what’s wrong. Not even you. Not even me. But I can see when she’s scared. It’s in the way she holds her breath, or how she looks away too quickly—”
Sayaka stepped in, her voice strained but still soft. “Then let her say it. You can’t keep translating her silence.”
Madoka flinched. “It’s not translating. She just… can’t always speak.”
Sayaka rubbed her face, frustration bleeding through—not anger, but helplessness. “Madoka, you’ve built your whole world around understanding someone who doesn’t know how to be understood. She’s not doing it on purpose. But she keeps everyone out—except you.”
Madoka’s breath hitched. “That’s not—she tries.”
Sayaka’s voice softened, even as it cracked. “Maybe she does. But you… you’re disappearing trying to meet her halfway.”
Madoka blinked rapidly, tears gathering despite her effort to hold them back. “I’m not disappearing.”
“You are,” Sayaka whispered. “You don’t eat. You don’t rest. You’re terrified something will happen to her—even when nothing’s happening at all.”
Madoka’s eyes glistened. “Because it could. You don’t understand—”
Sayaka took a step closer, voice trembling with fear she hadn’t meant to reveal. “Then help me understand. Please.”
Madoka shook her head, tears slipping free. “I can’t. Not yet.”
Sayaka froze, guilt striking like a blow.
“Madoka—”
Madoka wiped at her eyes quickly, embarrassed by her own crying. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” She shook her head, breath unsteady. “I just don’t want you to think she’s hurting me. She’s not.”
Her voice thinned to a fragile thread. “I just wish you could see her how I do.”
Before Sayaka could answer, Madoka turned and walked away—quiet steps fading into the courtyard’s softened hush.
Sayaka remained standing in the courtyard, the cool wind brushing past her. Her heart sank heavily into her ribs.
“...Damn it,” she whispered, pressing her hands to her face.
The apartment felt unusually still. With her parents already asleep, the only sounds were the air purifier’s low hum and the muted city noise slipping through the balcony door.
Sayaka hovered in the entryway longer than she needed to—bag still slung over one shoulder, shoes half‑off, mind buzzing far too loudly for how quiet the apartment was. Her stomach twisted the way it only did when she knew she’d messed up.
Kyoko sat on the couch, unwrapping a candy bar with her teeth. She didn’t look away from the silent TV when she spoke. “You look like you punched the wrong person and then punched yourself about it.”
Sayaka let out a shaky breath. “It wasn’t supposed to be a fight.”
Kyoko raised an eyebrow. “Pretty sure nobody plans them.”
Sayaka kicked off her shoes fully and crossed the small living space, sinking onto the edge of the couch instead—close enough for Kyoko to see her face, far enough that she didn’t have to meet her eyes right away. “It just… it got away from me.” She dragged her hands down her face. “And I could’ve stopped. I should’ve stopped.”
Kyoko finally turned, studying her. “What happened?”
Sayaka’s throat tightened. She hugged a throw pillow to her chest, voice small. “I confronted Madoka.”
Kyoko blinked, straightened. “…You what?”
“I didn’t yell,” Sayaka rushed to clarify. “I swear I didn’t. I wasn’t even mad. I was just… scared. And I didn’t know how to say it right.”
Kyoko softened a little. “What’d you say?”
Sayaka stared at the carpet. “That she’s disappearing trying to keep up with Homura. That she doesn’t rest, she doesn’t eat, she only watches her. And that she shouldn’t have to hold someone together alone.”
Kyoko let out a slow breath. “Okay… and?”
Sayaka’s voice cracked. “And she cried, Kyoko. She cried.”
Kyoko’s expression shifted—less teasing, more grounded. She moved closer, sitting beside Sayaka so their knees brushed. “Madoka cries easy when she’s overwhelmed. Doesn’t mean you did something unforgivable.”
Sayaka shook her head hard. “No, you didn’t see her. She looked like she was breaking. And I did that.” Her fingers dug into the pillow’s fabric. “I’m her best friend. I’m supposed to help her, not… push her into crying alone in a hallway.”
Kyoko nudged her knee. “Then why’d you say all that?”
“Because I’m terrified,” Sayaka whispered. “She’s tying herself up in knots over Homura and acting like none of it costs her anything. And I can’t stand watching her hurt herself caring so much.”
Kyoko leaned back slightly, letting the quiet expand between them. “Yeah,” she said after a beat. “That sounds like something you’d do.”
Sayaka let out a humorless laugh. “Great.”
Kyoko nudged her again, gentler. “I mean it. You care too hard. Sometimes it comes out sideways.”
Sayaka swallowed, guilt rising again. “I just want her safe. And happy. And I don’t know how to help if she won’t talk to me.”
Kyoko rested her chin on her hand. “So talk again. But softer. Or apologize first if you need to. You’re not banned from her life just ’cause you messed up once.”
Sayaka looked up, eyes damp. “…You really think I can fix it?”
Kyoko smirked lightly. “You’re you. If anyone can annoy their way into a second chance, it’s Sayaka Miki.”
Sayaka snorted, wiping her cheeks. “Thanks, I guess.”
Kyoko bumped her shoulder. “Anytime.”
She didn’t move away this time. Instead, she let the quiet stretch, watching Sayaka’s expression in that way she only did when she dropped the mask of jokes and bravado. “You know,” she said, tone lower, more deliberate, “Madoka’s strong. Stronger than either of us give her credit for.”
Sayaka rubbed at her eyes. “Yeah, but she’s also… Madoka.”
“I know.” Kyoko leaned back against the cushions, legs stretching out beneath the coffee table. “She feels too much. She’ll run herself ragged trying to make everyone else okay.” Her gaze softened. “Sound familiar?”
Sayaka stiffened. “…I’m not like that.”
Kyoko gave her a flat look. “Sayaka. You carry people like it’s your job. You think being someone’s friend means solving them.”
Sayaka opened her mouth, then closed it again.
Kyoko continued, quieter now. “That’s why you’re so freaked out. Not ‘cause Homura’s weird. Not ‘cause Madoka cried. It’s ’cause you couldn’t fix it. And you hate not being able to fix things.”
Sayaka swallowed hard. The truth landed heavier than anything she’d said earlier.
“And look,” Kyoko added, tilting her head, “Homura’s not trying to be some cold, mysterious disaster. She’s just… messed up. Like the rest of us. Madoka sees that. And you do too, even if you don’t wanna admit it.”
Sayaka’s voice thinned. “I’m scared she’s gonna get hurt.”
Kyoko’s expression gentled—rare, real. “Then be there. That’s your job. Not saving her from Homura. Just… being there. For both of them, if you can manage it.”
Sayaka’s shoulders dropped, the guilt shifting into something more bearable. “I don’t know if I’m good at that.”
“You are,” Kyoko said without hesitation. “You just forget sometimes. That’s all.”
Sayaka let out a long breath. A small, shaky one. “Thanks, Kyoko.”
Kyoko bumped her shoulder again—lighter this time. “What else are girlfriends for?”
Sayaka jolted. “We’re not—!”
Kyoko grinned, sharp and smug. “Sure, sure. Keep telling yourself that.”
Sayaka groaned, dropping her face into the pillow she was clutching. But the tension in her chest finally unwound, loosened by Kyoko’s presence, her bluntness, her warmth.
Kyoko watched her a moment longer, then nodded to herself. “You’ll be fine,” she said softly. “Just don’t run from the hard parts.”
Sayaka peeked out from the pillow, eyes still a little red but steadier. “…Yeah. Okay.”
Sayaka nodded slowly, guilt settling like a stone. “Yeah.”
Madoka walked beneath quiet streetlamps, the evening cool against her cheeks. She’d stopped crying, but her eyes still burned—a faint sting that returned each time she replayed Sayaka’s words.
The convenience store door chimed softly. Homura stepped out, a paper bag in hand. She froze at the sight of Madoka—her posture tightening almost imperceptibly, concern settling into the line of her shoulders.
“Madoka,” she said softly. “You’re upset.”
Madoka shook her head with a watery smile. “I’m okay.”
Homura stepped closer, stopping just short of touching distance. “You don’t have to lie.”
Madoka’s breath wavered. “It was just a misunderstanding.”
Homura’s tone gentled, though something in her chest twisted sharply. “If someone hurt you… you don’t have to tell me who. Just… don’t carry it alone.”
Madoka blinked hard, the kindness loosening something she’d been holding too tightly. “Thank you.”
Homura relaxed only a fraction. “Come. I’ll walk you home.”
They moved into step together, the world settling into soft weekend quiet around them. Puddles reflected the lamps in wavering gold, their shadows stretching and folding with each slow pace. Madoka held her bag close; Homura matched her rhythm without comment, her gaze forward but attentive.
“You don’t have to walk the whole way,” Madoka murmured after a moment.
“I don’t mind,” Homura said. “It’s not far.”
Madoka hesitated, voice small. “I… didn’t mean to worry you.”
“You didn’t.” Homura kept her tone steady, gentle. “But even if you had… it would be alright.”
Madoka’s breath caught, then steadied. “You’re very kind when you want to be.”
Homura’s eyes lowered, her expression softening. “Only with you.”
Madoka looked away quickly, cheeks warming. They turned onto her street—quiet houses, porch lights glowing faintly, trees shifting in the breeze. A dog barked somewhere in the distance; wind rustled through leaves overhead.
At the base of Madoka’s driveway, Homura stopped first, giving her space. Madoka paused beside her, fingers brushing the strap of her bag.
“Thank you for walking with me,” she said softly.
“Always.” Homura dipped her head. “Have a good night, Madoka.”
Madoka lingered a heartbeat longer before whispering it back. Then she stepped toward her door, turning once more to make sure Homura was still there.
She was—quiet, steady, watching only long enough to ensure Madoka reached the porch light safely before she finally turned away.
Later, Madoka curled on her bed, blanket drawn tight. She flipped through old photos—Sayaka laughing, Kyoko posing, Mami smiling softly. Her gaze finally stopped on one: Homura in the background, quiet, focused, present.
Her heart tightened.
She thought back to the walk home—the soft rhythm of their steps, the way Homura angled ever so slightly toward her without crowding her, how she adjusted her pace without ever calling attention to it. The lamplight had caught on Homura’s hair each time she turned her head, faint and warm, and Madoka remembered thinking that Homura looked almost… peaceful.
She stayed with me the whole way, Madoka realized. Even when I didn’t say anything. Even when I couldn’t.
Something in her chest pulled taut. She remembered the brief moment Homura had stepped closer at the convenience store—quiet, steady, concerned in that way Homura tried so hard to hide. And the way she had waited at the end of the driveway, not leaving until Madoka was fully inside the porch light.
She does care, Madoka thought. She just doesn’t always know how to show it. And I keep asking her to give more than she’s able to.
The truth of that ached in her ribs. Madoka brushed her thumb over the edge of the photo, her breath tightening.
Tears welled again as she whispered, “I don’t want to lose anyone.”
Homura stood at her window, city lights shimmering like distant stars. Her reflection hovered faintly in the glass—blurred at the edges, as if even it hesitated to meet her eyes.
“Madoka was crying,” she whispered, the words thinning into the quiet. The image of Madoka’s red‑rimmed eyes replayed sharply, carving into her chest. “She tried to hide it from me… even then.”
Her breath fogged the glass. “Someone hurt her.” A pause—thin, aching. “And it wasn’t a stranger.”
Homura’s fingers curled against the cold pane. Madoka never cried easily—not in this world. Only when someone she loved cut too close.
Sayaka’s voice echoed faintly in memory—too bright earlier in the day, stretched at the edges. The tension woven through Madoka’s posture. The hesitation when Homura asked if she was alright.
“Sayaka…” Homura murmured. “You mean well. I know you do.” Her voice softened into something pained. “But you don’t see what she’s carrying. What she hides so carefully.”
Her hand pressed fully to the window, eyes closing as guilt tightened around her like a tether. “I should have noticed sooner. I should have understood.” Her voice sank lower. “Even without magic… even without the old world… Madoka still ends up hurt because I can’t read the signs fast enough.”
She opened her eyes, resolve settling slowly, quietly—nothing dramatic, nothing sharp. Just a familiar promise rising again, steady as breath.
“If this world won’t protect her,” she breathed, “then I will.”
Her reflection steadied. “Whatever it takes.”
Chapter 9: But it’s part of who you are.
Chapter Text
The morning light filtered through Madoka’s curtains, soft and golden. Dust motes drifted lazily through the air, catching the light like tiny, aimless stars.
She sat on her bed with her knees drawn up, her phone beside her pillow — dark, unlit, untouched. The last message she’d tried to send to Sayaka lingered only as a few crossed-out pencil lines in the corner of her notebook on the nightstand, words she’d written and erased until the page had smudged. Her eyes still ached from crying, but now everything felt heavy and quiet.
Outside, distant traffic hummed beneath the morning birds. From the kitchen came the soft click of the kettle starting its cycle — not a whistle, just the low, steady hum of warming water. Madoka’s gaze drifted to the framed photo on her desk — her and Sayaka from last summer, all sunlight and laughter. It felt like another life.
Her mother’s voice floated from the kitchen — dishes clinking lightly, cupboards opening, the familiar shuffle of slippers against the floor. Junko appeared in the doorway, her usual briskness softened by concern. She leaned against the frame, studying her daughter.
“Rough night?” she asked.
Madoka nodded faintly. “A little.”
Junko crossed her arms, then offered a gentle smile. “It’s fine to cry. Just don’t get stuck there.” She stepped closer, brushing Madoka’s hair aside with a warm touch. “Eat something before school. You’ll feel better.”
When she left, the quiet settled again — that strange stillness that followed tears, like the whole world was holding its breath.
Madoka reached for her notebook, flipping it open only to close it again. She wanted to write to Homura — remembering how her voice had steadied her the last time they spoke, quiet and careful, as if afraid to disturb the fragile calm between them. She wanted to write something to Sayaka. She wanted to disappear under her blanket and not have to choose.
Instead, she set the notebook down and stared at her faint reflection in the dark phone screen, feeling small and uncertain.
The walk to school was quiet. The sidewalks carried a faint sheen under the pale morning light, reflections clinging softly to the smooth concrete. Cars moved in a distant, steady rhythm, and Madoka’s footsteps felt too sharp against the muted calm of the waking city. The world around her seemed suspended — still, measured, almost unreal.
She passed the corner bakery just as its door chimed, a brief spill of warm air brushing her face before fading back into the morning chill. The scent of sweet bread drifted after her — gentle, familiar, grounding. She hugged her bag a little closer and let her pace quicken, as if the motion alone could ease the heaviness settled behind her ribs.
When she entered the classroom, the faint hum of the air vents replaced the quiet of the street. Early arrivals spoke in low voices, their conversations blending into the soft shuffle of bags and the muted tap of pencil tips against paper. Madoka’s desk sat diagonally from Homura’s; Sayaka’s was a few rows ahead — close enough to glance back, but she didn’t.
Sayaka’s shoulders were tense, her pencil tapping against the edge of her notebook in small, uneven rhythms. She kept her gaze fixed forward, determined not to acknowledge anything behind her. Madoka noticed the tightness in the movements, the forced focus, and her chest pinched. She looked down quickly, pretending to reread her notes.
Light from the glass wall reflected softly across the polished tile, catching in faint bands along desks and chair bases. Madoka could still smell the trace of morning rain clinging to her uniform — a cold, clean scent that hadn’t quite faded since her walk. Her fingers hovered over the page before she finally began to write again.
Students filtered in with quiet greetings, reflections gliding across the glass that divided the hall. Sayaka’s laughter cut too sharply through the noise — too bright, too strained — and Kyoko’s teasing followed, lighter but subdued.
Homura sat near the corridor-facing glass, pencil laid neatly atop her open notebook. She hadn’t written anything yet. Madoka’s gaze drifted toward her again and again — never long enough to be noticed, but enough for Homura to feel the attention hovering at the edge of her awareness.
The lesson droned on, the teacher’s voice blending into the hum of the vents. Madoka took notes without focus, pencil moving mechanically. Through the glass she could see another class across the hall, just as still — a quiet mirror of their own room. Her reflection in the pane looked unfamiliar, distant, like someone pretending to be fine.
When the bell rang, no one moved at first. The silence after the chime lingered — thin, brittle, waiting to fracture. People stood slowly, the faint tap of chair legs against their fixed bases barely audible beneath the settling quiet.
Sayaka rose first — quick, purposeful — her bag already over her shoulder. She didn’t look back. Kyoko followed a moment later, stretching as she stood, tapping her pencil once against the desk before tucking it behind her ear.
They didn’t speak to Madoka. They didn’t need to. The space left behind said enough.
Madoka’s breath caught — a small, barely audible sound. She lowered her gaze to her notebook, fingers curling faintly at the edges of the page.
Homura noticed. Of course she did. The slight dip of Madoka’s shoulders, the tremor in her hands, the way her posture folded inward. She watched quietly, concern flickering beneath her composed exterior.
Then she stood as well.
“I should go to the nurse’s office,” she murmured — gentle, as though giving Madoka room not to respond.
Madoka nodded without lifting her head. “Okay… I’ll see you later.”
Homura hesitated — not long enough for anyone else to notice, but long enough that Madoka might have felt it if she’d looked up. Then Homura stepped into the aisle, her footsteps soft and deliberate.
Within seconds, the classroom emptied, leaving Madoka alone at her desk, the silence settling heavier than the moment after the bell.
At lunch, the cafeteria buzzed with sound — trays clattering, voices rising and falling in waves, reflections shifting across the tall glass walls. Amid the noise, Kyoko spotted Sayaka sitting by the courtyard’s interior glass, her untouched tray beside her, phone set facedown and dark.
The corner she’d chosen was quieter, the hum of conversation muted by the transparent barrier. The faint scent of curry drifted from the cafeteria line, and outside, students crossed the courtyard with their reflections stretching softly alongside them.
Kyoko slid into the seat across from her, turning her chair just enough that their reflections overlapped in the glass. “You’re sulking,” she said.
Sayaka groaned. “I’m thinking.”
“Same thing.”
Sayaka’s reflection looked worn-out in the glass. “What am I even supposed to say? ‘Sorry I made you cry’? That sounds pathetic.”
Kyoko leaned forward, elbows settling on the table. “You did make her cry, right?”
Sayaka winced, then nodded. “Yeah. I did.”
“Then it’s not pathetic.”
Sayaka drummed her fingers lightly on the table — not touching her phone, not even looking at it. “She’s too nice. She’ll just say it’s okay, and then I’ll feel worse.”
“Maybe you should feel worse,” Kyoko said, not harshly. “That’s how you know it matters.”
Sayaka stared down at her lap, shoulders slumping. “Maybe later.”
Kyoko gave a small, lopsided smile. “You always say that.” She hesitated, then added softly, “She misses you, you know.”
Sayaka looked away, pretending to study the courtyard beyond the glass. “Yeah,” she murmured. “I know.”
Madoka spotted Homura in the corridor and hesitated, fingers tightening on her bag strap. The noise of the cafeteria drifted faintly from behind her — Sayaka and Kyoko somewhere within it — and for a brief moment she almost turned back, almost let herself pretend nothing was wrong. But the memory of yesterday’s argument pulsed beneath her ribs, tender and impossible to ignore.
If Sayaka saw her talking to Homura now… would that careful, fragile peace between them splinter again? The thought made her chest constrict. She almost kept walking, slipping past without a word.
Instead, she breathed out slowly and called, barely above the corridor’s hum, “Homura.”
Homura turned, surprise flickering through her usually composed expression. “Madoka?”
Madoka offered a small, tired smile. “Would you… like to have lunch together? On the roof?” Her voice wavered just a little. “I’m not really up for sitting with everyone today.”
Homura studied her — quiet, searching — concern softening the stillness in her gaze. “Of course,” she said gently. “If that’s what you’d like.”
The rooftop was quiet beneath mild afternoon light, wind tugging gently at their hair. The muted hum of the school drifted up from below, softened by distance. They sat near the rail, lunches set between them but barely touched — the moment too delicate for appetite.
Madoka stared down at her hands. “I just… don’t know what to do,” she said softly. “It feels like I said too much yesterday, or not enough. And now everything feels strange.”
Homura listened, posture steady, gaze gentle. “Sometimes after a fight, the silence afterward is the hardest part,” she murmured. “Anger gives you momentum. Calm makes you face what’s left.”
Madoka nodded faintly. “I keep thinking I made everything worse. I wanted to fix it, but now it just feels harder to breathe.”
Homura looked toward the skyline, the light tracing warm edges along her hair. “You always try to mend things before they’re ready to be mended,” she said. “You carry everyone else’s feelings before your own.”
Madoka let out a shaky laugh. “That sounds nice, but it feels awful.”
“It’s both,” Homura replied quietly. “But it’s part of who you are.” She paused. “Are you sure you’re comfortable being here? Alone with me?”
Madoka blinked, confused. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Homura brushed her thumb along the rim of her thermos — a subtle, grounding motion. “You seemed distant lately. I thought you might prefer being with the others.”
Madoka shook her head. “I just… needed somewhere quiet. And someone who wouldn’t ask me to explain everything.”
Homura’s breath hitched — barely there, but unmistakable. Her expression didn’t shift, but something in her posture softened. “Then I’m glad you chose me.”
They stayed like that for a long time, neither eating much, the silence settling into something that felt like understanding rather than tension. The breeze carried faint echoes of distant laughter, but up here it felt worlds away.
When the bell finally rang far below — hollow, distant — neither moved at first. Madoka lifted her gaze toward the sky, the afternoon light soft against her face, and for a moment the confusion she carried didn’t feel quite so heavy.
After school, amber light spilled through the corridors, catching in the glass walls and scattering into soft reflections. Distant chatter drifted as classroom doors closed one by one, the building settling into the gentler rhythm of late afternoon.
Mami stood near the main gate, her bag neat at her side, posture steady in the warm glow. She looked like she’d been waiting there a while — not impatient, just present in that calm way only Mami could manage.
Madoka slowed near the steps, surprised. She hadn’t expected to see her.
“Madoka,” Mami called gently, lifting a hand. “Would you like to come by for tea? You look like you could use a bit of rest.”
Madoka blinked, taken off guard but grateful. “Oh — um… sure. Thank you.”
Mami’s apartment smelled of black tea and sugar, the kind that settled warmly into the air rather than sitting on top of it. Golden light filtered through the broad glass panels, catching on framed photos and the porcelain cups she’d already set out. The space felt lived‑in and gentle — a quiet pocket separate from the day outside. As Madoka stepped inside, a small tension in her chest eased. Mami’s presence always slowed the world just enough for her to breathe, and only now did she realize how tightly she’d been holding everything in.
Madoka sat at the small dining table, hands folded in her lap, gaze drifting toward the window where the afternoon light softened into a warm haze. Mami moved through the kitchen with her usual calm precision, the clink of ceramic and the soft pour of tea filling the silence.
“So,” Mami began softly as she sat across from her, “you’ve seemed a little distant. Has something been bothering you?”
Madoka hesitated, steam from her cup blurring the edges of her vision. “It’s just… hard,” she said quietly. “I keep thinking if I try harder, everyone will stop hurting, but it never works.”
Mami studied her gently — not pushing, simply waiting. “You’re trying to hold too much. That happens when someone cares deeply.” Her voice softened further. “Sometimes, it happens when they care more about one person than they know how to explain.”
Madoka’s fingers tightened around her cup. A faint tremor ran through her breath. “I’m not… I don’t know. I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”
“That’s true,” Mami said, nodding. “But this isn’t about ‘anyone.’ Not entirely.” She let the words rest between them. “There’s someone you worry about differently.”
Madoka’s heart skipped — too quick, too loud. She stared into her tea. “I don’t know what that means.”
“You don’t have to know yet,” Mami said warmly. “But you should notice what you feel, not run past it.”
Madoka swallowed. The room felt both warm and too open. “Sayaka said I’m losing myself trying to understand Homura.”
Mami’s expression didn’t shift into judgment — only thoughtfulness. “And how does that make you feel?”
Madoka’s shoulders drew in. “Scared,” she whispered. “Because… if she’s right, then something is wrong with me. But if she’s wrong, then I don’t understand why I feel this way at all.”
Mami reached across the table, resting a hand lightly over hers. “Feeling strongly about someone isn’t wrong. And it isn’t something you can sort out by trying to fix it. It’s something you understand slowly, when you’re ready.”
Madoka blinked, heat touching her cheeks. “I just don’t want to… disappear.”
“You won’t,” Mami assured her. “Caring isn’t losing yourself. It’s noticing what parts of you get louder around the people who matter.” She squeezed Madoka’s hand gently. “If someone makes your heart feel unsteady… that’s not a failing. It’s a sign. One worth listening to.”
Madoka sat quietly, letting the warmth of the tea seep into her palms as Mami’s words settled — not sharply, but like something long overdue finally landing softly.
When she stood to leave, Mami walked her to the door, the faint aroma of tea lingering in the air.
“You’re doing just fine, Madoka,” she said gently. “Just remember — you’re allowed to feel things without knowing what they are yet.”
Madoka nodded, steadier now, her small smile touched with uncertainty but also relief.
As she stepped into the hallway, the world outside glowed with pale evening light. She held her phone loosely in one hand, the screen dark. Her thumb hovered over Sayaka’s name, then Homura’s — the hesitation deeper this time, layered with something she didn’t yet know how to name.
Not yet.
Before calling, Sayaka lingered by her desk, the faint patter of rain against the window mingling with the low hum of the city below. The room was dim except for the soft glow of her desk lamp, its light catching the scattered worksheets she hadn’t touched. The memory of Madoka’s tear‑stained face surfaced unbidden — the courtyard wind, her own sharp words, the silence that followed. Guilt twisted under her ribs, the same restless ache that had kept her awake most of the night.
She replayed the moment again — where protection had blurred into hurt, where her voice had pushed instead of supported. With a heavy exhale, she climbed onto her bed and sat cross‑legged, her phone resting loosely in her hands. The screen stayed dark, reflecting only her uneven breathing and the muted outline of her face.
The only sound in the room was the soft whir of her small oscillating fan. She had opened Madoka’s contact three times already, thumb hovering over the call icon each time, but she always backed out at the last second.
Kyoko sat sprawled in the desk chair, an unopened energy drink balanced on her knee. “If you’re gonna stare at it all night,” she said, “you might as well call.”
Sayaka groaned, leaning back until her shoulders met the wall. “I can’t. What am I supposed to say? ‘Sorry I was an idiot’? That’s not enough.”
“Then say more,” Kyoko replied simply. “You hurt her. You fix it by talking — not by thinking about talking.”
Sayaka looked over, frustration tangled with guilt. “What if she doesn’t want to talk to me? What if she’s still upset? She probably hates me.”
Kyoko snorted. “Madoka? Hate you? Come on. That girl could forgive a thunderstorm for raining on her.” She smirked. “Just don’t make her cry again.”
Sayaka winced. “Yeah,” she muttered. “I know.” Her thumb brushed the edge of her phone. The call screen lit faintly — Kaname Madoka. Her heart stuttered unevenly.
Kyoko tilted her head. “You want me to leave?”
Sayaka hesitated, then shook her head. “No. Stay. Just… don’t say anything.”
Kyoko raised her hands in mock surrender. “My lips are sealed.”
Sayaka drew in a slow, steadying breath — then hit call.
The line rang once, twice — then clicked.
“Sayaka?” Madoka’s voice came through, soft, tentative. “It’s late… are you okay?”
Sayaka swallowed. “I should be asking you that,” she said, voice wavering before she steadied it. “Madoka… I’m really sorry. Not just for making you cry—though I know I did—but for the way I talked to you. I pushed too hard. I made it sound like your feelings were wrong. That wasn’t fair.”
Madoka’s breath caught softly on the line.
Sayaka continued, quieter, steadier. “You’re allowed to worry about the people you love. I know that. And I acted like you were doing something wrong just because I didn’t understand it. I hurt you because I was scared, and that’s on me—not you. You didn’t deserve any of that.”
There was a long, trembling pause.
“…You didn’t make me cry,” Madoka whispered, though her voice betrayed its own uncertainty.
Sayaka let out a small, pained exhale. “Madoka… it’s okay. You don’t have to protect me from what I did. I messed up. I know I did. And I’m sorry for every part of it—especially for making you feel alone.”
Another breath, softer. “You matter to me. More than I ever say out loud. And I never want to be someone you have to brace yourself against.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was warm, shaking at the edges.
Finally, Madoka spoke, voice small but clearer. “Thank you… for saying that. I think I needed to hear it.” A pause. “And… I’m sorry too. I don’t always understand why I get so scared about Homura. I just… do. And I don’t know what to do with that yet.”
Sayaka’s voice softened almost to a whisper. “You don’t have to figure it out alone. I’m your friend. I want to understand you. Not fight you.”
Madoka exhaled, fragile but relieved. “I’m really glad you called.”
Sayaka closed her eyes, the tension easing from her shoulders. “Me too.”
Kyoko mouthed finally from across the room, rolling her eyes but smiling despite herself.
When Sayaka ended the call, some of the tension in her chest eased. She set her phone on the nightstand and leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
Kyoko stretched as she stood. “Better?”
“Yeah,” Sayaka said softly. “A little.”
Kyoko grabbed her jacket. “Good. Then you can pay me back for being your emotional support delinquent.”
Sayaka laughed under her breath. “You already were.”
Kyoko smirked as she headed for the door. “Don’t stay up too late.”
Sayaka smiled faintly at the closing door. The hum of the fan filled the room again — steady, soft, calm.
Madoka set her phone down, its dark screen reflecting only the soft outlines of her room — muted shapes, no glow, no lingering light. The warmth she carried wasn’t from the device at all, but from the tea, from Mami’s steady voice, and from the reminder that caring didn’t have to mean carrying everything alone.
The quiet of her room settled back around her like a slow tide. The rain outside had stopped, leaving the air cool and clean, a faint trace of petrichor drifting through the barely‑open window. She curled beneath her blanket, exhaling a small, steadying sigh.
For the first time in days, the ache in her chest eased.
But beneath that easing, something quieter stirred — a question she had kept pressed down for so long she hadn’t noticed how tightly she’d been holding it. Now, in the soft hush of her room, it rose with gentle insistence.
Why did her heart react the way it did around Homura?
Why did worry cling to her like breath, sharp and instinctive?
Why did Homura’s silences feel louder to her than anyone’s words?
Madoka curled deeper under her blanket, her fingers brushing the edge of her pillow.
It wasn’t fear — not exactly.
And it wasn’t the ordinary kind of caring Mami had described.
It was something that wrapped itself around her thoughts whenever Homura looked away too quickly, or stood a little too still, or smiled in that soft, barely‑there way that made Madoka’s chest feel odd and warm and unsteady.
She didn’t have a name for it.
She wasn’t sure she was ready for one.
But she knew it was there.
And for the first time, she let herself admit — just in the quiet, just to herself — that maybe what she felt wasn’t something she could explain with kindness alone.
Maybe it was something she needed to understand.
Not for Sayaka.
Not for anyone else.
For herself.
Her last thought before sleep was of Sayaka’s voice on the phone — shaky, real, kind again. Not perfect, not solved… but enough for now.
Chapter 10: I only wanted to see you smile.
Chapter Text
The week eased into a quiet rhythm after everything—days that passed softly, almost without asking anything of her. Madoka felt herself moving through them a little more slowly than usual. Not unhappy. Just… adjusting.
Morning light seeped through her sheer curtains, pale and diffused, tinting her room with its familiar warmth. The house was already awake in that gentle, unobtrusive way she’d grown up with: the steady hum of the refrigerator, muted footsteps in the hall, the soft clink of dishes from the kitchen. Sounds that never pulled at her, only settled around her.
From the other room, she caught Junko’s voice—low, almost amused rather than scolding.
“Tomohisa, she’s turning fifteen. Let’s not jump ahead.”
A quiet chuckle from her father. “Mm. I know.”
“That doesn’t sound like you know,” Junko murmured back, more fond than frustrated.
Madoka pressed her face lightly into her blanket, the corners of her mouth rising. Their exchange wasn’t meant for her, but it filled the house with a kind of gentle warmth anyway—a rhythm she’d always found comforting.
A light knock came.
“Madoka,” Junko called softly before sliding the door open just enough. She held a mug with both hands, steam brushing her face. “Good morning.”
Madoka pushed herself upright. “Morning.”
Junko glanced over the room—not judgmental, just checking in—then met her eyes.
“Your birthday is coming soon,” she said, voice warm but even. “If there’s something you’d like… think about it. You don’t have to decide now.”
Madoka blinked, touched by the gentleness of it. “I… will. Thank you.”
Junko nodded once, a small, approving gesture. “Alright. Come down when you’re ready.”
The door slid shut softly, careful not to disturb the quiet.
When the house settled again, Madoka sat still for a moment, letting the morning take shape around her—the pale light on the walls, the mild aroma of miso drifting from downstairs, the steady electronics hum her family barely noticed anymore.
Ordinary. Familiar. Safe.
And yet… beneath all of that, a faint pull lingered.
Homura had been quiet lately. Not avoiding her—just weighing her words more, offering shorter replies, gentler phrasing. As if she were trying not to take up too much space.
Madoka drew her blanket around her shoulders, fingers brushing the soft fabric.
A small tension bloomed in her chest—not sharp, just enough to make her breathe a little more carefully.
She wanted to see Homura soon.
Not for anything she could name.
Just to make sure she was alright.
The school’s glass hallway shimmered with afternoon light, the floor‑to‑ceiling windows tinting the corridor in a muted gold. Shadows of passing students flickered along the polished floor, overlapping like faint echoes. The air felt still in that way only Mitakihara’s glass corridors could—bright, quiet, a little too exposed.
Sayaka fell into step beside Kyoko, looping a finger into the edge of Kyoko’s jacket sleeve before she could drift away into the crowd.
“Come on,” Sayaka murmured, tugging her forward. “We’re going to the mall after school.”
Kyoko glanced over, one eyebrow lifting. “...A bold invitation.”
Sayaka’s look was sharp enough to cut through the filtered sunlight.
Kyoko let out a small breath—almost a laugh, but muted. “Joking,” she said softly. “Relax.”
Sayaka’s grip eased. “It’s for Madoka. Her birthday. I want to get her something… good.”
Kyoko studied her for a moment, taking in the tension around Sayaka’s shoulders—the way she worried her lower lip, the faint tightness at the corners of her eyes.
“You’re really thinking about this,” Kyoko said quietly.
Sayaka looked down, voice lowering. “I messed up before. I just… want her to feel appreciated. That’s all.”
Kyoko nudged her arm—not playful, but steadying. “Then let’s go. We’ll find something that fits.”
The corridor light shifted as a cloud passed outside, softening across Sayaka’s face. Some of the tightness in her posture loosened.
“...Thanks,” she murmured.
The mall buzzed with weekend energy—soft ambient music drifting from open storefronts, the muted hum of escalators rising and falling like breath. The air held a faint mix of caramel sweetness and the colder scent of polished metal and new electronics. Overhead panels cast a clean, even glow across the polished floors, light reflecting in long, quiet lines.
Sayaka walked a few steps ahead, her steps quick but uncertain. Kyoko followed, watching the way Sayaka’s gaze moved—restless, searching. The kind of focus Sayaka usually saved for something she couldn’t afford to lose.
They stopped at a display of small accessories—sleek phone charms, subtle colored cases, minimalist straps that shifted faintly under the light.
Sayaka picked one up, frowned, set it back. Tried again. Each motion grew a little tighter.
Kyoko leaned against the metal rail, the coolness grounding her. “You’re looking at those things like they’re exam questions.”
Sayaka exhaled, the sound soft. “Because none of them feel right. Madoka deserves something she’ll actually like. Not just something cute she’ll forget in a week.”
Kyoko watched her more closely—how Sayaka’s fingers kept twisting her hair clip, how her shoulders lifted a little too high with each breath, how her eyes moved past each charm as if trying to read something hidden behind them.
“Hey,” Kyoko said quietly, “you’re not still feeling guilty about before… are you?”
Sayaka froze. A charm slid from her fingers and tapped against the tray with a muted clink.
“It’s not—” Sayaka’s voice thinned, then settled into something smaller. “I just want her birthday to be good. That’s all.”
Kyoko stepped closer, her shoulder brushing Sayaka’s. “You already made up with her. She forgave you. You don’t have to repair the whole city to prove you care.”
Sayaka’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t speak.
Kyoko reached toward the display, fingers closing around a small silver charm shaped like a music note—simple, understated. The metal caught the mall’s white light in a soft glint.
“This one feels like her,” Kyoko murmured. “Quiet. But it means something.”
Sayaka took it in both hands, almost carefully enough to be reverent. Her expression shifted—relief softening into something warmer, more fragile.
“…Yeah,” she said. “This is the one.”
Kyoko watched her with a gentler expression than usual, something quieter settling in her eyes.
Sayaka wasn’t doing this out of obligation.
She cared. Enough that it hurt.
Kyoko laced her hands behind her head, posture loose and unbothered. “Come on. Before you overthink it and change your mind again.”
Sayaka nudged her lightly. “Thanks. Really.”
Kyoko gave a faint smile. “That’s what girlfriends are for.”
Sayaka flushed, startled. “Kyoko—”
Kyoko let out a small breath of laughter, taking Sayaka’s wrist and guiding her toward the counter—slowly, as if neither of them were in a hurry anymore.
Earlier that morning, Homura texted Mami:
Could you tell everyone you’re handling the cake? I’ll make it. Please don’t tell Madoka.
Mami had responded almost immediately—no hesitation, no follow‑up questions. Homura had been grateful for that small mercy.
Now, her apartment rested in its usual stillness, the quiet settling around her like a thin layer of dust. Light from the narrow window cut across the counter in a pale stripe, illuminating the ingredients she had arranged with deliberate care: flour, sugar, eggs, vanilla, strawberries. Ordinary objects. Gentle ones. They felt almost unreal in her hands.
“…It’s simple,” she murmured to herself, fingers brushing the flour bag. “Just follow the recipe. Anyone can do this.”
Her recipe book lay open on the table—slightly worn, its edges softened by time. A faint pink note, the color muted by age, clung to one corner: For when you want to make someone happy.
Homura traced the edge of the note with her thumb. “I’m trying,” she whispered. “I hope you’d… like this.” Her voice thinned. “You should’ve had more days like this.”
So many timelines where Madoka never reached this day.
Years that never unfolded. Futures that dissolved before they existed. Birthdays that were swallowed by things Homura could no longer name aloud.
A memory flickered—Madoka in another world, smiling despite the heaviness around them. A smile that never made it to fifteen. The image struck sharper than she expected, and she steadied herself against the counter.
“Not here,” she breathed. “Not this world. This one is yours.”
She measured the flour, letting it fall in a soft, steady line. “Slow… careful. Don’t rush.” Each movement grounded her, anchoring her in the small, fragile present she had fought so hard for. The bowl muffled the sound, a gentle hush against the quiet.
Crack.
The egg split cleanly, the sound bright in the otherwise muted room.
“Good,” she murmured. “At least that went right.”
She whisked slowly at first, then found a steadier rhythm—controlled, even, careful. The scent of vanilla lifted faintly with each turn. It felt foreign and familiar at once.
“There was never time for this before,” she said quietly, the whisk tapping softly against the bowl. “No birthdays. No candles. No… future.” Her breath shook. “She deserves all of it.”
She wasn’t simply baking.
She was giving Madoka a birthday she should have had a dozen times over.
A quiet defiance against everything that had taken from them.
The oven hummed low, warm air brushing her ankles as it preheated. Homura checked the dial again, even though she knew it hadn’t moved.
“Just this,” she whispered. “Let this be right. Please.”
Not preparation for disaster.
Not a shield. Not a weapon.
Just—finally—making something for Madoka that wasn’t shaped by fear.
Her hands softened around the whisk. “For you,” she added, barely audible. “Only for you.”
Mami’s apartment glowed with warm lamplight as she folded napkins, adjusted plates, then adjusted them again. Hosting steadied her—gave her hands something to do while her thoughts quieted.
Nagisa sprawled on the floor, rearranging silverware into increasingly chaotic patterns.
“Don’t mix up the forks again,” Mami sighed gently.
“That’s the fun part,” Nagisa chirped.
Mami moved a placemat a millimeter to the left, then back again, frowning softly. Nagisa watched her for a moment before tilting her head.
“Why are you doing all this now? The party’s tomorrow.”
Mami paused mid‑adjustment. “I… just want everything to be perfect. It’s Madoka’s birthday. And it’s the first time everyone will be together again after everything that happened. I don’t want anything to go wrong.”
Nagisa blinked, then sat up cross‑legged. “But it doesn’t have to be perfect.”
Mami let out a quiet breath. “I know. But I want them to feel comfortable here. Like they’re welcome. Like they can rely on me.”
Nagisa stared at her with the kind of simple, devastating sincerity only she could manage. “They already do.”
Mami’s hands stilled.
Nagisa added, “Even if you mess up the plates, or the forks get switched, or the cake falls over. They’ll still like being here. They’ll still like you.”
The words hit deeper than they should have—too gentle to be childish, too pure to be anything but honest. Something in Mami’s chest tightened, not painfully, but in a way that made her blink once, slowly.
She knelt down beside Nagisa, smoothing her hair. “You always know exactly what to say.”
Nagisa beamed. “That’s because I’m the smartest.”
Mami laughed—quiet, real. She imagined the others arriving tomorrow: Sayaka’s lively voice, Kyoko’s rough-edged teasing, Madoka’s soft excitement, Homura’s stillness.
It would be a good day.
And for once, she believed that was enough.
Madoka woke earlier than she expected, the quiet of the house settling around her with the soft, steady calm of morning. Pale light filtered through her curtains, gentle enough that the day felt only half-formed. Her heart beat a little quicker—not from nerves, but from a warm, unnameable flutter just beneath her ribs.
Junko and Tomohisa’s voices drifted softly from the kitchen—low, familiar, part of the rhythm she had grown up with.
Tomohisa noticed her first, as he often did. He lifted his mug slightly. “Good morning.” A small pause, his tone mild. “Happy birthday.”
Junko set a plate of neatly arranged fruit on the table. “Madoka,” she said, her voice warm but unhurried. “Have you thought about what you’d like to do today?”
Madoka hesitated, her fingers curling lightly at her side. A loose strand of hair brushed her cheek, and she tucked it away without thinking.
What she wanted—what she kept wanting, quietly, steadily—was to see Homura. To be near her. To check the carefulness woven through Homura’s recent messages, the way her replies felt thinner, more measured. To make sure she wasn’t carrying something alone.
But she couldn’t say that. She didn’t fully understand it herself.
“I think… spending time with my friends would make me happiest,” Madoka said, her voice soft but certain.
Junko watched her for a moment before nodding, her smile gentle and sure. “Then you should do that.”
Tomohisa folded his newspaper, the motion quiet. “We’ll take care of dinner. Enjoy your day.”
Warmth rose behind Madoka’s ribs—small, steady, almost overwhelming in its gentleness. “Thank you,” she said. “I will.”
Mami’s apartment filled slowly, the soft sounds of arriving footsteps settling into the warm lamplight. Laughter drifted in quiet pockets, gentle and close. Streamers hung unevenly along the walls—Nagisa’s handiwork—and the faint shimmer of loose glitter clung to Kyoko’s jacket, which she brushed at with visible resignation.
Sayaka adjusted the gifts more than necessary, fingers lingering on the edges of each box as though arranging them might steady her. Madoka stood in the center of the room—grateful, a little overwhelmed, but glowing in a way that softened the space around her.
Mami clapped once, gently. A tiny tremor threaded through her voice. “Let’s start with presents. Homura will go last.”
Homura’s posture tightened—barely, but enough for Madoka to notice. A subtle shift beneath the surface. Sayaka blinked, uncertain. Kyoko tilted her head. Nagisa hummed under her breath, curious.
Mami’s expression steadied. “It will make sense,” she said, her tone warm and even.
Sayaka stepped forward first, clearing her throat as though announcing something formal.
“It’s nothing big,” she murmured, offering a neatly wrapped box.
Madoka unwrapped it carefully, revealing the delicate silver music‑note charm. Her breath softened into a warm smile.
“Sayaka… it’s perfect. Thank you.”
Sayaka released a breath she’d been holding for far too long. “Good. I— I hoped you’d like it.”
Kyoko nudged her, quiet but supportive.
Kyoko then handed over her gift without ceremony, dropping the bag lightly into Madoka’s hands.
“It’s practical,” she said, almost defensively.
Inside were Pocky, a cute novelty keychain, and a tiny pack of strawberry candy.
Madoka laughed—soft, honest. “I love it. Thank you, Kyoko.”
Kyoko looked away, the tips of her ears faintly pink. “Just… don’t make a fuss about it.”
Mami stepped forward next, presenting a small, elegant box. “This is for you. For when things feel tense or overwhelming.”
Madoka opened it to find calming tea leaves, the soft floral scent rising gently.
“It’s beautiful,” Madoka whispered. “Thank you, Mami.”
Relief touched the corners of Mami’s smile.
Nagisa practically tumbled forward, barely catching herself. “Open mine! Open mine!”
Madoka peeled back the tissue paper and revealed a plush goat—round, earnest, unmistakably Nagisa.
“It’s me!” Nagisa declared proudly.
Madoka hugged it instantly. “It’s perfect.”
Nagisa swelled with pride. “I know.”
When Mami gestured toward the counter, Homura stepped forward with a small white box in both hands—careful, her movements precise in that way she defaulted to when something mattered more than she wanted to admit.
“It isn’t wrapped,” she said quietly. Her voice was thin, almost level. “I’m… sorry.”
Madoka shook her head before the apology had fully settled. She hadn’t even opened the box yet, but something in Homura’s posture—tight shoulders, lowered gaze—softened her expression instantly.
Inside sat a simple sponge cake, pale and even, the strawberries arranged in a patient ring around the edge. The cream had been smoothed with meticulous care—no rough strokes, no uneven lines. Everything about it felt deliberate. Tender. Vulnerable.
Madoka’s breath caught. “Homura… you made this?”
Homura nodded once. “I wanted to,” she said. “For you.” The words came out steady, but her fingers curled slightly against the box.
Madoka’s eyes softened, shimmering with quiet warmth. “It’s beautiful.”
Sayaka blinked, taken off guard. “She made that?”
Kyoko stared, a faint crack in her usual composure. “Homura, seriously?”
Nagisa leaned closer, nose practically over the cake. “It looks yummy.”
Mami’s smile warmed, gentle and proud. “She worked very hard on it.”
Homura looked away, the faintest color rising to her cheeks. “It was nothing.” But her voice betrayed a thin tremor—something small and earnest.
The candles were lit—little flames flickering softly, casting warm reflections in Homura’s eyes. Everyone leaned in as Madoka clasped her hands, the light brushing against her cheeks.
She made her wish in a quiet breath and blew out the candles.
Sayaka felt something tighten under her ribs. She had never seen someone look at another person the way Homura looked at Madoka in that moment—steady, fragile, almost reverent.
Kyoko’s voice lowered. “Didn’t think she had it in her,” she murmured, but without mockery.
Nagisa was already reaching for plates. “Cut it! Cut it!”
The first slice came free in a clean line, revealing soft, perfect layers inside.
Madoka’s laughter—light, surprised, impossibly warm—rose into the soft glow of the room. It filled the space gently, settling over everyone like a quiet breath.
It was peaceful. Easy. Needed.
Outside, the city lights shimmered in a faint mist, the glow diffused into soft halos along the pavement. Sayaka and Kyoko walked home side by side, their footsteps muted against the damp concrete.
Sayaka exhaled, her breath a thin cloud in the cool air. “Tonight felt… right. Like things are normal again.”
Kyoko brushed her shoulder lightly against Sayaka’s—a small, grounding gesture. “Yeah. You did good today.”
Sayaka’s smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, small but steady. “Thanks.”
Kyoko’s gaze lingered on her a moment longer than usual, taking in the quiet tension still coiled beneath Sayaka’s voice. “And… you know, you didn’t have to go so all-out with that present.”
Sayaka blinked, thrown off. “Huh? Why not?”
Kyoko shrugged, but the edge in her voice softened. “Because you were doing that thing again.”
Sayaka frowned, brows knitting. “What thing?”
“That thing where you feel guilty and try to fix everything at once,” Kyoko said. She nudged her again—gentler this time, more an assurance than a tease. “You were working so hard to get Madoka the perfect gift. Like one present was supposed to erase what happened.”
Sayaka’s gaze dropped to the pavement, guilt flickering across her expression like a shadow. “I just… wanted her to have a good birthday.”
“I know,” Kyoko murmured. “And you gave her something thoughtful. She loved it. But you don’t have to keep punishing yourself. Madoka forgave you. I forgave you.”
Sayaka’s breath wavered, her shoulders easing just a fraction. “…Yeah. I know.”
Kyoko’s voice quieted further, almost lost to the passing breeze. “You care about her a lot. That’s obvious. But caring doesn’t always mean fixing everything.”
Sayaka swallowed, some tightness loosening behind her ribs. “I guess not.”
Kyoko nudged her one last time, firm but warm. “Hey. Today? You did right by her. That’s what counts.”
Sayaka’s smile, this time, held steady.
Under the streetlights, Madoka and Homura walked together, their shadows stretching long across the pavement. The air had cooled, carrying a faint, steady rustle from the trees nearby. The ribbon from Homura’s cake—still tied loosely around Madoka’s wrist—caught the breeze and fluttered softly, its pale color flickering in and out of the light.
Madoka’s voice broke the quiet first, gentle enough not to disturb it. “Everyone seemed happy tonight.”
Homura glanced at her. In the dim light, Madoka’s expression looked softer, edges blurred by the glow. “You bring that out in people,” Homura said, her voice low. “They… feel at ease around you.”
Madoka’s grip on the gift bag tightened, the fabric whispering faintly. “Your cake… it really meant a lot. Thank you.”
Homura lowered her gaze, breath warming the cool air between them. “I only wanted to see you smile.” The words left her quietly, almost as if she didn’t intend for them to fall into the open air.
They slowed when the vending machine’s soft hum drifted toward them—the familiar point where their paths separated. Its screen cast a pale rectangle of light across the ground, brushing lightly against their shoes.
Madoka turned to face her, cheeks touched with a quiet warmth. “Good night, Homura.”
Homura inclined her head. “Good night, Madoka.”
Madoka stepped away, then paused after a few soft footfalls. She glanced back over her shoulder, the ribbon catching a sliver of light as it fluttered again. “Really… thank you.” Her voice held something gentle beneath the words—something almost fragile.
Homura watched her until the last corner of her silhouette slipped out of sight. The evening air pressed cool against her skin, but something warm lingered beneath it.
For once, she didn’t feel the instinct to chase her.
The city was quiet—streetlamps humming softly, distant traffic muted to a low wash of sound.
Warmth settled behind both girls as they walked their separate paths, a quiet promise neither of them could name yet.
Chapter 11: She's really something.
Chapter Text
It had been about a week since Madoka’s birthday—long enough for the warmth of that evening to settle into memory, but close enough that the details still lingered gently at the edges of Keisei’s thoughts. Mitakihara had slipped back into its usual rhythm: soft rain gliding down glass façades, muted mornings filtered through pale gray, the gentle hum of transit lines threading beneath the city. School felt the same, but something in the air carried a faint afterglow—small shifts in how people walked together, spoke to one another, drifted through the transparent halls.
For Keisei, the days passed in a kind of reflective quiet. Nothing dramatic had changed, but the week felt colored by a softness he wasn’t used to noticing—moments of stillness, thoughts that stretched longer than they used to, the subtle weight of a feeling he hadn’t fully named until now.
The room was dim, lit only by a warm lamp in the corner, its light diffusing softly across the glass walls of Aida’s apartment. The space was clean and modern—sleek edges, soft illumination, and small touches that made it his: an upright piano near the wall, a notebook and pencil left open on the desk, the faint scent of bergamot tea lingering in the air. Outside, Mitakihara’s skyline shimmered beneath steady rain, the neon from autonomous streetcars pooling across the wet glass. The city seemed to breathe in shades of blue.
Asahi’s voice cut through the calm. “No way, Keisei—did you actually head‑shot me again?”
Keisei laughed, flicking his controller with easy momentum. “You were literally standing still, man.”
“Lag,” Asahi muttered. “I’m blaming lag.”
Yuuto leaned over the back of the couch, grinning. “You’re just bad.”
“Preparation’s part of the game,” Keisei said lightly. His voice carried an even rhythm. He liked the noise—the echo of laughter catching against the glass walls. The apartment was too quiet when it was only him.
When Asahi and Yuuto started bickering again, Keisei let out a soft laugh. “Hey, hey—peace treaty. Winner buys the next round.” His tone broke the tension before it could settle. He’d always been that calm center, the gravity that kept their chaos from drifting too far.
The laughter lingered, softened by the rhythm of rain. Keisei leaned back, eyes tracing the city—cars gliding through shallow puddles, reflections bending in the glass. The warmth of the moment felt almost unreal. He smiled faintly, grounding himself again in the sound of his friends.
They left for the ramen shop a little after seven, the city washed clean by evening rain. The air outside was cool and damp, umbrellas in hand, tips tapping lightly against the damp pavement. Streetlights shimmered in blue and gold, their reflections stretched long across the wet sidewalks. Keisei slowed as they walked, watching the colors pool and ripple — the kind of subtle beauty that always made him forget to speak.
Asahi nudged him. “You thinking poetry again, rich boy?”
Keisei exhaled a quiet laugh. “Just… noticing things. The rain makes everything look like glass.”
“Deep,” Yuuto said flatly. “We got ourselves a philosopher.”
“Someone’s gotta bring the culture,” Keisei replied, voice easy. Their reflections blended on the storefront glass before the warmth of the ramen shop drew them inside.
The door chimed softly as they entered, cold traded for the dense warmth of steam and chatter. Paper menus hung above the counter — edges curled from constant heat. The air was thick with broth, soy, and the faint metallic hiss of the kitchen vents. Yellow light softened the rising steam and laughter, turning the storm outside into a muted backdrop. Keisei liked the imperfections here — the sticky tables, the slightly uneven stools, the hum of other lives passing close.
Yuuto slurped loudly. “Best dinner in the city. Hands down.”
“Yeah, mostly because Keisei paid again,” Asahi added.
Keisei waved it off. “It’s fine. I’ve got a family card for places like this.”
“You sound way too calm about being rich,” Yuuto teased.
Keisei smiled, understated. “I just don’t think about it. I’d rather focus on what feels real.”
That sincerity drew a small nod from Asahi. They liked that about him — a softness that never asked for anything back.
“So, Kaname helped me with that essay,” Asahi said suddenly. “You know, the one I tanked? She just smiled and said, ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get it next time.’”
Keisei paused mid‑page as he flipped open the small notebook he always carried. “That sounds like her,” he said quietly. “She makes people want to believe in themselves.”
Yuuto snorted. “Yeah, she’s too nice.”
Keisei shook his head once. “There’s no such thing.”
They stayed longer than usual. When they finally stepped outside, the rain had thinned to a cool mist. Streetlights glowed in soft halos, puddles reflecting neon and warmth in equal measure. Keisei lingered for a moment, watching the light blur beneath their footsteps.
“Later, Keisei,” Asahi called. “Don’t drown in homework.”
“No promises,” he said, a small, genuine smile touching his voice.
The elevator opened directly into the apartment, the motion sensors bringing up a soft band of amber light along the baseboards. It pushed back the deep blue drifting in from the fog‑soaked skyline. The drizzle outside had quieted into a low mist, the city beyond the glass veiled and unmoving. His mother’s scent — faint bergamot from the tea she favored — lingered subtly in the entryway fabric. It always made something in his chest loosen.
Framed photographs lined the hall — family ceremonies, distant vacations, his younger self standing too straight for someone his age. No scrolling holo‑images, no rotating digital displays. Just still moments printed on paper, preserved in quiet frames. They were beautiful in that curated way wealth often created — a little too composed, too polished. He didn’t resent them, but he understood now: affection in his family was something arranged, deliberate, measured rather than spontaneous.
At his desk, he tapped a pencil against the smooth wooden surface. Outside, raindrops streaked down the glass in thin, gold‑tinged trails, catching reflections from the streetcars below. His thoughts drifted with them.
Kaname Madoka. Even thinking her name softened something inside him. He noticed her kindness in small, ordinary ways — the way she bent to pick up someone’s fallen notebook, or caught a pencil rolling across the floor before it reached the edge. Her care wasn’t loud. It was steady.
He wrote a small note in the corner of his notebook: She probably smiles like that even when no one’s looking. Then, embarrassed by the nakedness of the thought, he erased it.
Morning came pale and silver. Rain still whispered against the windows, threading soft, uneven lines down the glass. Keisei’s alarm chimed — a slow piano tone he’d chosen months ago, something gentle enough not to fracture the quiet. He stretched, answered a brief message from his mom, and brewed tea. The steam curled upward, warming his hands. Outside, the city looked muted and sleepless, a wash of gray light drifting over damp streets.
He left earlier than usual, notebook tucked beneath his arm, umbrella tapping lightly against his side. The walk to the station always settled his thoughts. The sidewalks glistened with leftover rain, the puddles reflecting strips of neon and tired morning lamps. A few commuters hurried past, collars pulled high; others moved slowly, half-lost in their own routines.
Keisei watched the way the mist clung to the edges of buildings, softening their outlines. Mitakihara looks different in the rain, he thought. Quieter. Honest. He exhaled, letting the cool air fill his lungs.
At the station, the overhead chime sounded — a soft three‑note melody — and the next train slid in with barely any noise, its doors opening in a long, smooth arc. He stepped inside, finding a seat near the glass. Students filled the carriage in clusters, flipping through notebooks or dozing with their heads propped against bags. Reflections moved like faint echoes along the window.
As the train hummed forward, Keisei watched droplets gather, merge, and trail downward like tiny constellations shifting shape. His thoughts drifted without urgency — to class, to the leftover notes he wanted to rewrite, to the softness in Madoka’s smile the last time they’d spoken.
A sudden shuffle broke the quiet. A stack of worksheets slipped from a younger student’s hands, scattering across the aisle as the train hit a curve.
Before the kid even bent down, Keisei was already moving. He gathered the stray pages, aligning the edges with practiced precision.
“Here,” he said, offering them back.
The student blinked, startled. “Oh — thank you! I thought they were gone.”
Keisei smiled, small but real. “It’s no trouble.”
He sat back, letting the rhythm of the tracks settle around him again. The city blurred past in streaks of pale silver and soft blue.
It wasn’t a habit.
It was him.
Between classes, the glass hallway stretched in soft silver light. Rain traced fine lines down the transparent walls, turning the city beyond into a shifting watercolor. Students moved in pairs or quiet clusters, their reflections gliding beside them in softened duplicates.
Keisei lingered near the display case, pretending to adjust the papers in his notebook while the corridor thinned. Down the hall, he spotted Madoka and Homura walking together — unhurried, steps aligned, as if the space around them naturally adjusted to their pace. Their reflections trailed close behind, faint ghosts in the glass.
Homura’s hand brushed the rail as they approached the turn. Her movements were measured, almost careful. Madoka kept near, speaking in a low voice, warmth tucked gently into each word. Even from where he stood, Keisei could sense the soft rhythm of her kindness.
When Homura turned toward the nurse’s office, Madoka slowed. She noticed Keisei a few meters away, hovering near the lockers.
“Aida. Hi.” Her voice carried easily across the quiet space.
“Hey,” he said, regaining his composure. “You were walking Akemi again?”
Madoka stepped closer, their reflections overlapping in the glass. “She has to go to the nurse for her medicine a few times a day. I just… like walking with her. It helps her feel less alone.”
“That’s good,” Keisei said. “You’re always looking out for people.”
Madoka gave a small smile — not flustered, just thoughtful. “Maybe. I just want to make sure everyone’s okay.”
He returned the smile softly. “That’s a good way to be.”
Madoka turned slightly, watching the rain trace its patterns down the wall. “It’s been falling since morning. Makes the whole city feel quieter.”
“Yeah,” Keisei murmured. “Like everyone’s hearing the same sound at once.”
Madoka looked back at him, pleasantly surprised. “That’s a nice way to put it.”
He shrugged lightly. “Guess I say things like that without thinking.”
“You should write more,” she said. “You’d make the class journal sound better.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, a soft laugh escaping. “Or overly dramatic.”
Their laughter blended briefly, softened by the corridor’s quiet. She shifted her notebook, and it slipped; he caught it before it could fall. Their fingers brushed — a quick, warm contact against the cool hallway air.
“Thanks,” she said, composed but sincere.
“Anytime,” he replied.
The moment held — light, real — before Madoka stepped back. “I should get going before class starts.”
“Yeah. See you around, Kaname.”
She nodded and walked off, her reflection drifting beside the faint shimmer of her ribbons.
Behind him, Asahi’s voice drifted from the doorway. “Nice, man. Playing it cool.”
Keisei sighed, though a small smile tugged at him. “Sure. Something like that.”
Further down the corridor, Homura reappeared briefly. Her eyes met Keisei’s through the glass — steady, unreadable. He gave a polite nod. She held his gaze a second longer before turning away, disappearing into the muted gray light.
Classes ended beneath a dim, amber sky. The rain had stopped, and the last drops clung to the campus gates, scattering the sunset into pale gold. Students streamed out in groups, their voices fading into the soft hum of evening transit.
Keisei lingered near the entrance, closing his notebook after jotting down a few thoughts. Near where the walkway met the street, he noticed Madoka standing alone by the gate, her posture small and patient. She kept glancing toward the side building as though listening for something. Her ribbon caught the orange light — a steady flare of color in the muted dusk.
He hesitated, then stepped closer. “Kaname?”
She turned, surprised for only a moment before offering a gentle smile. “Oh. Aida. Hi.”
“You waiting for someone?”
“Yeah,” she said softly. “Homura’s finishing with the health instructor. I thought I’d walk home with her.”
The air between them settled into a quiet shaped by the low hum of the streetcars and the distant buzz of the rails. Madoka’s gaze drifted back toward the side building.
“She’s always so serious after class,” Madoka murmured. “She works so hard just to keep up… I think she forgets how much she already does.”
Keisei leaned lightly against the gate. “She seems like someone who doesn’t stop until she’s sure everything’s done right.”
Madoka nodded. “Exactly. She’s careful about everything. I think it’s because she doesn’t want to hurt anyone. Not even accidentally.” Her voice softened. “Sometimes I wish she’d let herself rest.”
He glanced at her — the quiet curve of her smile, the worry tucked into her tone. “You care about her a lot.”
Madoka’s fingers tightened around her bag strap. “I do,” she said simply. “She’d tell me not to. She’d say she’s fine, and I’d probably believe her, but…” Her smile turned faint. “I just want her to be happy. That’s all.”
Something tightened in Keisei’s chest. “She’s lucky,” he said quietly. “To have someone who thinks about her that way.”
Madoka blinked, then gave him a small, absent‑minded smile — distant, warm, not meant for him. “Maybe. But I’m lucky too.”
Before he could respond, a soft voice carried toward them. “Madoka.”
Madoka turned immediately. Homura approached from the side building, her umbrella folded neatly in one hand, her posture straight but her steps slow with fatigue. The faint exhaustion on her face eased the moment she saw Madoka waiting.
“There she is,” Madoka said, relief brightening her tone. She lifted a hand in greeting. “Homura!”
Homura stepped closer, her shoes catching thin trails of leftover water on the pavement. Her gaze flicked briefly to Keisei — polite, unreadable — before settling back on Madoka. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“It’s okay,” Madoka said quickly. “You finished with the health instructor?”
Homura nodded. “Yes. Thank you for waiting.”
Madoka’s smile softened. “Always.”
She turned back toward Keisei. “See you tomorrow, Aida.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Take care.”
He watched as the two of them walked together through the gate, their reflections merging briefly in the damp pavement before fading into the evening light.
That night, Keisei sat at his desk, a notebook open beneath the warm lamplight. Outside, the city gleamed with fresh rain — puddles catching gold and blue from passing railcars. His phone vibrated once with idle messages from Asahi and Yuuto. He set it aside and let the quiet settle. For a long moment, he stared at his reflection in the glass — his face layered over the faint, shifting skyline behind him.
A small, bittersweet smile pulled at him. The image of Madoka waiting at the gate lingered with a clarity he didn’t expect: her posture gentle against the fading light, the way her voice softened when she said Homura’s name, the warmth on her face before she even realized it. It had been such a simple moment, yet it replayed in him like a held breath.
“She’s really something,” he murmured.
Down below, headlights slid across the glazed streets in slow arcs, their reflections drifting like soft pulses against the window. The glow reminded him of the glass panels at the school gate — that same pale gold shimmer, that same hush before someone speaks.
He thought of Madoka’s voice when she talked about Homura — careful, steady, full of a quiet affection she didn’t seem fully aware of. It wasn’t dramatic. It didn’t need to be. The truth lived in her pauses, in the way her eyes followed Homura’s silhouette until it fully disappeared into the dusk. It was the kind of love that existed without announcement, as if it had always been there.
He liked Kaname Madoka. That was all.
But now he understood what that feeling actually meant — the distance between admiration and love, between being kind to someone and being chosen by them. When she spoke about Homura, something in her words glowed with a warmth he could recognize but could never receive. It wasn’t envy that settled in him, but a soft ache — the quiet understanding of what he wasn’t meant to reach.
Sometimes, remembering the sound of her laughter echoing in the damp air, or the moment when her reflection blended with Homura’s on the wet pavement, a subtle weight gathered in his chest. Not jealousy — just longing. The patient kind. The kind that stays when the world slows and you find yourself memorizing someone’s happiness without meaning to.
He knew what they shared was something he could never step into. Still, a part of him wished she might one day look at him with even a small fraction of that same light.
The apartment’s stillness folded gently around him. For once, it didn’t feel hollow — only tender, like the soft echo of a wish already fading into peace.
Chapter 12: I don’t expect it to change.
Chapter Text
Homura had spent most of the afternoon alone at her desk before finally deciding to accept Mami’s quiet invitation. The older girl had mentioned hosting a small review session for anyone who wanted help before exams—something relaxed, with tea and room to breathe. Homura hadn’t planned on going; she rarely accepted these kinds of invitations. In the group chat, Sayaka had already announced she was too tired to study another minute, Kyoko chimed in with a teasing ‘same,’ and Madoka apologized for missing it because of family plans. When the messages went silent again, Homura stared at her phone a moment longer than she meant to before typing that she’d attend after all.
The walk to Mami’s apartment was quiet, the city washed in muted evening light. Her shoes clicked softly against the pavement, the air carrying the faint scent of a rainstorm that never arrived. She kept her hands tucked in her coat pockets, speaking under her breath—a habit she had never quite broken. “Just the two of us, then,” she murmured, watching her breath cloud faintly in the cooling air. “That never happened before. Not like this.” The word loops pressed at the edges of her mind—unwelcome, unnecessary. A memory this world no longer held.
She remembered versions of Mami who had been strong, reckless, doomed. Timelines where Homura leaned on her—and timelines where doing so had only led to disaster. It felt strange now to think of Mami as a friend, someone steady and genuinely kind instead of someone she had once watched fall. Maybe that was part of why she said yes. Maybe she wanted to see if she could belong in this quiet world without shattering it.
By the time she reached Mami’s building, warm light glowed through the windows. Homura took a slow breath before pressing the buzzer, steadying her voice as she said, “Akemi.”
Mami’s apartment, with its calm air and soft lighting, felt like a place where—for a few hours—she could pretend that normal life might actually be within reach.
The evening air held a cool stillness as Homura stepped inside after Mami, the quiet of the apartment settling around her like a gentle curtain. The home smelled faintly of tea leaves and lemon—soft, lived‑in warmth that contrasted sharply with the sterile calm outside. A pair of small shoes sat neatly by the door, Nagisa’s, and the distant sound of her humming drifted from the back room, soft and carefree.
Mami set a tray on the low table, two cups steaming lightly in the lamplight. “She’s already had dinner,” she said with a gentle smile. “Nagisa’s probably drawing before bed.”
Right on cue, Nagisa peeked in, clutching her sketchbook and a fistful of colored pencils. “Mami, look! I finished it!”
Mami laughed quietly. “Just a moment, then straight to bed.”
Nagisa bounded over, flipping open the sketchbook to a page full of bright, messy color—everyone drawn together, Kyoko and Sayaka squabbling, Madoka laughing, Mami pouring tea. Homura stood slightly apart, looking calm and composed. “You even drew me,” Homura murmured, almost surprised.
Nagisa beamed. “You’re always calm! Except when Madoka talks to you. Then you do this.” She mimed a tiny, earnest smile.
Mami stifled a laugh and ushered her toward the hall. “All right, little artist. Bed.”
When quiet returned, Homura and Mami settled across from each other, notebooks open, pencils tapping softly in a steady, comforting rhythm. The stillness wasn’t heavy—just warm.
Mami was the first to break it. “How are you feeling about your history assignments? Everyone seems ready to revolt.”
Homura adjusted her glasses. “They’re manageable—unless you procrastinate.”
“That would be Sayaka’s issue,” Mami said, amused. “She swore she’d never open another notebook again after exams.”
Homura’s lips curved faintly. “Typical.”
They talked lightly for a while, lapsing into an ease Homura rarely allowed herself. Kyoko’s habits, Sayaka’s dramatics, Madoka’s colorful, overly organized notes—soft details traded like warm stones.
Then Mami’s expression gentled. “You work so hard, Homura. I worry you don’t let yourself rest.”
Homura’s grip tightened around her pencil. “Rest isn’t important. Results are.”
“That’s what I used to think,” Mami said softly. “But that kind of thinking leaves you very alone.”
Homura didn’t raise her eyes. “…Loneliness is irrelevant. Protecting what matters isn’t.”
Mami watched her with a quiet, searching expression. “You remind me of myself more than I expected.” Her voice lowered. “You don’t have to hold everything alone. You’re allowed to let people help.”
The tea between them released a curl of steam, and something in Homura’s posture eased.
Mami hesitated before continuing. “You’ve seemed distracted lately. Especially when Madoka’s name comes up.”
Homura froze—barely, but enough.
Mami noticed. Her tone stayed gentle, but her brows knit in clear concern. “It’s more than just liking her, isn’t it? Whenever you say her name, you change. A little softer… and a little sadder.”
Homura swallowed. “…You noticed.”
“How could I not?” Mami asked. “It’s obvious you care about her. Deeply.” She leaned back, studying Homura with open curiosity now. “Is it love?”
Homura didn’t hesitate. “Yes. I love her.”
Mami blinked, not in shock but in contemplation—puzzled by the certainty, the weight, the quiet intensity behind it. “You’re… very sure.”
“I am,” Homura said simply, laying her pencil down. “I don’t expect it to change.”
Mami’s gaze softened, but concern threaded through her voice. “Love is powerful, Homura. But it shouldn’t erase you. Or hurt you.”
Homura didn’t answer. Her fingers brushed the edge of her notebook as if grounding herself.
Later, when it was time to leave, the soft hush of the apartment seemed to wrap around them both. Homura rose first, smoothing her skirt as though preparing for something heavier than the short walk home. Mami followed her to the door, the lamplight warming the edges of her expression.
At the threshold, Mami pressed a small packet of cookies into Homura’s hand. “For later,” she said, her voice gentle. Then—more quietly—“And… remember what I said.”
Homura bowed her head. “I will.”
But she didn’t step away immediately. She lingered—barely a heartbeat, barely a breath. Something unspoken hung between them, a tension made of concern and truths Homura wasn’t ready to share.
When she finally did step into the hall, Mami’s hand hovered near the doorway, as if stopping herself from reaching out.
The air outside was cool and hushed, settling around Homura as she walked, but Mami didn’t close the door right away. She watched the girl’s silhouette drift down the hallway, black headband catching faint light, posture straight but too still—too practiced.
Mami’s brows furrowed.
She carries something enormous, she thought—something no middle‑schooler should even have words for. Homura was composed, intelligent, capable, but there was a heaviness in her eyes that didn’t belong to someone her age.
And her love for Madoka—beautiful as it was—held an ache Mami couldn’t name.
“Homura…” she whispered into the dim apartment, “what happened to you?”
Not in anger. Not in fear. But in quiet, aching worry.
She finally closed the door, leaning her back against it for a moment as the warmth of the apartment folded around her again. The kettle clicked softly as it cooled. Nagisa’s faint breathing drifted from her room. All ordinary sounds.
But Mami’s thoughts were anything but ordinary.
Homura’s certainty… her distance… that sadness she tried to hide whenever Madoka’s name came up. Mami could feel herself circling around a truth she wasn’t meant to see—a secret so large it shifted the air around the girl who carried it.
“I hope,” Mami murmured, fingers brushing the doorframe, “that when it finally hurts too much, you’ll let someone in before it breaks you.”
Outside, Homura’s footsteps faded into the night.
The warmth of Mami’s home lingered on her skin—soft, unfamiliar but not unwelcome.
After Homura left, Mami stood frozen in the doorway, the quiet of the apartment folding around her in a way that felt different—sharper, more aware. She had walked countless people to the door before, but the silence Homura left behind wasn’t the usual kind. It felt… off‑balance. Like the air itself had registered something she hadn’t fully understood yet.
She kept her hand on the frame a moment longer, replaying Homura’s every reaction in her mind. The steady voice. The unwavering certainty. The quiet, aching softness when Madoka’s name slipped into the conversation. The way her composure tensed and relaxed in strange patterns, like someone trying to speak in a language they used to know fluently.
Mami crossed the room slowly, fingers drifting along the counter as she set the kettle aside. Her chest felt tight—not from fear, but from the sense that she was standing at the edge of a puzzle she had only just realized existed.
Homura knew them. All of them. In ways that didn’t make sense.
She could recall tiny details no one ever mentioned aloud. She predicted Sayaka’s outbursts with uncanny accuracy. She understood Kyoko’s temper before it even showed. She soothed Nagisa with a confidence that felt older than their short time together. And Madoka… Mami had seen friendships blossom, but Homura’s attachment wasn’t budding. It was rooted.
Deeply.
Too deeply.
Mami picked up her teacup, hands wrapped loosely around the porcelain, and let herself sit with that thought. “It’s like she’s lived all of this before,” she murmured.
The idea should’ve been ridiculous. But the unease curling in her stomach wouldn’t let it go.
She walked to the shelf of framed photos—the small, warm evidence of the life she was rebuilding with Nagisa. The pictures were simple: birthdays, silly expressions, domestic moments stitched together. All honest. All earned.
Homura’s affection didn’t look earned. It looked endured.
Something happened to her, Mami thought, a tremor running through her chest. Something she won’t talk about… something she thinks no one else would believe.
A soft sound drifted from Nagisa’s room—steady, peaceful breathing. Mami exhaled, letting the warmth of the apartment steady her. Her instinct, honed by years of loneliness, by survival, by quiet vigilance, whispered one truth:
Akemi Homura was hurting.
Not just tired. Not just overworked. Hurting in a way that did not match this world.
Mami turned off the remaining lights and let the room settle into its dim glow. Shadows softened along the walls, the kettle clicked faintly as it cooled, and Nagisa shifted under her covers.
Ordinary sounds, grounding her.
But the girl who had stood at her doorway felt anything but ordinary.
“I’ll figure it out,” Mami whispered to herself, fingers brushing the doorframe. Not as a threat. Not as suspicion. But as a quiet vow born from the same place she kept her gentleness.
“I won’t let her carry something so heavy alone.”
The thought lingered with her, sharp and tender all at once, as the apartment finally stilled into its usual warmth.
The night air followed her all the way home, cool and quiet, brushing her cheeks as if trying to steady her—as if anything could. By the time she reached her apartment, the streets were still and indifferent, and the faint hum of distant traffic felt like an echo of a world she no longer fit into.
She slipped inside and set Mami’s small packet of cookies on the counter with a kind of reverence she didn’t feel she deserved. The gesture was gentle. Too gentle. She wasn’t someone who deserved gentleness.
The lamp on her desk cast a warm, muted glow over the waiting notebook. No screens, no harsh glare—just paper, pencil, and the quiet expectation of reflection. Homura sat, hands resting on either side of it, but she didn’t open it. She couldn’t.
Her breath caught—sharp, fragile. Mami’s voice wouldn’t leave her.
You work so hard. You don’t let yourself rest. You don’t have to hold everything alone.
Homura pressed her palms flat against the desk. The wood was cool. Solid. Unmoving. Everything she wasn’t.
“…Why does it always come back to this?” she whispered.
There was no anger—only exhaustion so heavy her lungs struggled beneath it. “Everyone gets to live in this world without looking over their shoulder. Without remembering the things that never happened here. But I keep seeing the echoes. The choices. The people I couldn’t save. The ones I failed.” Her nails dug into the wood. “I keep pretending I can be normal. But I’m the only one who remembers what normal used to cost. I’m the only one who remembers how many times I couldn’t protect her.”
She stood abruptly, pacing the narrow room. Shadows stretched and swayed around her like ghosts—ghosts she remembered even if the world did not.
“Mami thinks I’m overworked. Sayaka thinks I’m distant. Kyoko thinks I’m uptight.” A hollow laugh escaped her—a sound without humor. “If they knew the truth, they’d think worse than that.”
She stopped at the window, watching the city’s muted lights blur into one another. “Madoka sees right through me… and still smiles.” Her voice cracked, barely audible. “I love her,” she whispered. The honesty steadied her and shattered her all at once. “I love her so deeply it terrifies me.”
She pressed a hand to the glass. “And I hate myself for it. For clinging to her. For letting Mami see even a fraction of what I feel. For slipping. For being weak enough to admit it aloud.”
Her forehead touched the windowpane, cold against her skin. “If she knew what I’ve done to keep her safe… if she knew how many times I failed her… she wouldn’t look at me the same.”
Her shoulders trembled as she returned to the desk. The lamplight softened the room into something gentle—something she felt she had no right to.
“Mami said I don’t have to carry everything alone,” she murmured. “But if I stop carrying it… who pays the price? Who gets hurt next?”
She dragged the notebook closer, smoothing the cover just to feel something stable. She didn’t open it. Some truths were still too dangerous to write down, even here.
Her gaze drifted again to the packet of cookies. A kindness she hadn’t earned. A warmth she didn’t know how to hold.
A breath left her—not laughter, not quite a sob. Something cracked between the two.
“…Mami… you shouldn’t waste this kindness on someone like me.”
Outside, a faint breeze stirred the curtains. The lamplight flickered once, hesitating—before settling back into stillness.
Chapter 13: Whatever it is you see in her…don’t lose it.
Chapter Text
The last bell had rung ages ago; the courtyard kept the sound, a thin ring fading into leaves. The afternoon light pooled gold across the schoolyard, soft and unhurried. Madoka lingered by the fence, her bag hanging loosely from one shoulder. She wasn’t waiting for anyone—she just couldn’t bring herself to go home yet. The quiet pressed close, broken only by the wind stirring through trees and the faint smell of chalk and grass. Her thoughts circled the same point over and over again: Homura.
Sayaka still didn’t trust her. Not in a hostile way, not anymore—but in the tense, worried way someone watches a storm they think might sweep up the people they care about. Whenever Homura’s name came up, Sayaka’s smile tightened, her jokes fell flat, her eyes flicked toward Madoka like she was checking for damage. Madoka knew it came from fear, not anger—fear that she herself was getting pulled into something she didn’t understand, fear that Homura’s strangeness meant danger. But it still hurt to see how easily Sayaka mistook Homura’s quiet for distance, or distance for secrecy.
Madoka wanted to explain—wanted to tell her that Homura wasn’t dangerous, just gentle in a way that didn’t look gentle—but every time she tried, the words scattered. The more she tried to make Sayaka see what she saw, the more it felt like she was being stretched thin between two people she loved.
She remembered the last time they’d all walked home together. Sayaka had been joking with Kyoko; Mami had laughed softly beside them. Homura lingered behind, hands folded in front of her like she wasn’t sure she belonged. Madoka had turned to smile, to invite her closer—but Sayaka had stepped in, not harshly, just instinctively, filling the space with loud chatter and nervous brightness. The flicker of ease on Homura’s face vanished before it could become anything more. That image stayed with her now, caught like a thread in her chest.
The metal fence chilled her palms, grounding her as the light dimmed further. For a moment, she noticed how the city beyond the gate shimmered faintly, like the air itself held its breath. Mitakihara always looked too clean at this hour—streets too still, windows too bright. The perfection felt deliberate, like a memory replaying itself.
“Hey. You planning on turning to stone there or something?”
Madoka startled. Kyoko stood at the railing, a bag of melon bread in one hand, the other shoved deep in her jacket pocket. Her grin was lazy but sharp.
“Oh—Kyoko. I didn’t see you.”
“Yeah, I figured.” Kyoko tore off a bite of bread and tilted her head. “You look like you’re trying to solve world peace or something. Dangerous habit.”
Madoka smiled faintly. “Just thinking.” Her gaze drifted toward the gate. “Was Sayaka still here?”
Kyoko shook her head, chewing thoughtfully. “Left a while ago. Said she had something to take care of—needed to pick up a few things before it got dark.” She tore another piece of bread, shoulders lifting in a relaxed shrug. “She can’t sit still lately.”
Madoka hummed softly in agreement, but her eyes lingered on the empty walkway.
Kyoko noticed the look on Madoka’s face and frowned. “Why’re you asking?”
Madoka hesitated, lowering her eyes. “No real reason. I just… keep thinking about her. You two are always together, but lately she’s been distant even with you.” She paused, voice softening. “I guess she’s just been on my mind.”
Kyoko sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. “Let me guess. This is about Homura again, isn’t it?”
Madoka’s breath caught—not because Kyoko was wrong, but because she’d landed exactly where Madoka had been circling. “It’s not that she’s upset,” she murmured. “It’s just… when I mention Homura, she goes quiet. Like something in her tightens before she can stop it.”
Kyoko’s brow arched. “Yeah. I’ve seen it.”
She leaned her elbows against the fence, eyes narrowing slightly as if pulling a memory forward. “You know… that cake she made you? For your birthday?”
Madoka blinked. “What about it?”
Kyoko clicked her tongue, though the sound lacked its usual bite. “Sayaka got real quiet. Too quiet. Didn’t joke, didn’t nudge you, didn’t even try to steal a slice.” She shrugged lightly. “Kept looking at her hands. Like she was thinking too hard about something she didn’t want to think about.”
Madoka’s breath caught. “I… didn’t notice.”
Kyoko smirked faintly. “Yeah. You had other things on your mind.” The smirk faded, leaving something gentler beneath. “Sayaka wasn’t mad. Just… thrown off.”
Madoka’s fingers brushed the fence wire, grounding her. “Thrown off how?”
Kyoko considered the question, gaze drifting toward the courtyard again. “Homura’s careful with you. The way she put that cake down—like she didn’t wanna disturb the air around you.” Her voice softened in a way she didn’t seem to notice. “People notice things like that more than you think.”
Madoka swallowed, the memory blooming warmer and sharper than before. “I didn’t know…”
“Sayaka didn’t either,” Kyoko said quietly. “Not at first. But she felt it. And she reacts to feelings before sense.”
Her gaze flicked toward Madoka, meaning unmistakable.
“Especially when it’s you she’s reacting to.”
Madoka blinked, surprised. “Me?”
Kyoko nodded once. “She’s worried something’s changing too fast. Worried she’ll fall behind if she doesn’t keep up.” She let out a breath, rubbing her thumb against the fence. “That kind of fear makes her shut down. Not lash out.”
Madoka’s eyes lowered. “I always thought she trusted everyone the same way. Maybe I didn’t want to see otherwise.”
Kyoko let out a short, quiet laugh. “She trusts what she understands. Everyone else? She hesitates.”
Madoka glanced up, curiosity mixing with unease. “Does that bother you?”
Kyoko shifted her weight, the fence rattling softly beneath her arm. “Of course it does. Sayaka feels something and reacts before she knows what it is. She’s always been like that.” Her tone wasn’t sharp—just steady, almost resigned. “Homura throws her off, but that doesn’t make her a villain in Sayaka’s head. She just… doesn’t know how to read her.”
Madoka blinked, surprised by the gentleness under Kyoko’s words. “So she’s not angry?”
Kyoko tilted her head, eyes half-lidded with a tired sort of certainty. “If she were angry, you’d hear it from a mile away. This is different. She’s scared you’re changing faster than she can keep up.” Her gaze softened, the afternoon light catching the edge of her expression. “That cake just pushed it into focus.”
Madoka’s heart pulled tight. “Homura didn’t mean anything by it.”
“I know.” Kyoko’s voice lowered. “But Sayaka saw how careful she was with you. People notice things even when they don’t understand them. Especially Sayaka.” She nudged Madoka’s shoulder with her own—light, grounding. “Doesn’t make her right or wrong. Just human.”
Madoka let out a shaky breath. “I don’t want… any of us to get hurt.”
“There’s no avoiding that,” Kyoko murmured. “But Homura? She’s solid. If she says she’s gonna show up, she will.”
Madoka looked up, almost startled. “You believe in her?”
Kyoko shrugged—a small one, but sure. “Yeah. And you do too. You just don’t say it out loud.”
Madoka gave a faint, conflicted smile. “People say I trust too easily.”
“There are worse things than that,” Kyoko said. “Means you haven’t closed yourself off.”
Madoka’s gaze drifted toward the dimming sky, the glass buildings catching the last light like distant mirrors. “She feels different. I don’t understand it.”
“You don’t have to.” Kyoko’s voice carried a quiet finality. “Sometimes something fits before you know why. The name for it comes later.”
Madoka hesitated. “I just… want to do the right thing.” Her hands folded tight in her lap. “I haven’t been studying with Aida as much. He’s kind, and I feel awful, but… I can’t focus around him.”
Kyoko raised a brow. “Because your mind’s somewhere else.” She didn’t tease, didn’t smirk—just stated it plainly. “Honesty’s not a crime.”
Madoka swallowed, voice small. “What if I’m just… losing myself?”
Kyoko pushed off the fence and rolled her shoulders, stretching the tension out. “Then that’s part of growing up. Doesn’t mean you’re breaking.”
A soft breeze crossed the courtyard, brushing their clothes, stirring the faint hum of the distant city. The silence that settled wasn’t heavy—just open.
Kyoko’s voice returned quieter. “Sayaka’s noise is fear. Let her sort it out. Don’t let it shake what you already know.”
Madoka nodded slowly. “Homura’s been alone for so long… I just want her to be okay.”
Kyoko hummed. “Then keep showing up. You’re good at that.”
Madoka’s cheeks warmed, her gaze dropping. “You understand people better than you act like you do.”
Kyoko smirked sideways. “Tell Sayaka that and I’ll deny it.”
Madoka giggled—a soft sound that lightened the fading air. “I won’t.”
They lingered until the courtyard slipped into dusk. When Kyoko finally stood, her hands slid into her pockets, her posture loose but steady. “Get home safe, alright?”
“I will.”
Kyoko took a few steps toward the gate, then paused. “Hey, Madoka.”
Madoka turned. “Yeah?”
“Whatever it is you see in her…” Kyoko hesitated, her gaze dipping toward the pavement as if weighing whether to say the rest. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter, almost careful. “…don’t lose it.”
Madoka stayed long after she left, palms resting on the cooling fence, twilight gathering like breath against glass. The distant hum of cicadas blended into the quiet.
On her way home, Madoka took the long route—through the park, past vending machines humming with that soft, artificial buzz that always felt a little too steady for night. Mitakihara’s glow hung suspended above the streets, clean and precise, the kind of light that made everything look paused rather than lived in. Each streetlight cast a pale halo across the sidewalk, sharp around the edges, soft underneath. She wondered if Homura noticed this same stillness when she walked alone—the kind that felt intentional, as if the world were trying too hard to be calm. The thought tightened gently beneath her ribs.
By the time she reached her neighborhood, the streets were almost silent. Houses lined the road in immaculate rows, windows lit with warm, curated light. As she stepped past the low fence of her yard, her reflection flickered on the glass of the living room window—faint, doubled by the glow of the porch lamp. For a moment, another outline seemed to stand beside her: tall, composed, a quiet shadow at her shoulder. It felt like Homura—like the memory of her more than the person—before the shape dissolved as Madoka moved closer.
The city hummed low and tired that night, like sound pressed under a door. In two different rooms, two different girls lay awake.
Kyoko sprawled on her bed, a candy stick balanced loosely between her teeth, eyes following the faint shapes cast by the streetlights slipping through the blinds. The apartment was quiet—only the soft thrum of Sayaka’s fan through the thin wall and the distant murmur of her host family settling in. After over a year here, the place wasn’t unfamiliar anymore. Comfortable, even. But belonging was different from comfort, and that word still slid out of her grasp whenever she reached for it.
Fragments of the courtyard conversation drifted back—Madoka’s small frown, the tight way she held her bag, the quiet that never looked quite right on her. Kyoko recognized that kind of uncertainty too well: someone feeling too much and trying to swallow it down. She bit lightly on the candy stick, muttering around it, “Kid’s got a heart too big for her own good.” The softness in her voice surprised her.
Her gaze drifted to the wall separating her from Sayaka’s room. Thin enough that if she focused, she could catch the faint shifting of bedsheets, a snatch of music, a breath of laughter swallowed by the night. It made something in her chest tighten—not painfully, just insistently. Maybe it was relief. Maybe something else.
She rolled onto her back, staring up at the ceiling, hands folded behind her head. “You and your hero complex,” she whispered with a tired smile. “You never know when to quit, do you?” There was no edge to her voice, only familiarity—an affection softened by ages of watching someone try too hard to save others and not nearly enough to save herself.
A flicker of memory moved through her—cold air, broken glass, the hollow echo of the church ruins she once called home. It felt like it belonged to someone else now, a shadow of a life that still pressed against her ribs when she wasn’t paying attention. Maybe that’s why she recognized the signs of someone holding themselves together too tightly. She knew the sound of coming undone.
She laughed once under her breath, quiet and small, then turned onto her side, facing the wall between them. “Don’t screw this up, idiot,” she murmured. Whether she meant Sayaka or Madoka—or maybe even herself—she didn’t bother untangling.
Maybe Madoka would figure things out in her own time. Maybe not. Kyoko just hoped Sayaka wouldn’t make it harder before she did.
Across town, Madoka sat at her desk, homework untouched. The translucent display cast a muted blue glow over her room, its soft light layering against the pink walls in faint reflections. The open document blinked patiently, the same unfinished sentence waiting for her to return to it. The lamplight beside her pooled in a warm, quiet circle, edges feathered as though trying not to disturb the stillness. Kyoko’s words lingered—Keep showing up. You’re good at that.—so casually spoken, as if understanding Homura were simple. But nothing about Homura felt simple. It was like trying to read a language she half‑remembered from a dream, familiar in shape but elusive when she reached for meaning. Beneath those thoughts, the earlier fear tugged again—soft, shapeless, the sense that she was changing in ways she couldn’t quite trace.
She remembered Homura’s expression that afternoon—the subtle calm before she answered a question in class, the small loosening in her face, a fragile peace she rarely let herself show. Madoka had wanted to hold onto that moment, shield it, even though she didn’t know why. Sympathy didn’t fit. Kindness didn’t fit. Even friendship felt too small. None of those words reached far enough. It wasn’t Homura she doubted—it was herself, the way she kept folding inward around a feeling she didn’t understand.
Her thoughts tightened, tangling on themselves. The jealousy came again—this time anchored in something real. She could still see the hallway clearly: Homura at her locker, a classmate stepping too close to return a dropped textbook. Homura had offered him a faint, polite nod—nothing more, nothing less—but softer than she usually was around others. Madoka had seen it from down the hall and halted mid‑step without meaning to. It shouldn’t have mattered. It wasn’t anything. Yet it had twisted low beneath her ribs, small and ashamed. That’s terrible, she thought, lowering her face into her folded arms. Why am I like this? The question rose before she could push it away—not about right or wrong, but about who she was becoming.
Her fingers hovered over the projected keyboard, tapping once before pulling back. The cursor blinked at her, steady and patient, like it was waiting for an admission she couldn’t give.
A notification glowed in the corner of her screen—Aida’s message, still unread. A simple reminder about homework. Kind. Predictable. Safe. It should have eased something in her. Instead, the weight of it settled sharply, heavier than it deserved to be. She wished his gentleness could quiet the part of her mind that kept drifting elsewhere—toward a feeling she didn’t recognize in herself.
She shut the display. The faint hum faded, leaving her room in a softer, more intimate silence. Her chair creaked as she stood, the cool air brushing her legs as she made her way to the bed. Outside, the city murmured in its curated stillness—the low, even hum that made nights in Mitakihara feel suspended, as if nothing unexpected could ever break through.
Madoka sat on the edge of her bed, phone in hand. Her thumb hovered above the screen. She wanted to type good night—only two words—but they felt too heavy, too revealing, like stepping past a line she wasn’t ready to name. She locked the phone, set it gently on the nightstand, and slipped beneath the blanket.
Her heartbeat stuttered in uneven waves, that familiar ache rising beneath it. Every thought curved back to Homura—her quiet, her distance, the fragile warmth beneath both. Madoka pressed her face into the pillow, her voice barely a breath. “Why does it hurt like this?”
The earlier fear returned, softer but clearer now: What if I’m slipping into someone I don’t recognize?
No answer came—only the steady hum of the city and the faint tapping of wind against the window as the night settled around her. As her eyes drifted closed, a name warmed her lips without sound, held there like breath against glass.
Chapter 14: I’m being ridiculous.
Chapter Text
The first week of November pressed softly against the classroom, the pale light settling over open notebooks and half‑finished worksheets. Natural light filtered through the glass walls on three sides, washing everything in a muted stillness. The soft scratch of pencils and the low hum of the vents made the air feel delicate, as though any sudden noise might break it.
Sayaka stretched with a quiet groan. “If I have to look at one more quadratic formula, I’m throwing this notebook out the window.”
Kyoko slouched in her seat, twirling her pencil between her fingers. “Quadratic… whatever. Exams are just state‑approved suffering.”
Sayaka snorted. “That’s because you don’t study. Watch me get a perfectly average score while you bomb it.”
Kyoko shrugged. “Can’t fail if you never had expectations.”
Madoka let out a soft breath—almost a laugh—as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’ll both be fine.” Her gaze drifted toward the glass corridor outside, where students passed in muted silhouettes. Beyond them, pale leaves spiraled past another windowed classroom, their motion layered in faint reflections. “It feels… slower lately. The whole city.”
Sayaka raised an eyebrow. “Slow? It’s kind of gloomy. Like everyone’s half‑asleep.”
Kyoko leaned back, hands behind her head. “Could be worse. At least it’s quiet.”
Madoka nodded absently, watching another leaf drift along the window. The quiet pressed in—peaceful, but too precise. Too held.
Kyoko shifted, glancing at her. “You okay? You’ve been somewhere else since homeroom.”
Madoka blinked, her focus returning in a small start. “Sorry. Just thinking.”
Sayaka tilted her head. “Thinking about something? Or someone?”
Madoka’s smile was small, uncertain. “Maybe both.”
Sayaka exchanged a look with Kyoko before Madoka added, “Aida asked if we wanted to review together after class. He said you two could come too.”
Kyoko raised an eyebrow. “He invited us? Huh. Brave.”
Sayaka smirked faintly. “He must not know Kyoko very well if he thinks she’ll stay on topic.”
Kyoko clicked her tongue. “I can be serious.”
Sayaka rolled her eyes. “Sure. Meanwhile, Mami’s helping us tonight. She’s the only person alive who can stop Kyoko from chewing on her pencil again.”
Kyoko frowned. “It happened once.”
Madoka closed her notebook gently, her fingers pausing at the edge. She wondered what Homura might say—something quiet, steady, something that made the knots inside her chest loosen. “I’ll go,” she said softly. “It might help. And… I haven’t talked to him much lately.”
Kyoko shot her a subtle, crooked grin. “Yeah. You’ve been dodging him pretty hard.”
Madoka’s cheeks warmed faintly. “I didn’t mean to.”
Sayaka shook her head with a low laugh. “Poor guy never stood a chance.”
The library’s hum felt different when she sat across from Aida. Afternoon light filtered through the tall windows, soft rather than golden, settling over polished desks in thin, muted layers. The quiet wasn’t warm so much as steady — the kind of stillness Mitakihara specialized in. His notes were methodical, his pencil tapping a measured rhythm against the page, each click folding neatly into the ambient hush.
“So,” he said, glancing up. “You’re better at this section than I am. How’d you memorize it so fast?”
Madoka’s smile was small, almost apologetic. “I didn’t. I just… remember the shapes things make. Not the numbers.”
He breathed a quiet laugh, not loud enough to disturb the room. “That’s still impressive. I keep forgetting half of it before I finish writing.”
“It’s not impressive if I still get them wrong,” she murmured.
“Then we’ll get them wrong together.” His tone stayed gentle, careful not to overstep.
Madoka looked down again, the neat lines of the worksheet tilting slightly under the afternoon glare. “You really mean that?” she asked, barely above a whisper.
“Yeah,” Aida said. “It’s easier when you don’t have to pretend you’re perfect.”
The words hung between them, clear and unexpectedly honest. She nodded, letting the moment settle.
When they paused for a break, they walked toward the vending machines lining the far wall. The hallway outside shimmered with layered reflections — students passing behind glass, the faint movement of trees through another window, all folding into each other. Madoka sipped her drink, its cool sweetness grounding her as Aida chatted quietly about teachers, club events, and how subdued the city felt lately.
“Sometimes,” he said, “I miss when things were louder.”
Madoka tilted her head. “Louder?”
“Yeah. Not messy. Just… more alive.” He gave a small, self-conscious smile. “Maybe that sounds strange.”
She shook her head. “No. I understand.” Her gaze dropped to her hands. “Quiet isn’t always peaceful.”
He paused, studying her expression. “That’s… a very Kaname kind of thing to say.”
Madoka let out a soft breath — almost a laugh — though the words brushed something tender inside her. The stillness she carried, the one that wasn’t really hers, hummed faintly beneath her ribs.
When he fumbled coins at the vending machine, she laughed again — quieter this time — and the tension softened.
As they packed up at the end, he lingered for a moment near the glass doors. “Hey, Kaname… about the autumn festival. They’re putting up lanterns downtown soon. If you’re free, maybe we could go?”
Madoka froze, fingers still on her bag strap. “Oh. I— I’ll think about it. Maybe after exams.”
Aida nodded, offering a restrained, earnest smile. “No pressure. Just think about it.”
“I will,” Madoka said.
But when he left, the words didn’t settle the way they should have. They fluttered inside her like thin paper — weightless, uncertain, impossible to grasp.
When exams ended, the quiet of Mitakihara slipped back into its familiar, fragile rhythm. Students filtered toward the main entrance in slow waves, their voices softened by the glass walls and the open air spilling in from outside. The wide entryway held that strange stillness the school always returned to — footsteps echoing faintly, the hum of vents mixing with the muted breeze drifting through the propped‑open doors.
Madoka paused near the shoe lockers, letting the cool air brush against her skin. The late‑afternoon light was pale, catching on the polished floor and turning it into a soft, shifting mirror.
Aida approached from the side, his reflection appearing in the glass panel beside her before he did. “So,” he asked gently, “have you decided about the festival?”
Madoka’s fingers tightened slightly on her bag strap. “I’m… still not sure. I keep thinking about what’s right.” Her voice stayed soft, steady. “I used to study with you after school, but lately… I’ve been making excuses not to. You’ve always been kind, and I still feel awful about it.”
Aida blinked, a faint crease forming between his brows. “You don’t have to feel bad. It’s not like I mind waiting.”
Madoka offered him a faint smile. “That’s what makes it feel worse.”
He exhaled — a small sound, not quite a laugh. “Then I guess I’ll keep waiting anyway.”
The bell chimed inside the building as a teacher locked up a nearby classroom. Aida gave her a polite wave before heading down the walkway, his silhouette fading between overlapping reflections of sky, glass, and passing students.
Madoka stayed where she was. The breeze slipped through the doorway, cool against her sleeves. Her hands drifted to the strap of her bag, then stilled. The spot where he’d stood felt strangely empty, swallowed quickly by the quiet thrum of the school.
Her gaze lowered, catching the faint distortion of her own reflection in the glass — and with it came another image, unbidden: Homura seated nearby during lunch days ago, her presence steady and composed, grounding in a way that left no space for uncertainty. The contrast hit with quiet precision. Her chest tightened, small but deep.
Why can’t I just feel happy about it? He was kind — everything she’d seen affection seem to look like. Yet beneath that kindness was a hollow place she couldn’t reach, no matter how sincerely she tried.
She stepped outside fully, the cool air clearing the lingering warmth from her face. The world around her felt as though it were holding its breath. When she adjusted the strap of her bag, another memory surfaced: dark hair catching faint afternoon light, an expression that didn’t ask, didn’t expect — simply existed beside her.
Guilt stirred, thin and persistent. She pressed her lips together, steadying herself as the ache pulsed once more. “It’s not supposed to feel like this,” she whispered, unsure whether she feared the guilt more… or the truth waiting underneath it.
Outside, the air carried the faint chill of early evening, the kind that settled instead of stinging. Sayaka and Kyoko waited by the gate, Kyoko balancing a bottle of soda on her head with absent concentration while Sayaka muttered about her test scores. They looked up when Madoka approached, her smile gentle but distant.
“Hey, you okay?” Sayaka asked. “You look like someone added a bonus exam.”
Madoka hesitated. “Aida asked me again. About the festival.”
Kyoko’s bottle wobbled before she caught it. “Oh. That. You going?”
“I don’t know,” Madoka murmured. “He’s nice. I just… don’t feel right about it.”
They walked without speaking for a while, footsteps falling into the familiar rhythm of the route toward Madoka’s neighborhood. The sky softened at the edges, turning faintly pink as the day thinned out. The low hum of the city blended into the rustling leaves overhead. Sayaka nudged a small pebble along the path with her shoe.
“Not feeling right how?” Sayaka asked. “You don’t like him?”
Madoka frowned slightly. “It’s not that. He’s kind. I just—when he asked, my chest hurt. Not in a bad way. More like I was… lying.”
Sayaka glanced at her. “Ever think maybe you just don’t like him like that? People act like you can pick those feelings off a shelf.”
“I know,” Madoka whispered. “I just keep thinking about how people talk about ‘liking’ someone… how it’s supposed to feel obvious, or warm, or exciting. And he fits what should make sense. He’s kind. Easy to talk to. Safe.” Her breath trembled. “But when I try to picture it—being with him like that—it’s empty. I don’t want it, even though I feel like I’m supposed to.”
Kyoko buried her hands deeper in her pockets. “You don’t owe him anything. Nice doesn’t mean right.”
Sayaka nodded. “Exactly. Don’t force it. Pretending is worse for everyone.”
Madoka’s smile twitched. “You both make it sound simple.”
Kyoko shrugged. “It is simple. Doesn’t mean it’s easy.”
They reached the park without realizing it, Sayaka grumbling about how she felt she’d done while Kyoko pretended to ignore her. Younger kids raced toward the swings, their laughter carrying across the open space.
Kyoko exhaled through her nose, watching them. “Guess they still have energy.”
Sayaka stretched her arms overhead. “Good for them. I’m done for the day.”
The noise pushed the park open, made the sunset feel slower — like the world was easing itself gently into evening.
Leaves scattered along the path in soft golden piles. The sun dipped low, stretching long shadows across the playground. They sat together, the warm end‑of‑day air settling around them.
Sayaka leaned back. “I don’t get romance. People make it sound like a checklist.”
Kyoko smirked faintly. “You’d skip straight to the ending.”
“Sure would,” Sayaka said without shame. “Why drag things out? You either feel it or you don’t.”
Madoka turned a leaf slowly between her fingers. “But what if you don’t know what you’re supposed to feel?”
Sayaka shrugged. “Then maybe you don’t feel it yet. Or maybe what you think it should be isn’t what it is.”
Kyoko glanced at Madoka, her tone quieter, more attentive. “Or maybe you do know, and you’re scared to admit it.”
Madoka’s throat tightened. Her thoughts drifted — to Homura, to the steady quiet of her presence, to how her calm could settle a room without a word. The river’s surface caught the fading light and scattered it into trembling patterns. Madoka couldn’t answer without opening something she wasn’t ready to name. The silence that followed was delicate rather than tense.
Sayaka eventually huffed out a soft laugh. “Wow, deep talk. We should get extra credit.”
Kyoko smirked. “Right. Philosophy of teenage disaster.”
Madoka let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “You’re both ridiculous.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Sayaka said as she stood. “But you love us.”
“Of course,” Madoka replied — and meant it.
They walked until the turn toward Sayaka’s building. Kyoko nudged her lightly. “Come on, before Mami wonders where we died.” Sayaka waved as they disappeared into a side street, their voices fading.
Madoka lingered at the park’s edge before continuing along the river path. A faint chill brushed her skin, and she pulled her cardigan closer. A couple passed by, their laughter mixing with the soft rustle of leaves. Farther ahead, an older man tossed crumbs to pigeons gathered along a bench.
The birds startled at a passing cyclist, wings scattering sunlight in brief golden arcs. As she walked, the quiet deepened around her — the distant hum of traffic, the gravel shifting beneath her shoes, her own thoughts looping back on themselves. Streetlights flicked on one by one, washing the pavement in warm halos.
When she finally went home, the house was still in that quiet, lived‑in way — the soft murmur of Junko and Tomohisa’s show blending with the faint clink of dishes from the kitchen. Madoka greeted them gently before heading upstairs. Her room met her in subdued tones, lit only by the thin wash of streetlight filtering through the curtains, pale and unmoving.
She changed into her pajamas and settled onto her bed, staring up at the ceiling. The quiet pressed against her ribs, a kind of stillness that made her too aware of her own breathing. Her phone rested on her chest — Aida’s message still open, polite and warm, its glow barely touching her fingers. She read it once more before dimming the screen and placing it beside her.
Rolling onto her side, she drew her pillow close. Her thoughts refused to settle. Homura’s name surfaced without effort, drifting through her mind like a quiet echo she hadn’t meant to summon. Each time she tried to focus on Aida, the image slipped apart — replaced by memories she carried too easily: a steadier voice, a calmer silence, a presence that never demanded anything of her.
Her heartbeat felt too loud in the small room. Heat crept into her cheeks, not from embarrassment exactly, but from the frustration of her own restlessness. “I’m being ridiculous,” she whispered into the pillow.
Yet the feeling didn’t loosen. It stayed — faint, insistent, impossible to ignore. She breathed out slowly, pressing her face deeper into the pillow as if she could smother the ache.
The hours stretched. Streetlamps outside dimmed at their edges as the night deepened, but she remained awake, Homura’s outline lingering at the threshold of every thought. Words she’d never spoken sat heavy in her chest — simple truths she didn’t know how to hold without unraveling.
Each time she drifted near sleep, her mind circled back again, returning to that same quiet warmth she didn’t have a name for.
Sleep never came.
Chapter 15: I don’t know what will happen, but… I’m not afraid anymore.
Chapter Text
The night air was colder than she’d expected.
Madoka had tried to sleep. She’d set her phone aside hours earlier, its screen already dark, her lamp turned low. Even burying her face in the pillow hadn’t helped—the quiet pressed against her like a weight, heavy and too aware. Her faint reflection in the window felt distant, unfixed, as if she were looking at someone halfway between thoughts.
With a slow exhale, she slipped from her blankets, warmth clinging to her pajamas as she moved. She left her phone untouched on the nightstand, screen blank, and pushed open the balcony door. The cold met her instantly, sharp and clean, the kind of chill that made the world feel slightly unreal.
The railing under her palms held the night’s dampness. The hum of distant trains, the muted buzz of streetlights, and the soft rush of wind brushing the glass walls below blended into a quiet that felt too large for her small balcony. She closed her eyes. Every time she did, the day replayed itself—Sayaka’s worry, the remnants of their earlier argument, Aida’s hopeful smile she couldn’t return, and Homura’s voice threading through it all like a steady current. Especially that last part.
Her chest ached. Just thinking Homura’s name made something flutter beneath her ribs—unsteady, warm, frightening.
The balcony door slid open again with a soft click. “Madoka?” Junko’s voice carried gently through the cold air. She stepped out with two mugs, chamomile drifting upward in quiet steam. “You’re still awake?”
Madoka turned, startled, offering a small, apologetic smile. “I couldn’t sleep.”
Junko handed her a mug and moved beside her, leaning lightly on the railing. “I figured. Your footsteps were getting restless.” She blew on her tea, letting the silence settle before speaking again. “Something weighing on you?”
Madoka hesitated, fingers curling around the warm ceramic as if the heat might steady her. “...Someone invited me to the festival.”
Junko’s head tilted slightly. “Who?”
Madoka’s voice softened. “Aida.”
Junko absorbed the name without surprise. “He’s the one you study with sometimes, right?” Her tone held no teasing—just quiet curiosity. “Do you want to go?”
Madoka looked into her tea, watching the surface quiver in the breeze. “I told him I’d think about it. But saying it felt… wrong. Like I was agreeing to something I didn’t actually want.”
Junko stayed beside her, patient, letting the silence fill with whatever Madoka needed to say.
Madoka exhaled slowly. “I kept trying to tell myself it was normal. That liking him would make sense. But the more I tried to force it, the less it felt like me.”
She drew the mug closer to her chest. “I’ve been avoiding studying with him. I keep making excuses. He hasn’t done anything wrong—I just… don’t want to be there. Not like that.”
Her brow furrowed. “Aida is nice. He’s easy to talk to. He makes people comfortable. It’s simple with him. But with Homura…” Her voice faded, reshaping itself before continuing, quieter. “Homura feels different. Quiet in a way that isn’t empty. I notice every small change in her. I can tell when she’s holding back, even when she thinks she isn’t.”
Junko didn’t interrupt.
Madoka tightened her grip on the mug. “Nagisa said something at the mall… not dramatic, just honest. She looked at us and said we looked really happy next to each other.” Madoka’s breath pulled in quietly at the memory. “She said my face gets soft, and Homura stops looking like the world is about to fall down.”
Her voice gentled, embarrassment warming the edges. “I didn’t believe her at first. But when I looked… she was right. Homura eased a little. Like being near me made something inside her settle, even if just for a moment.”
Her shoulders curved. “Sayaka and I fought about it. She said I’ve been disappearing—that I forget to eat, or sleep, or even listen, because I’m always worried about Homura.” A breath, thin and unsteady. “She said no one should be able to read someone that easily.”
Madoka swallowed. “She asked me why I treat Homura like she’s going to break. Why I feel like it’s my job to hold her together.” Her voice trembled. “I couldn’t answer.”
Her hands tightened slightly. “And then… at school, I saw a boy hand Homura something she dropped. She nodded at him—polite, nothing unusual. But I stopped walking. Something twisted in me.” Her voice shrank. “Jealousy. I didn’t even know why.”
She blinked, breath catching. “And when she was sick—when she didn’t come to school—my chest felt tight the whole day. I kept checking my phone. When she didn’t answer the door, I cried before I could stop myself. I wasn’t embarrassed then. I was scared.”
Junko hummed softly, thoughtful. “You’ve been carrying all of that alone.” Her voice was gentle, not pitying. “Not because anyone made you—because you feel things deeply before you name them.”
Madoka’s eyes unfocused, memories flickering—Homura adjusting her glasses with careful hands, the way her voice softened when saying Madoka’s name, the quiet tension she carried like a second skin. None of it dramatic. All of it real.
“But it’s Homura,” Madoka whispered. “She’s my friend. I don’t want to project something onto her she never asked for.”
Junko shook her head softly. “Trying to understand someone isn’t forcing them to feel the same.” She sipped her tea. “And caring the way you do isn’t selfish. It means she matters to you in a way you haven’t had words for.”
She let a faint breath out, steady. “When I was your age, I thought I liked someone because people said I should. It was easy to pretend, right up until the moment I realized I felt nothing.” She smiled gently. “Real feelings stay even when things don’t go how you imagine.”
Madoka looked up, startled. “Then how did you know when it was real?”
Junko’s eyes warmed. “With your father, it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It just felt right to exist beside him.”
The breeze shifted, brushing their hair.
Junko’s voice softened. “How does it feel beside Homura?”
Madoka lowered her gaze, cheeks warm. “Safe. Warm. Like I don’t have to pretend to be anything.” Her voice thinned. “When she looks at me, I forget to be scared.”
Junko’s smile deepened—not surprised, just understanding. “That sounds like love.”
Madoka’s breath caught. “Love…?”
Junko brushed a strand of hair back from her face, gentle. “Real love doesn’t shout. It doesn’t demand. It just changes the shape of the world when that person isn’t there.”
Madoka’s eyes glossed with quiet fear. “But what if she doesn’t feel the same?”
“Then it hurts,” Junko said softly. “And you learn from it. But it doesn’t make what you feel any less real.”
Madoka stared into her tea. “I think… I already knew. I just didn’t have the words.”
Junko squeezed her hand once, grounding. “That’s growth. Knowing before you can say it. And now that you can… don’t run from it.”
The quiet settled around them—steady, not invasive. A car moved distantly along the road below, its hum softened by glass and height.
Madoka leaned her head lightly against her mother’s shoulder, the warmth steadying her more than the tea.
Later, after her mother had gone to bed, the apartment settled into a quieter kind of darkness. The city murmured below—distant engines, a soft rush of wind against glass, the faint hum of streetlights. Madoka stepped back onto the balcony, the metal railing cool beneath her fingers. She held it lightly, steadying herself against the quiet.
She wasn’t searching for an answer anymore. She already had one.
Junko’s words hadn’t created anything new—they had only given shape to what Madoka had been carrying for weeks. Love wasn’t the revelation; admitting it was.
Now the weight she felt wasn’t confusion. It was the fragile, trembling awareness of what came next.
Her thoughts drifted—not to uncertainty, but to the moments that had already meant more than she’d let herself admit.
Homura waiting for her on cold mornings, always early.
The careful way her voice softened when saying Madoka’s name.
Nagisa’s simple, unflinching observation: You two look really happy next to each other.
Sayaka’s fear during their argument—not anger, but worry that Madoka was losing herself to something she didn’t understand.
The panic outside Homura’s door when she didn’t answer.
The quiet, overwhelming relief when she finally walked into class the next day.
None of it surprised her now. They weren’t pieces of a puzzle—they were memories she finally had the courage to look at without turning away.
Madoka drew a slow breath, watching it pale in the cold air.
“It’s love,” she murmured—not discovering the truth, but accepting it.
Her arms folded around herself, not out of fear, but to keep the warmth close. “I love her.” The words didn’t shake. They settled.
The breeze brushed her cheek. She could almost imagine Homura beside her—not speaking, not moving—just existing in that quiet, steady way that always made the world feel gentler.
Madoka’s smile trembled, soft and real. “I don’t know what will happen,” she whispered. “But… I’m not afraid anymore.”
Above her, the stars clung faintly to the hazy sky. Far off, dawn began the slow work of brightening the horizon.
Madoka stayed there a little longer, letting the truth sit in her chest—not new, not sudden, simply hers at last.
Madoka didn’t remember the moment sleep took her—only the heaviness that finally dragged her under and the gray, muted light slipping through her curtains when she opened her eyes. Morning hadn’t arrived gently; it was simply there, colorless and quiet.
The warmth of her blankets lingered, but it didn’t ease the tightening in her chest. Her thoughts sharpened too quickly, unspooling into one truth she couldn’t soften:
Today… she would see Homura.
She stayed on her back for a few seconds, staring at the faint patterns of light on the ceiling. The room felt unchanged, but she wasn’t. The quiet pressed in differently now—too aware, too present.
Madoka sat up, rubbing her eyes. Her notebook lay open on her desk, last night’s notes restless across the page, pencil dropped mid‑thought. She looked at it, then away. All she could picture was Homura beside her—composed, focused, careful with her words.
It unsettled her now in a way that felt almost tender.
She dressed slowly, fingers fumbling on the zipper of her uniform blouse. This wasn’t fear—not of Homura. It was the unease of knowing something inside her had shifted, and the world hadn’t caught up yet.
Downstairs, the house was washed in pale light. Junko had left breakfast on the counter with a note. Madoka managed a quiet smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She ate because she had to, every sound in the kitchen too sharp against the stillness.
Outside, the morning air met her with a cold clarity. Dew held to the railings, catching thin strands of light. Mitakihara’s streets rested in their usual curated quiet—glass and concrete breathing in soft, shallow rhythms.
Her steps toward the corner felt heavier than they ever had.
She kept her bag close. The weight of her notebook pressed against her side, a reminder she wasn’t ready for. Every thought of Homura walking beside her—quiet, steady, glancing over only when she thought Madoka wouldn’t notice—tightened her throat.
How am I supposed to act like nothing’s changed?
She pulled in a breath, let it out slowly.
Then she stopped.
Homura was already at the corner.
Alone. Still. Waiting.
Homura noticed her almost immediately. She straightened—not abruptly, just a subtle shift of posture, hands adjusting on her bag strap. The kind of movement someone makes when they weren’t expecting company yet, but welcomed it anyway.
“Good morning,” Homura said. Her voice was calm, measured.
Madoka swallowed. “Good morning.”
Homura glanced at her—quick, assessing, careful—but the look slid away before it exposed anything she didn’t mean to show.
Madoka stepped closer. “You’re early.”
Homura nodded once. “It was colder than I expected. I left sooner.” A small pause. “I didn’t think you should wait alone.”
Madoka felt warmth rise along her cheeks, but she let the moment pass without comment.
A thin quiet settled between them. Homura didn’t fidget, but something in her posture seemed held a little too tightly.
Madoka breathed in slowly. This is different. I’m different.
They began walking—not slower, not closer, just their usual pace, familiar and steady.
The street remained mostly empty. Their footsteps carried more clearly than their voices.
Madoka tried to focus ahead, but Homura drew her attention without trying—every small shift of her bag, each quiet exhale, the way her hair moved with the breeze.
Minutes passed.
“You didn’t have to come early,” Madoka said, her voice softer than she meant it to be.
Homura kept her gaze forward. “It wasn’t a problem.” A beat. “Leaving early made the walk quieter.”
There was no hidden meaning, no attempt to offer comfort. Just truth.
Madoka opened her mouth to answer, but footsteps approached from behind.
“There you two are!” Kyoko called, jogging up with a half‑eaten pastry. “Thought we’d end up walking alone today.”
Sayaka followed, plucking crumbs off her sleeve. “Morning. You’re both early.”
Madoka startled slightly. “We just… got here.”
Sayaka peered at her. “You look tense.”
Madoka shook her head quickly. “It’s just cold.”
Kyoko raised a brow. “You’re wearing a coat though.”
Homura spoke quietly, almost offhand, as if stating a simple observation. “She forgot her gloves.”
Madoka blinked—surprised not by the comment, but by how easily Homura had noticed.
Sayaka sighed. “Alright, come on. If we don’t move now, we’re going to get stuck behind everyone.”
Kyoko waved a hand. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s go.”
Their group shifted into the familiar formation—Sayaka and Kyoko drifting ahead, already bickering lightly, while Madoka and Homura naturally settled a few paces behind.
Homura didn’t look over immediately; she never did. When her gaze did flick sideways at last, it lasted barely a heartbeat—just enough to check Madoka’s expression without calling attention to it.
She didn’t ask questions. Homura rarely did. She didn’t pry or push. She simply existed beside Madoka, quiet and steady, leaving space for her to speak if she wanted.
Madoka steadied her breathing. Homura wasn’t being warmer or different or unusually attentive. She was just… Homura.
Present. Careful. Watchful in the way she always was with Madoka.
That was what made it hard.
Madoka managed a small nod—not a response to anything Homura said, but to something inside herself. “I… I’m okay,” she murmured.
Homura accepted that with a subtle incline of her head.
Ahead of them, Sayaka yelped about Kyoko stealing the rest of her pastry, and Kyoko barked an unapologetic denial.
Madoka wasn’t ready.
But with Homura beside her—steady, restrained, familiar—she found she could keep walking.
Chapter 16: There's something I need to tell you.
Chapter Text
The school buzzed with a muted sort of anticipation—lanterns tested in the shopping district, half‑assembled stalls lining the sidewalks, students trading soft speculations about fireworks and weekend plans. The noise was gentle, suspended beneath the pale afternoon light filtering through the classroom’s glass walls.
Madoka sat at her desk, chin lightly against her hand, though her attention drifted far from her open notes. The world around her felt slightly tilted, as if an invisible weight had settled unevenly across her shoulders. Ever since her mother’s quiet conversation the night before, the truth had lodged itself inside her with a tenderness that frightened her. She loved Homura—she understood that now with a clarity that left no space for denial. But knowing a truth and being ready to stand in it were two different things.
Homura hadn’t changed. She moved through each morning with the same reserved steadiness—her words measured, her posture composed, her presence quietly constant beside Madoka as they walked to school. That consistency made the hollow flutter in Madoka’s chest feel even more conspicuous. She found herself studying details she had never consciously memorized: the slight adjustment of Homura’s glasses, the cadence of her steps aligning instinctively with her own, the calm focus in her eyes when she listened. Homura wasn’t doing anything differently. Madoka was simply aware now—aware and unsteady.
By late afternoon, the classroom settled into its usual after‑school hush. The overhead fluorescents hummed softly, casting an even, muted brightness across the glass walls as the last hums of activity faded into the hallway. Students filtered out in small clusters until only the quiet scrape of chairs and the rustle of notebooks remained.
Homura finished packing her things with her usual careful movements. She stood, then crossed the short distance to Madoka’s desk—not abrupt, just deliberate. “Madoka,” she said softly, the warm light catching on the edge of her glasses. “Are you planning to go to the festival this weekend?”
Madoka blinked, thoughts still tangled from the night before. “Oh… I’m not sure yet. Maybe with Sayaka and the others.”
Homura hesitated—barely noticeable, but enough that Madoka lifted her gaze. “Would you go with me?” Homura asked. Her voice was steady, but the tension beneath it was unmistakably real.
Madoka’s breath caught. She stared, startled by her own immediate certainty. Homura lowered her eyes slightly. “Only if you’d like to,” she added, quieter.
“Yes,” Madoka whispered before she could temper it. “I’d love to.”
Something in Homura unwound—not fully, but visibly. “Then it’s settled.” She closed her notebook and slipped her bag over her shoulder. When she reached for the zipper, Madoka noticed the faintest tremor in her fingers. “Thank you.”
They exchanged a small, warm look—brief, but enough—and then Homura stepped toward the door, leaving the classroom in a quiet hush.
A chair shifted somewhere across the room. Aida rose slowly, the overhead fluorescents catching along the polished edge of his desk as he approached. His steps were gentle, almost cautious. “I didn’t mean to overhear,” he said, voice low and even. “The room was quiet. It was hard… not to.”
Madoka straightened in her seat. “Aida…”
He glanced toward the doorway Homura had just left through before meeting Madoka’s eyes again. “I was going to ask again if you wanted to go to the festival with me,” he admitted. “But… it seems you already have plans.” His tone wasn’t accusing—just accepting.
Madoka nodded, her voice soft. “You probably heard it. Homura asked me. And I said yes.”
Aida let out a small breath—not dramatic, just releasing something he’d already prepared himself for. “I figured,” he murmured. A faint, bittersweet curve touched his lips. “I’m glad you have someone you really want to go with.”
He hesitated, then added more gently, “It mattered to you. That was obvious.” No bitterness—only quiet recognition.
Madoka lowered her eyes. “Thank you, Aida.”
He dipped his head in a small, respectful nod before returning to his desk to pack his things. After a moment, he, too, slipped out of the classroom without another word.
When the door clicked shut, Madoka remained alone beneath the soft fluorescent glow. Her pulse thudded in a warm, uneven rhythm as she gathered her belongings, Homura’s quiet question echoing in her mind—steady and impossibly close.
That evening, after the quiet clatter of dishes faded and the house settled into its soft nighttime stillness, Madoka sat at the table with her mother. Steam rose gently from their tea, the warmth steady and unobtrusive. Junko rested her cheek against her hand, watching her daughter with a quiet, thoughtful patience.
“So,” Junko began, her tone light but not prying, “after everything we talked about… how did things go with Aida?”
Madoka lowered her gaze to the rim of her cup. “I told him after class. He was… understanding. Very kind about it.”
Junko hummed softly, a note of approval beneath it. “That sounds like him.” A small pause. “And… have you decided who you’ll go with instead?”
Madoka’s fingers brushed the side of her cup in a slow, absent circle. “...Homura asked me. To the festival.”
Junko’s eyebrows lifted just slightly—not shock, but a quiet acknowledgment. “Homura asked you?” Her expression softened into a gentle smile. “You’ve spoken about her often—how polite she is, how she looks out for you. I didn’t expect her to be the one to ask first.” Her tone remained warm, not teasing. “You care for her a great deal, don’t you?”
Heat bloomed across Madoka’s cheeks. She curled her hands around her cup, grounding herself. “I do.”
Junko’s features softened immediately. “Thank you for telling me.” She reached across the table, brushing her thumb lightly over Madoka’s knuckles. “When you said her name just now… you looked more at ease. That’s important.”
A quiet breath left Madoka, tension easing from her shoulders. “Thanks, Mom.” The relief was small but steady—enough.
Junko offered a soft, almost wistful smile. “Someday, I’d like to meet her properly. The girl who brings out that expression in you.”
Madoka let out a small, embarrassed breath. “Mom…”
Junko simply lifted her cup a few centimeters—not a toast, just a gentle acknowledgment. “That’s all.”
Madoka looked down at her tea, watching the faint ripple settle across its surface. Warmth unfurled through her chest—quiet, certain. “Yeah,” she whispered. “Me too.”
That night, long after the dishes were washed and her parents had gone to bed, Madoka lay awake in the muted stillness of her room. The streetlights outside cast faint, fractured shapes across her ceiling—soft, steady interruptions in the dark. The quiet wasn’t comforting; it only sharpened every thought she tried to set aside.
She turned onto her side, fingers curling into the edge of her blanket. Homura asked me. The words replayed with a slow, insistent rhythm, sending gentle, uneven pulses through her chest.
Why her? Why now? Did Homura sense something she hadn’t said aloud? Had she noticed the lingering way Madoka looked at her, the shifts in her voice, the careful pauses that always came too late? Madoka sifted through every moment of the morning—each hesitation, each softened greeting—as if the answer might be hiding there. Did I give something away?
She pressed her pillow against her face, her voice muffled. “She wouldn’t have noticed… right?” she whispered. “She was just being considerate.” Even as she said it, the explanation felt thin.
Homura wasn’t gentle with everyone. She wasn’t unkind—just distant, composed, deliberate. But around Madoka, she changed in ways Madoka couldn’t explain away. Her tone softened without losing precision. Her pace adjusted to match Madoka’s without thought. Her attention lingered—not intrusively, but with an intentionality that felt too careful to be coincidence.
Madoka’s breath hitched. “If she knew…,” she murmured, clutching the blanket tighter, “would she still want to go with me?” The question wasn’t painful—just honest in a way that frightened her.
A faint pop echoed from somewhere beyond her window—someone testing fireworks early. A brief flicker of color brushed her curtains before fading. Madoka pushed herself upright, drawn to the soft interruption.
She imagined Homura in her quiet apartment, seated with her usual measured posture, watching the same distant light—overthinking just as much, even if she’d never admit it. The image made Madoka’s cheeks warm, a small, tentative smile rising before she could stop it.
“Tomorrow,” she whispered, pulling her blanket closer around her shoulders. “I’ll try… to be braver.”
Her heartbeat stayed quick, but for the first time that night, the darkness felt less empty—shaped by something warm, something gently hopeful.
That night, Homura sat alone—the city’s faint electric hum seeping through the window, a quiet that felt more like distance than calm. She remained at her desk, glasses set neatly beside her, the folded festival schedule resting before her with a patient, unanswered weight.
Madoka’s response drifted through her thoughts—but before that, Homura found herself returning to the moment she’d asked. She hadn’t planned to. The question had left her almost gently, more instinct than intention. She had only wanted to be considerate, to make sure Madoka didn’t feel left out if the others made different plans. A small kindness. Something simple.
But when she heard her own voice ask Would you go with me? she had almost startled herself.
She had never seen herself as someone who initiated closeness—especially not with Madoka. Not when every step toward her still felt like moving through fragile memory. She had expected hesitation. A polite deferral. A soft excuse. Madoka choosing someone safer, calmer, someone without the weight Homura carried.
Instead, Madoka had accepted immediately.
Homura replayed it now—not the warmth in Madoka’s cheeks, not the brightness in her eyes, but the certainty. The quiet, unforced yes. The lack of pause. The absence of obligation.
“She accepted so quickly,” Homura murmured, brushing a fingertip along the folded schedule. “Does she understand what she agreed to?” A familiar tightness gathered in her chest—not sharp, simply steady. A sensation she had learned to accommodate.
She pressed her thumb slowly against her palm, grounding herself. “Or maybe she does,” she whispered. “And I’m the one who still struggles to trust good things.”
A distant crack of early fireworks broke softly across the night—brief color scattering across far windows. The sound tugged at memories she held alone: a quiet sky, warmth at her side, her name spoken with trust. They weren’t illusions. They weren’t dreams. But they felt distant now, belonging to a version of herself she wasn’t sure she could step back into.
“It happened,” she said quietly—not pleading, simply resolute. “I remember. That has to be enough.”
Her eyes stung—not with tears, but with the strain of letting her thoughts move too freely. She exhaled, slow and deliberate, letting her hand rest flat against the desk. “Whatever comes next… I’ll meet it.” Her voice held no grand hope—only willingness.
She reached for her glasses, wiping them clean with quiet precision before standing. She didn’t reopen the schedule. There was no need. Madoka had said yes.
Homura switched off the lamp, letting the room settle into stillness before she made her way toward bed.
As the weekend drew closer, anticipation threaded quietly through the school—the low hum of students discussing weekend plans, the distant clatter of festival preparations drifting in through open walkways. The next afternoon, Madoka walked through the shopping arcade with Mami and Nagisa. The warm scent of fresh dough drifted from a bakery stall, and the faint tang of lantern wax lingered in the air as workers tested lighting along the main street. Mitakihara felt composed, poised—like the city was holding its breath.
Madoka’s nerves fluttered as she followed Mami between rows of neatly arranged yukata. The colors felt brighter than usual, almost too vivid against the quiet uncertainty beneath her ribs. Homura’s voice from the day before echoed through her mind—calm, measured, almost fragile: Would you go with me? Remembering it tightened her chest in a way that felt both steady and overwhelming.
“Madoka should wear pink,” Nagisa declared, pulling a soft rose-colored yukata from the rack with unearned confidence. “It matches her hair. She’ll look adorable.”
Madoka flushed, glancing toward the small counter mirror. “I’m not sure… it might stand out too much.”
“Nonsense,” Mami said gently, adjusting the drape of the fabric along Madoka’s shoulders. “In lantern light, lighter colors look soft. Pink suits you.”
Nagisa spun around a mannequin draped in muted violet. “Homura’s going to notice immediately,” she said, matter‑of‑fact, not teasing—just observant. “She always notices you.”
Madoka stiffened, clutching the fabric closer to her chest. “Nagisa…”
Mami set aside an obi, her smile quiet. “Nagisa might be blunt, but she isn’t wrong. You’ll look lovely. Whoever you’re going with will be lucky.”
Madoka hesitated, then lowered her voice. “I’m… going with Homura.”
The pause that followed wasn’t dramatic—just a shared, silent acknowledgment. Then Nagisa let out a soft breath, eyes widening with a kind of quiet triumph. “I thought so.”
Madoka hid her face behind the sleeve. “It’s not— I wasn’t—”
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting someone to see you,” Mami said gently, stepping in before Nagisa could press further. “Especially someone you care for.” She studied Madoka’s expression with a soft, knowing patience. “What do you think of her?”
Madoka’s hand stilled along the smooth fabric. Thoughts of Homura surfaced unbidden: the quiet steadiness of her voice, the deliberate care in her movements, the way she watched Madoka not out of expectation but attention—gentle, precise, almost reverent. Madoka’s heart tightened, full and aching. “…I love her,” she whispered.
The words settled between them—soft, fragile, sincere. Lantern light from the walkway spilled across Madoka’s face, warming the quiet confession.
Mami’s smile softened into something wistful. She brushed Madoka’s shoulder. “I thought so,” she murmured. “You’ve been smiling differently lately.”
Madoka blinked. “Differently…?”
“Gentler,” Mami said. “And braver.”
Nagisa nodded with matter‑of‑fact certainty. “Completely lovesick.”
Madoka let out a breath between a laugh and a protest, covering her face with both hands. “You two…”
“But you’re happy,” Mami said, her tone warm. “That’s what matters.”
Her hand lingered on Madoka’s shoulder, thoughtful. She remembered another quiet conversation—Homura sitting with perfect posture, voice steady as she admitted her own feelings: Yes. I love her. I don’t expect it to change. Both girls had chosen her, separately. Neither had chosen each other—until now.
Madoka swallowed, her cheeks warm. For the first time, she pictured it clearly: walking beneath lanterns with Homura beside her, sleeves brushing, small moments shared in the soft quiet of the evening. She wanted to be the one who made Homura smile. And this time, she wouldn’t look away.
The festival unfolded in a wash of warm lantern light and distant laughter—lively enough to feel alive, but not overwhelming. Madoka waited by the entrance, steadying her breath as she smoothed the fabric of her sleeve. The lantern glow softened the air around her.
When Homura stepped into view, her movements measured and composed, something in Madoka’s chest tightened. “Madoka,” Homura said, her voice even but gentler than usual. The indigo of her yukata caught faint ripples of light.
Madoka felt warmth rise across her cheeks. “You look…” She paused, searching for the right word. “…beautiful.”
A small, sincere curve touched Homura’s lips. “And you look… bright.” The quiet certainty in her tone made Madoka’s breath catch.
They walked side by side, sleeves brushing lightly as they drifted through the festival paths. Children darted past with paper balloons, vendors called out restrained invitations, and the smell of grilled food wove through the air. Madoka paused often, her attention drawn to lantern strings, moving shadows, the soft clatter of game stalls. Homura watched her with a gentle steadiness—present, not intrusive.
At the goldfish stand, Madoka crouched to watch the faint glimmers beneath the surface. “They’re so cute,” she whispered.
Homura knelt beside her, the fabric of her yukata settling in clean lines. “You said the same thing about the masks earlier,” she murmured. “And the wind chimes.”
Madoka smiled, quiet and warm. “I just… like delicate things.”
Homura’s expression softened. “I know.” Her voice held nothing but honesty.
They shared a small cotton candy, Madoka laughing softly when sugar clung to her fingers. Homura hesitated before offering a napkin, her gesture stiff at first, then gentler as she met Madoka’s eyes.
Later, at a charm stall, Homura lifted a small ribbon charm—its shade almost matching Madoka’s yukata. “May I?” she asked.
Madoka nodded. Homura tied it around her wrist with deliberate care, her fingertips brushing Madoka’s skin only briefly. “There,” she murmured. “It suits you.”
Madoka looked down, breath tightening. “Thank you. It’s… thoughtful.”
They continued walking toward the quieter edge of the festival, where the noise softened into a steady backdrop. Their conversation moved naturally—small pieces about the games, the lanterns, Sayaka’s distant shout somewhere in the crowd. Silence filled the spaces gently, never strained.
At the riverbank, the water reflected long streaks of lantern light. Madoka exhaled. “It’s beautiful here.”
Homura nodded. “It is.” After a moment, she added, quieter, “You look happy.”
Madoka’s breath caught—not sharply, but in a soft, inward pull she couldn’t quite steady. The words settled deeper than she expected, warm and disarming. She felt the quiet truth of them flicker through her chest, fragile and certain all at once. For a moment she worried the brightness she felt might be too visible, too easy to read—but Homura’s voice held no teasing, no assumption. Just observation. Just care.
Madoka lowered her gaze, fingers brushing the ribbon at her wrist. I am, she realized, the thought quiet and startling. Because I’m here with you.
As fireworks began over the river, Homura guided Madoka toward a quieter rise overlooking the water. Lanterns bobbed faintly in the distance, their glow softened by the night air, leaving the hill wrapped in a gentle, almost protective hush.
The first firework opened above them in muted color—light that didn’t dazzle so much as breathe across the sky. Madoka’s breath stilled, her eyes catching the reflection as it dimmed. The evening felt suspended, each echo from the distant crowd softened by the quiet around them.
Homura remained a step apart, posture composed but lacking its usual precision. Her hands folded loosely in front of her, fingers held together with a quiet, deliberate tension she made no effort to hide. The silence between them felt shaped—intentional, fragile in its honesty.
Madoka turned toward her, her voice barely rising above the soft hum of the river. “Homura… there’s something I need to tell you.”
Homura looked at her slowly, her expression controlled but open—steady, receptive. The fireworks cast shifting patterns along the surface of her glasses as she asked, softly, “What is it, Madoka?”
Madoka hesitated, breath trembling. Every small moment between them—each lingering glance, each careful word—rose around her like a tide. “I didn’t understand it at first,” she said, her voice low. “But I know it now. And I don’t want to keep pretending I don’t.” She swallowed, grounding herself. “I… love you.”
Another firework unfolded above them, its pale gold washing gently across the hill.
Homura’s composure shifted—not dramatically, but with a quiet, unmistakable break in her practiced steadiness. Her breath faltered. “You… love me?” The question held no disbelief, only a slow, aching clarity.
Madoka nodded, her eyes bright. “It feels selfish. To want you close. To want you here with me.”
Homura stepped closer—unhurried, drawn by something she no longer tried to restrain. “It isn’t selfish,” she said, voice low, steady. “It’s what anyone would feel.” Her hand lifted, hesitating only for a moment before settling lightly against Madoka’s sleeve. “I always thought hearing those words from you was something I’d lost. Something I wasn’t meant to have anymore.” Her breath softened. “I’m glad I was wrong.”
The space between them tightened with quiet emotion. Fireworks blossomed overhead like muted constellations, their reflections flickering in Homura’s eyes as she drew Madoka into a careful embrace—gentle, deliberate, leaving room for Madoka to step back if she wished. She didn’t.
Madoka leaned into her, warmth settling between them in a steady, grounded way. Homura exhaled near her shoulder, the sound unsteady but soft. “You’re warm,” she murmured—not in surprise, but in recognition. “I’ve missed this.”
Madoka’s arms tightened, her voice barely above the hush of the river. Homura’s answer came quieter still. “I love you too, Madoka. I always have.”
Madoka’s breath caught—soft, silent, almost fragile in the way it left her. The words settled inside her with a warmth so steady it nearly overwhelmed her. She loves me. Not because she had to, not because she felt obligated—simply because she meant it. Her fingers curled gently into the fabric of Homura’s yukata, grounding herself against the quiet tremble in her chest. A truth she had hoped for but never let herself expect, spoken with a sincerity that made her heart tighten.
They stayed there as the final bursts faded into muted light, the night settling around them with a gentle certainty—no spectacle, just the quiet truth they had finally allowed themselves to reach.
Madoka eased closer, letting herself rest against Homura’s steady heartbeat as the final firework dimmed. In the soft quiet that followed, the city felt still—calm, patient, as though giving them space to breathe.
Chapter 17: I’ve felt like I’ve lived entire years alone.
Chapter Text
The last lanterns of the festival dimmed behind them, their glow fading into the quiet streets. The air cooled as the crowds dispersed, leaving only the soft hum of evening and the faint, lingering scent of food stalls. Madoka slowed, a small breath catching in her chest before she let her hand drift toward Homura’s. Homura noticed—her fingers tensed, a flicker of hesitation passing through her posture—but she didn’t retreat. Instead, she shifted just enough for their palms to meet. Madoka threaded their fingers together, gentle and deliberate. Homura’s breath wavered, barely audible, yet the tremor in it revealed more than words. Their joined hands fit naturally, their steps falling into quiet sync. The warmth of Homura’s hand steadied Madoka with every movement.
Down the road, Sayaka and Kyoko’s voices carried—loose, tired laughter softened by distance. When the two emerged, Sayaka’s expression faltered mid‑smile. Her grin reassembled itself too quickly, as if her mind hadn’t caught up. “Oh. You two.” Her voice strained with brightness, but the confusion in it wasn’t hidden well.
Madoka stiffened, her gaze lowering. Kyoko cast Sayaka a sideways look, more perceptive than amused. “Huh. Didn’t expect that,” she murmured, not unkindly.
Sayaka blinked hard, as if trying to reconcile what she was seeing with some missing piece of context. “Well—uh… did something happen? You two look… different.” Her eyes darted between their hands and their faces, not landing on any one detail long enough to settle. “Good for you—if… whatever that is… is good?” The smile she managed wasn’t disbelief so much as bewilderment, her posture tightening with uncertainty.
Kyoko nudged her gently, keeping her grounded. Sayaka didn’t protest—her thoughts clearly spinning without direction.
Homura’s hand remained steady around Madoka’s. The light from the streetlamps stretched their shadows long across the pavement. The distant strains of festival music drifted like a memory on the wind, fading with each step.
When the quiet returned fully, Madoka’s voice slipped out, fragile but sincere. “I’m… really happy, Homura.”
Homura blinked, her breath catching in a way she couldn’t disguise. “I’m terrified,” she admitted, the truth small and trembling. “But happier than I’ve ever been.”
They slowed when the familiar split in their routes came into view, the quiet intersection washed in pale streetlight. The sight felt unwelcome—too soon, too sharp a return to separation. Madoka’s grip tightened around her bag, her eyes flicking between Homura and the empty stretch ahead.
“Could we… walk a little more?” Her voice was soft, hesitant. “Even if it’s out of the way?”
The request trembled at the edges, but it was honest. Homura’s expression shifted—small, almost unsure—but the faint curve of her lips held something gentle. “Of course.”
They continued on, the path curving away from their usual routines. Their steps settled into near‑silence, broken only when Homura’s pace faltered—so slight it could have been missed, but Madoka felt the hesitation through their joined hands. Homura’s thoughts swirled beneath her composed exterior: this is real… she’s choosing to stay beside me… I am not alone in this moment. The enormity pressed against her ribs.
Without meaning to, her fingers tightened around Madoka’s.
Madoka’s gaze lifted at once, worry softening her features. Before she could speak, Homura drew them to a gentle stop. The quiet around them deepened; cicadas faded into the background, leaving only the distant wash of cars and the faint rustling of leaves. It felt as though the night had paused.
“Madoka…” Homura’s voice was steady at first, then thinned with something fragile. “I can’t keep this inside anymore.”
Madoka turned fully toward her. “Homura?”
Homura exhaled, the breath catching unevenly, forming a faint cloud in the cool air. She hadn’t meant to cry. The tears rose anyway—quiet, uncontrolled, slipping down her cheeks. Her hand trembled in Madoka’s.
“I’ve been carrying so much,” she whispered. “For so long. Things I can’t explain. Things that won’t make sense to anyone.” Her voice tightened, almost breaking. “It’s felt like… I’ve lived entire years alone. Watching everything fall apart. Again and again. And every time, the only thing that kept me moving was you.”
Madoka’s breath stilled. “Homura…”
“I thought if I was strong enough, I could protect your happiness. That if I tried hard enough, you’d never know what it meant to hurt.” She swallowed, eyes closing as more tears escaped. “But I failed. Over and over. And I blamed myself every time. I still do.”
Madoka stepped closer, her voice low but unwavering. “Nothing you’re saying sounds like failure to me.”
Homura shook her head, breath stumbling. “I was afraid. That if you knew how deeply I cared… it would push you away. That everything I can’t forget—everything I can’t stop reliving—would change how you see me.” Her shoulders tightened inward. “I didn’t want you to pity me.”
Madoka moved instinctively, wrapping her arms around her in a careful, grounding embrace. “I’m not pitying you,” she murmured. “You’re hurting. And I care about you. That’s all this is.”
Homura’s breath hitched as she folded into the warmth at Madoka’s shoulder, her voice barely more than a thread. “I love you. I’ve loved you for so long… through every version of myself. Even when it hurt. Even when I thought I didn’t deserve to.”
Madoka held her closer, her own eyes stinging. “I love you too.” Her voice was steady, soft with certainty. “And you don’t have to hide any of this from me. Not anymore.”
They stood beneath the dim streetlight, the world quiet around them—as though the night itself listened. Slowly, the rustle of leaves returned, and Homura’s breathing settled, unsteady but grounding.
When they finally began to walk again, their steps were slower, deliberate. Homura’s thoughts still flickered—fear threading through relief—but something in her felt lighter. For the first time in years, the silence between her breaths didn’t feel like a countdown.
It felt like something fragile, steady, and real.
It felt like peace.
Madoka’s room felt smaller than ever when she slipped beneath the covers. The familiar warmth of her pillow and the soft hum of the city outside—the quiet glow of streetlights through sheer curtains—didn’t soothe her the way they usually did. Homura crying—quietly, without collapse or panic, just a steady breaking open—kept replaying behind her eyes.
She’d never seen Homura like that: holding herself too tightly, voice trembling at the edges, eyes shining with fear she couldn’t conceal. A girl who had been hurting for far too long, still bracing for a blow that would never come in this world.
Madoka hugged her pillow closer, grounding herself in the soft weight of it. Her room was safe, familiar, but the heaviness in her chest wouldn’t settle. She wished she’d asked more—Why was Homura so afraid of being understood? Why did she believe loving someone made her dangerous? Every time she tried to follow the questions, she ended up back at Homura’s voice: soft, controlled, even as it wavered.
The details blurred. The feeling didn’t. Fear. Relief. A devotion that felt too large for someone who tried to make herself so small. Homura wasn’t asking to be understood completely. She was afraid of being a burden. Afraid of being seen.
Madoka closed her eyes. She didn’t understand everything—not yet. But she understood the heart beneath it. She heard it in every unsteady breath Homura took, in every careful word she chose.
“I don’t know everything,” she whispered into the dark, “but I want to. I want her to feel safe telling me anything.” Her voice warmed, quiet but certain. “I really love her.”
The admission settled inside her like something steady and sure—warm, determined, and unshakable.
Across town, Homura sat at the edge of her bed, glasses folded neatly on the nightstand. The room was dim except for the soft spill of streetlight through the thin curtains, a pale glow brushing against the floorboards. Her body still trembled faintly, the weight of everything she had finally allowed herself to say settling in slow, uneven waves. She pressed her palms together, trying to still the quiet shake in her fingers.
“I told her… I finally told her.” The words felt unfamiliar in her mouth—too light, too exposed. Relief didn’t come. Instead, a tight unease coiled beneath her ribs. “Did I say too much? Was it irresponsible to let her see that part of me? Will she look at me differently now—less certain, less safe?” Her breath thinned. “Please… don’t let me have frightened her away.”
She closed her eyes. Not to shut out memories—those other worlds were gone, distant as forgotten dreams—but to steady herself against the long stretch of months spent holding everything in. Moving through days with practiced composure, keeping loneliness locked behind calm expressions. She had convinced herself she didn’t need anyone, because needing someone felt dangerous.
Now the danger felt different. Not loss through distance—but loss through truth. Telling Madoka how deeply she cared felt like offering the most breakable part of herself with no way to take it back.
Yet even through the fear, she could still feel the warmth of Madoka’s arms around her, her quiet voice promising she didn’t have to face everything alone. That gentleness lingered, unguarded and steady. It made hope feel possible in a way that ached.
A few tears slipped free—thin, controlled, barely enough to wet her cheeks. “If she knew every part of me,” she whispered, voice trembling, “would she still love me?” Her fingers curled slightly against the sheets. “I never wanted my feelings to trap her, or hurt her.”
She lay back slowly, the cool fabric against her damp cheeks sending a shiver through her. “I don’t know if someone like me deserves someone as kind as her… but please, let her still see me as myself.” The words left her like an unfinished prayer.
Her gaze drifted to her phone, where Madoka’s name glowed softly on the screen—small, steady light in the dark. She lingered on it longer than necessary, afraid that turning it off might make the moment feel less real, as if morning could rewrite what had happened.
For now, the faint glow was enough to steady her.
Junko paused in the doorway of Madoka’s room, her voice low so it wouldn’t disturb the quiet. Madoka’s face was calm but distant, her expression unfocused—as though part of her still lingered in the night outside. “Looks like you had a meaningful evening,” she murmured.
Madoka pushed herself upright a little too quickly, the blanket gathering in her hands. “It was just the festival,” she said, then hesitated. “Well… maybe it wasn’t just that.”
Junko stepped inside, her posture relaxed, her tone gentle. “No?”
Madoka’s blush deepened, but her voice held steady. “I told Homura how I feel.”
The teasing that usually colored Junko’s smile softened into something quieter, more grounded. “Already,” she said softly. “That’s honest of you.” She took a step closer, her voice lowering. “How did she respond?”
Madoka’s fingers tightened in the blanket. “She… said she loves me too.” A small smile appeared—bright, but fragile around the edges. “She was really emotional, though. Not in a bad way. Just… she said things I didn’t understand yet. She cried when she said them.”
Junko studied her daughter’s face, her own expression thoughtful. “If it’s sitting this heavily with you, it means she matters to you,” she said softly. “And when people care deeply, their feelings don’t always come out tidy or easy to interpret.” She tucked a stray strand of hair behind Madoka’s ear, the gesture warm but unobtrusive. “It doesn’t mean she didn’t mean it. It might just mean she was scared.”
Madoka absorbed that, her brow furrowing gently. “Scared… of letting me see too much?”
“Maybe.” Junko’s voice stayed steady, careful. “But you’ve got a good heart, Madoka. Just make sure she knows that and she’ll find her footing.”
Madoka’s breath steadied, warmth pooling quietly in her chest. “Thanks, Mom.”
When Junko slipped out, the room returned to its stillness. Madoka eased back onto her pillow, her heart beating fast but no longer with anxiety. The house was calm, familiar. Through the open window, faint remnants of festival music drifted in—soft, fading, settling like a memory.
Her mother’s words lingered: just make sure she knows that.
Meanwhile, Kyoko and Sayaka walked home beneath the same soft wind. Their earlier laughter had drained into something thinner, a quiet that pressed close to Sayaka’s shoulders. She kept glancing back down the road—once, twice, again—each time with a sharper intake of breath.
“Did you… see that?” she whispered. Her words came too quickly, uneven and hushed. “You saw it, right? I didn’t just—imagine that?”
Kyoko rolled her shoulders once, casual, but her eyes tracked Sayaka carefully. “What, those two?”
Sayaka shook her head too fast. “They were holding hands, sure, but Madoka holds hands with people sometimes—well, not really, but she could? And Homura doesn’t touch anyone, so I… I don’t know what that was supposed to mean.” Her voice pitched upward, trying—and failing—to sound certain. “Maybe they were just… cold? Or tired? Or—something.”
Kyoko gave her a look that wasn’t teasing, just direct. “Didn’t look like ‘cold’ to me.”
Sayaka’s throat tightened. She folded her arms, then dropped them, restless energy spiraling through her movements. “Okay, but—why now? Madoka didn’t say anything. Not one hint. Not even a weird one.” Her pace quickened, steps turning uneven. “Did something happen during the festival? Did they talk about something I missed? Did I miss a whole conversation? How?” She shook her head, frustrated. “I’m with her all the time… or usually… or at least enough that I shouldn’t be completely lost.”
Kyoko slipped her hands into her pockets, watching Sayaka like someone watching a fuse burn too fast. “Sayaka.”
But Sayaka’s words tumbled on, breathless. “Madoka always tells me things—she used to, anyway—and now suddenly she’s doing… whatever that was… with Homura, and I don’t get it, and I don’t know what’s going on, and—”
Kyoko stepped toward her in one clean motion and caught Sayaka’s arm. Not harsh—just firm enough to stop the unraveling. Sayaka froze on contact. Kyoko turned her fully, placing both hands on her shoulders, grounding her with steady pressure.
“Look at me,” Kyoko said, voice low.
Sayaka lifted her eyes, wide and panicked.
“You’re spiraling,” Kyoko continued. “And I’m not letting you crash over something you don’t understand yet.” Her tone wasn’t sharp, just certain. “Madoka didn’t hide anything from you on purpose. She just figured something out tonight. And you’re scared because you weren’t there to see how it happened.”
Sayaka’s breath caught, the truth hitting somewhere deep and tender.
Kyoko’s grip softened, but didn’t release. “You’re not being left behind. You matter to her. A lot. But you’re not gonna see that if you keep trying to outrun your own confusion.”
Sayaka swallowed, voice thinning to a whisper. “I just… don’t want to be the last one who gets it.”
Kyoko held her gaze, unflinching. “Then stay here. With me. Breathe. Pay attention. You’ll figure it out. You always do.”
Sayaka blinked hard, a shaky breath escaping. “I’m trying.”
“Yeah,” Kyoko murmured. “I know.”
They resumed walking, slower now. Their shadows stretched long across the pavement under the streetlamps. Behind them, the last traces of festival music dissolved into the night—leaving Sayaka alone with a fear she didn’t yet understand, steadied only by Kyoko’s presence beside her.
Her phone buzzed softly on the nightstand. Homura reached for it, pausing before turning it over, as though even that small movement required care she didn’t quite have. A new message waited. She opened it slowly, letting the quiet settle around her.
Goodnight, Homura.
A second line followed—gentle, grounded.
I’m really glad you told me. Sleep well, okay?
Her breath caught. She read the words again, slower this time. She waited for the familiar shift under her ribs—the doubt, the recoil, the instinct to assume she had said too much. But nothing tightened. Nothing stung. The world stayed still.
She had spent hours replaying every moment under that streetlight, certain she had exposed too much of herself, placed a weight on Madoka she had no right to. Yet Madoka reached back anyway. Steady. Unafraid.
Homura typed with shaking fingers:
Thank you. I’m sorry if I overwhelmed you.
The reply came almost instantly.
You didn’t. I promise.
Homura exhaled, the breath leaving her in a thin, uneven release. Some of the pressure beneath her ribs loosened—small, but real. Madoka wasn’t stepping away. She wasn’t hesitating.
Homura set the phone down carefully and pressed a hand to her chest, grounding herself in the quiet warmth beneath her palm. “Thank you,” she whispered, the words barely forming. “Thank you for staying.”
The window shimmered faintly with streetlight, soft and diffuse through the thin curtains. Her room held its usual stillness, but tonight it didn’t feel like a sealed-off place. It felt open. Breathable.
She closed her eyes, letting the dark settle around her—not as a void, but as a gentler space, something she could finally rest inside.
Outside, the last lanterns dimmed as the city drifted toward sleep, carrying with it a quiet, fragile promise of morning.
Chapter 18: Maybe one day I’ll believe that.
Chapter Text
Morning arrived muted and pale, light diffusing through the curtains in that soft, unreal way Mitakihara seemed built for—cautious, measured, as if the city preferred not to disturb anything fragile. Madoka rested beneath it, letting the memory of the night before ripple through her: fireworks dissolving into the sky, Homura’s trembling voice, the steady, deliberate warmth of her hand. The recollection pulsed gently, not dreamlike so much as suspended—held in place by the quiet.
She lay still, listening to the low hum of the house—the refrigerator’s soft vibration, the faint rush of early‑morning traffic filtered through distance and glass. Even the air felt patient, as though the room understood she needed a moment to align herself with the day.
Her phone buzzed lightly against the sheets. Sayaka’s name lit the display.
“Madoka! Finally—pick up. We’re already heading downtown with Mami and Nagisa. You coming?”
Madoka pushed the hair from her eyes, her voice still softened by sleep. “I—yeah. Sorry. I overslept.” A quiet, unhurried truth.
There was a shuffle, then Kyoko’s voice came through—blunt, clipped, not truly irritated so much as done with the situation. “Good. And while you’re getting ready, bother Homura for us, will you? She hasn’t answered the group chat or picked up a single call, and it’s getting annoying.”
Sayaka muttered something in agreement—frustration directed outward, never at Madoka. “Just hurry, okay?”
Madoka lowered the phone, the dim ceiling blurring into a soft wash of color. A small knot formed beneath her ribs—not fear, just the weight of too many thoughts settling at once. She set the phone aside gently and breathed in the stillness, letting it steady her.
She typed out a message to Homura—careful, warm, mindful of how silence sometimes held her friend too tightly. Outside, a single bird called—brief, clean—drawing the morning back into something ordinary and grounded.
Across the city, Homura stirred slowly, the muted hum of morning settling through the dimness of her apartment. The light slipping past the blinds held that familiar, slightly unreal quality Mitakihara never seemed to lose—soft, deliberate, as though even the sun preferred not to trespass. She sat up and smoothed the sheets with automatic precision, grounding herself in the small rituals that kept her tethered to this life instead of the ones that refused to fade.
The quiet clink of a teaspoon echoed as she brewed her tea. Steam rose in thin, steady ribbons before dissolving into the cool air, the scent faint and familiar. A draft pushed gently through the window seam, edged with late‑autumn chill—metallic, clean. She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, movements shaped by repetition rather than energy. This—routine, silence, normalcy—belonged to her. It was fragile, but it was hers.
Her gaze drifted to the notebook on her desk. Paper. Graphite. Nothing luminous, nothing impossible. She ran her fingertips along the textured cover, letting the physicality anchor her. Madoka’s voice lingered at the edge of her thoughts—quiet, warm, steady enough to unsettle her if she let it. Even the stillness of the room felt precarious, as though one careless breath might fracture the equilibrium she’d built. A faint smile threatened; she subdued it with a controlled inhale. Focus.
Her phone vibrated once on the table. Notifications crowded the lock screen—missed calls from Sayaka, terse messages from Kyoko, a photo from Nagisa she didn’t have the energy to interpret. Homura exhaled through her nose, a tired, muted sound.
“I don’t really want to go out today,” she murmured into the quiet. Not complaint—just truth. Too much noise, too many eyes, too many small demands on a morning she’d hoped would remain untouched.
Then Madoka’s name lit the display—soft glow, simple message, warmth layered beneath restraint. It cut through everything else with disarming ease. Homura hesitated, thumb hovering, that low irritation lingering—not directed at Madoka, but at the world’s insistence on intruding.
But this was for Madoka. And that alone reshaped the day.
She rewrote her response more times than she’d ever admit. Too formal. Too distant. Too revealing. She breathed out slowly, letting resignation soften the tension.
She finally settled on a single, careful line: I’d like that.
She dressed with deliberate neatness: soft gray cardigan, white turtleneck, black pleated skirt, stockings, loafers. Her long coat waited by the door, lined against the cold that brushed through Mitakihara’s streets. She paused, steadied her breath, then stepped into the hallway.
Outside, the air carried a faint hint of roasted chestnuts from some distant vendor, mingling with the bitterness of early‑morning coffee grounds. No distortions. No magic. Only the curated stillness of the city. Homura let the cold settle across her skin, allowed herself—cautiously—to feel the gentleness of the morning, even as some quiet part of her braced for the world to shift beneath her feet again.
The station held its usual muted rhythm, bodies moving in soft, deliberate currents beneath the pale morning light. The announcement chime cut through the air—clean, almost too sharp in the otherwise subdued space. Madoka rose onto her toes, scanning the flow of commuters until she caught sight of Homura near a vending machine: straight‑backed, composed, fingers adjusting the strap of her satchel with that precise, nearly invisible motion Madoka had come to recognize.
Madoka’s coat shifted around her as she crossed the last few steps, the pink of her cardigan peeking from beneath the fabric. Her scarf sat crooked from rushing, her pigtails shifting lightly with each step, red ribbons catching the faint station draft.
“Sorry if I made you wait,” she said, breath soft but uneven.
“You didn’t.” Homura’s voice was steady, gaze flicking away only briefly before settling back on her—measured, attentive, careful in a way that felt instinctive rather than distant.
Their hands brushed in the crowd. Neither withdrew. Madoka eased her arm through Homura’s, the motion quiet, unforced. “It’s a bit packed,” she murmured, not quite meeting her eyes.
Homura’s steps slowed for a moment. The warmth against her side settled too easily into familiar memory—comforting, and sharp in its tenderness. Madoka hasn’t changed… not in the ways that matter. The thought tightened something in her chest, but she exhaled, letting herself match Madoka’s closeness. She’s here. She’s safe.
They moved toward downtown at an unhurried pace. Madoka found her senses catching on everything—the faint sweetness from a nearby food cart, the thin metallic bite of wind that swept along the station walkway, the soft, even rhythm of Homura’s shoes against the ground. Ordinary details, made new.
Homura listened too. Her shoulders remained tense at first, but the stiffness eased slowly as they walked. Her gaze lifted—from the pavement to the soft brightness of the sky, then to Madoka’s profile beside her. She allowed the quiet between them to hold steady, not filling it, but not retreating from it either. Cautious still—but steadier than she’d been in months.
Downtown still held the fading echo of last night’s festival—paper banners drooping from lamp posts, confetti gathered in muted clusters along the gutter, the faint sweetness of leftover festival candy thinning into the cold air. Autumn had settled fully now: heavier coats, layered scarves, the soft ghost of breath rising from passing commuters.
Kyoko leaned against a railing, posture loose and half‑bored, waving a half‑eaten taiyaki with casual victory. “Sayaka, catch,” she said—though she clearly didn’t mean the words. Before Sayaka could react, Kyoko swiped a smear of red bean paste across her nose.
Sayaka sputtered, lunging. Nagisa cut between them with sharp, instinctive timing, snatching the taiyaki like it was a natural extension of breathing. Mami tried to maintain a stern look, but the gentleness tugging at her mouth betrayed her.
Their noise warmed the cold morning in a way the sunlight couldn’t.
Sayaka spotted Madoka and Homura first. “Finally. Took you long enough.” Her voice carried, brisk but lacking real bite.
Kyoko tipped her head back lazily. “Relax. They’re slow walkers.” The tone was flat, amused. Sayaka’s glance flicked toward Homura—brief, narrowing with a familiar suspicion she no longer bothered to hide—before she looked away.
Color rose immediately in Madoka’s cheeks. She stood closer to Homura than usual, an unconscious lean softened by their shared warmth. “We… weren’t slow,” she said quietly, her hand brushing Homura’s—intentional, but small.
Homura blinked once. Her voice remained even, though the edge had softened into something quieter. “Madoka walks at a normal pace.” The defense was subtle enough to miss if one wasn’t listening.
Sayaka exhaled a short huff—not quite a laugh, not quite a scoff.
Mami stepped in gently. “She’s teasing,” she said, easing the tension before it could form.
Nagisa peered up at Homura, eyes narrowed in exaggerated scrutiny. “She looks… focused,” she declared, as if announcing something profound.
Madoka’s relief was immediate. “She’s always like that in the morning,” she said, tugging lightly at Homura’s sleeve—a grounding gesture, small and steady.
A faint shift passed through Homura’s expression—dry amusement flickering for a breath, brief but real. “We should eat before Kyoko takes everything.”
Kyoko scoffed. “I don’t take. I redistribute.”
Nagisa lifted her prize. “Redistributed!”
Mami sighed, more fond than exasperated. “All of you are impossible.”
Madoka glanced at Homura—really looked. The warmth rising in her chest was quiet but sure. Laughter, motion, the morning air brushing cool against her skin—all of it folded into a sense of fragile normalcy. She brushed Homura’s hand again, letting the contact linger.
This, she thought, is what our normal will look like now.
They spent the morning moving through side streets where the festival remnants still lingered—sweetness from roasted chestnuts carried faintly on the cold air, the low clatter of vendors packing up stalls, the muted hum of a city returning to its ordinary rhythm. Homura kept toward the quieter edges at first, letting the sounds blur into something distant and manageable. The world felt wide today—too open, too gentle—but every time Madoka brushed against her sleeve or shoulder, that distance eased. And when Madoka’s laughter rose soft above the ambient noise, something in Homura’s chest loosened despite her caution, a small, unguarded pull at the corner of her mouth she didn’t bother to suppress.
At a bookstore window, Madoka slowed. Rows of pastel‑covered novels were arranged in careful gradients, catching the muted daylight like soft glass. Homura stepped beside her, their reflections overlapping faintly in the window’s surface. “You’d like those,” she said quietly—an observation, but also something warmer, steadier.
Madoka’s fingers brushed against hers in a brief touch of thanks—small, warm, enough to still her breath for a fraction of a moment. They remained there a while, the crowd flowing around them in steady currents. Homura watched how easily people passed one another, intersecting briefly before drifting apart again, and the ache in her chest tightened. How simple it would be to become used to this—Madoka’s presence beside her, open, unafraid, unburdened by the worlds Homura remembered. The thought unsettled her, but she didn’t step back.
By afternoon, Kyoko jerked her thumb toward the arcade. “Loser buys snacks.”
Mami sighed, patient. “We can enjoy ourselves without turning it into competition.”
Sayaka tugged her jacket tighter against the cold. “But where’s the fun in that?”
Inside, the cramped arcade pulsed with artificial light and overlapping electronic melodies. The contrast to the soft gray afternoon was almost disorienting. Madoka tugged lightly at Homura’s sleeve, guiding her toward a small photo booth wedged between claw machines.
“I don’t photograph well,” Homura murmured, though the faint, almost bewildered laugh that slipped out softened the words.
Madoka’s answering smile was bright but not exaggerated—just warm. “Then they’ll be terrible. But ours.”
Flash. Madoka leaned in, their cheeks brushing by the smallest degree. Homura let her shoulder rest gently against Madoka’s—tentative, but real.
Flash. A quiet smile flickered across Homura’s face before she could stop it.
Flash. The last photo caught them in a wash of soft light, pressed a little closer than before, framed by the bright arcade glow.
When the strip printed, Madoka held it delicately, as though the paper might crease at a stray breath. “They came out nice,” she said, voice low.
Homura studied the photos, her expression softening without resistance. “They did.” She smoothed the strip, then tore it cleanly. “I’ll keep them safe.” Her voice was warm now—open in a way she rarely allowed.
Madoka swallowed once, then asked, quiet but steady, “Can I have one?”
Homura nodded, offering half the strip with deliberate care. “Now they’ll stay safe together.”
Madoka’s breath caught. “Yeah… together.”
They stepped back into the afternoon. Light spilled gently across the pavement, pale gold against the cooling air. Homura stayed close this time—close enough that their shoulders brushed in a slow, steady rhythm, like a heartbeat aligned to another without effort.
By sunset, the city held a subdued amber glow, warmth thinning into the cool edge of evening. The scent of cooling pavement lingered beneath the faint sweetness of roasted chestnuts, drifting slowly through the stillness. Children’s laughter rose in soft, uneven echoes from the riverbank—distant enough to feel like memory. Sayaka and Kyoko argued in low, lazy tones nearby; Nagisa had fallen asleep against Mami’s shoulder, her small frame swaying with each careful step. When the others finally peeled away, the quiet left behind felt deliberate. Madoka and Homura remained by the river, the world dimming into a gentler silence around them.
Rows of unlit paper lanterns lined the path, their shapes reflected in the water—violet shimmer catching at the last threads of light. Madoka watched the ripples shift, the colors thinning into dusk. “Today felt… normal,” she said. Her voice was soft, but certain in its simplicity. “Like something I didn’t realize I missed.”
A faint tension flickered beneath Homura’s expression—quick, sharp, gone before it fully surfaced. She touched her temple as the sounds around them pressed together, not loud but layered: leaves brushing, water dipping against the bank, distant voices crossing over one another. A single breeze moved through the trees, scattering red and orange leaves across the pavement in loose spirals.
Madoka reached for her arm immediately, instinctive. “Hey. You okay?”
“I’m fine,” Homura murmured. She sat before her knees could betray their unsteadiness, lowering herself onto a nearby bench with controlled precision. “Just… too much sound at once.”
“Then we’ll sit,” Madoka said softly. “No rush.”
She settled beside her—close, steady, unafraid. Their shoulders met with quiet certainty, the warmth subtle but unmistakable. Homura felt it pulse through her ribs, a familiar ache rising with it—something tender, almost fragile. She’d forgotten how much warmth Madoka carried in even the smallest touch.
They stayed like that until the noise in Homura’s mind thinned into something manageable, then into something steady. Her breathing leveled. The world slowed to a pace she could bear.
“Half a year,” Homura said, barely above a whisper. “And my body still doesn’t know what peace feels like.”
Madoka studied her profile in the fading light. Her answer came gentle, but sure. “It’s not forgetting,” she said. “It’s remembering—just slowly.”
Homura blinked, the words settling deeper than she expected. She nodded once, her posture loosening as the evening breeze brushed cold against their hands. Her thoughts drifted, unspooling with quiet clarity: If I hold this too tightly, it’ll vanish. But if I let go, it might drift away. The contradiction drew out a breath of quiet laughter—thin and incredulous, disappearing into the cooling air.
Lanterns flickered to life one by one, their muted glow trembling across the river’s surface. Madoka watched the pinks and golds ripple and overlap, colors softening into each other like warmth fading across glass. “It’s strange,” she said quietly. “Ordinary days used to feel small. Now they feel… fragile. Important.”
“Because they were never promised,” Homura murmured.
Madoka turned toward her. The lantern light traced faint warmth along her cheeks, the reflection shifting in her eyes. “Then we should hold onto them,” she said. “Carefully. Together.”
A subtle change moved through Homura’s expression—barely there, but real. Her voice deepened, steady despite the thin catch in her breath. “Then I’ll do everything I can to protect that. To protect you.” A pause, soft as the lantern glow. “You’re the one who taught me what that kind of hope feels like.”
They remained there as the night settled fully, stars emerging in slow, deliberate points of light. The silence between them held—not empty, not expectant, but whole, as if the world had quieted just enough for them to breathe in the same, steady rhythm.
The train ride home was dim and hushed, the carriage washed in the faint, rhythmic glow of passing station lights. The windows reflected only softened silhouettes of the world outside—blurred storefronts, muted sky, a city settling into its night.
Madoka leaned gently against Homura’s shoulder—careful, but certain, as though she trusted now that the closeness wouldn’t vanish if she reached for it. Homura’s hand hovered near hers, the faint tremor in her fingers tightening the air between them.
Madoka noticed immediately. Without speaking, she shifted and threaded their fingers together—warm, steady, unhurried. Something eased sharply inside Homura’s chest; her shoulders relaxed as she squeezed back, tentative but sincere. In the window, their colors blended into one softened shape—pale pink meeting deep violet, indistinct but whole.
The train began to slow, but neither moved. The moment felt suspended, held gently in place by the quiet.
“I still can’t believe it,” Madoka whispered, the sound barely more than breath.
Homura angled her head. “Believe what?”
“That this is real.” Madoka’s voice tightened—earnest, vulnerable. “That you’re here with me. And that someone like you could… really love someone like me.”
Homura’s gaze softened—subtle, steady, a softness she showed no one else. She brushed her thumb along the back of Madoka’s hand, slow and deliberate. “Madoka… you talk like I’m distant. I’m not.” Her voice dropped, gentler than the low hum of the train. “I’m here because I love you. Not because you earned it. Not because you had to be anything more than yourself.” Another breath, quieter. “You’ve always been enough.”
Madoka’s breath caught. The dim light glimmered in her eyes as she looked down at their joined hands, a small, fragile smile forming—genuine in its uncertainty. “I’m… not used to hearing things like that,” she admitted. “But… I’ll try to believe it.”
They stayed like that as the train settled fully into the station, letting the quiet hold around them until the moment found its own ending.
When they finally rose, the platform was nearly empty—cool, metallic air humming softly under the overhead lights. Their footsteps echoed in long, steady stretches across the concrete as they walked toward the exit, side by side, shadows drawn out behind them.
At the doorstep, the early‑autumn cold settled in a quiet, steady way—clean air, faint leaf‑smoke, the sort of stillness Mitakihara carried after dark. Junko opened the door before either could raise a hand to knock, her expression warm but edged with that perceptive sharpness she never bothered hiding. “So this is Homura. I’ve heard plenty.”
Madoka’s breath hitched, half‑mortified. “Mom…”
“Come in, you two,” Junko said, stepping aside with a familiarity that suggested she had already decided Homura belonged here, at least for tonight.
Tatsuya lay on the floor nearby—on his stomach, crayons scattered around him in a loose arc, humming to himself as he pressed uneven strokes of color across a sheet of paper. The chair behind him sat empty, slightly askew. He didn’t look up. His world was whatever shape his drawing was trying to be.
Tomohisa rose slightly from his seat, greeting them with an easy, practiced warmth. “Welcome. You must be Homura. I’m Tomohisa—Madoka’s father. I’m glad to finally meet you.”
Homura bowed with instinctive precision. “Akemi Homura. Thank you for having me.”
Her formality surprised him; the sound of his soft laugh slipped out before he could temper it. “No need for that level of politeness. We’re happy you’re here.”
Junko joined them with a smile that managed both amusement and sincerity. “He’s right. Relax—we’re not interviewing you. Just dinner.”
Homura nodded, though her posture barely softened.
Junko gestured toward the table. “Sit wherever you like.”
Dinner unfolded in its familiar, quiet rhythm—soft clinks of bowls, the low hum of the ventilation fan, Tatsuya murmuring to himself as he drew at the low table. The room held a gentle warmth, shaped less by conversation than by the ease of an ordinary evening.
Junko glanced toward Homura after a moment, her elbow resting lightly on the table. "Homura," she said, her tone mild, "thank you for spending time with Madoka so often."
Madoka shifted in place, startled. "Mom…"
Tomohisa offered a small, reassuring smile. "Your mother worries. Please don't mind it."
Homura paused, setting her chopsticks down with deliberate care. "It’s no trouble," she said quietly. "Madoka has been very kind to me."
Junko’s expression softened, her curiosity present but never intrusive. "You seem thoughtful. I’m glad she has someone like you to walk home with."
Madoka lowered her gaze, cheeks warming at the phrasing.
Unsure whether more was expected of her, Homura straightened slightly. "I only try to be considerate," she said, her voice settling into its careful, composed cadence. "Madoka has helped me adjust to school."
Junko nodded, accepting the answer as it was. "I see. She doesn’t bring classmates home often."
Madoka gave a quiet, embarrassed sound. "Mom…"
Junko continued gently, never pressing. "If you don’t mind sharing—do you have any hobbies, Homura?"
A soft pause. "I read," Homura said. "And sometimes… I bake. It helps me settle my thoughts."
Tomohisa let out a faint, surprised breath. "That’s a nice habit to have. Not many students take the time for that."
His tone shifted, taking on a more earnest curiosity. "And school—has it been comfortable for you so far?"
Homura considered her words. "It’s… structured. Predictable." Her fingers brushed the rim of her bowl. "That makes things easier."
Tomohisa nodded, the approval understated. "Routine can be grounding. Madoka mentioned you’re very observant."
Madoka nearly dropped her tea. "Dad, please—"
Homura only lowered her gaze a fraction, unbothered. "I prefer to listen first."
"That’s a strength," Tomohisa said gently. "Not everyone your age values that."
Junko exchanged a quiet look with him—fond, amused—before turning back to Homura. "Do you bake cakes? Or bread?"
"Mostly cakes," Homura said. "Some pastries. They require… patience."
Junko smiled, pleased. "If you ever bring something you’ve made, we’d be happy to try it."
Madoka let out a soft, flustered noise, though warmth flickered in her expression.
A quiet, unguarded laugh escaped Homura. "If you’d like that… I can bring something next time."
Conversation thinned naturally after that, growing lighter, easier. Homura still tensed when attention drifted her way, but each time Madoka’s knee brushed hers beneath the table—small, steady, wordless—her breath eased.
Between their exchanges, Homura took in the room in quiet detail: the refrigerator’s low hum, ceramic tapping gently against wood, the faint scent of grilled fish warming the air. Tatsuya sat in his green chair, swinging his feet with earnest concentration as he ate.
The scene felt impossibly domestic—ordinary in a way she had never known.
Fragile, but real, she thought.
Outside, the night air settled cool and dry, scented with fallen leaves and faint chimney smoke. Madoka stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Homura—steady, warm, certain. Homura stiffened on reflex before the tension slipped from her shoulders, her breath unspooling against Madoka’s collar.
Madoka’s voice was soft against her shoulder. “Thank you for coming. I was nervous… but I’m glad you met them.”
“They were kind,” Homura murmured. “Kinder than I expected.”
“You deserve that.”
A small, uncertain breath tightened Homura’s hold. “Maybe one day I’ll believe that.”
Madoka drew back just enough to meet her eyes. “Then I’ll remind you,” she whispered. “As many times as you need.”
Wind moved through the branches overhead, scattering leaves across the pavement. Neither stepped back.
“Goodnight, Homura,” Madoka said, quiet but sure.
Homura’s reply slipped close to her ear, warm in the cold air. “Goodnight, Madoka.”
Their hands parted slowly, reluctantly. Homura stepped into the stillness of the street, her silhouette softening under the amber streetlights. Madoka lingered in the doorway, framed in warm light, the scent of woodsmoke drifting faintly through the night.
It wasn’t fireworks now—just something steadier. Something that felt like it could last.