The old clock tower by the canal was a relic of a different time, covered in ivy that turned deep crimson in the autumn. Rika arrived twenty minutes early, her crutches clicking rhythmically against the cobblestones. She had spent an hour choosing her outfit—a soft, cream-colored sweater and a long skirt that hid her cast.
She felt like a fraud. A girl who was bullied for being "weird" shouldn't be standing here, waiting for a girl like Marin.
"You look like you're waiting for a bus, not a heroine!"
Rika spun around. Marin was standing by the water’s edge, wearing a bright yellow sundress that made her look like a canary. She didn't have her IV pole. She didn't have the smell of lilies. She just had a wide, breathless grin and a camera hanging around her neck.
"Marin!" Rika exhaled, the tension leaving her shoulders. "You’re actually here."
"Of course I am. I told the doctors if they didn't let me out, I’d start a riot in the cafeteria," Marin laughed, though as she reached Rika, her breath was coming in short, shallow puffs. She grabbed Rika’s arm to steady herself. "Now, come on. We have a scene to film. Well... to write."
They spent the afternoon wandering the path by the canal. Marin was a whirlwind of energy, stopping to take photos of stray cats, oddly shaped clouds, and, eventually, Rika.
"Stop hiding behind the lens," Rika murmured as Marin snapped another photo of her.
"I’m not hiding," Marin replied, looking through the viewfinder. "I’m capturing evidence. Evidence that Rika Shinkawa exists outside of a hospital room. Evidence that she's pretty when she thinks no one is looking."
Rika looked away, her face burning. "Is this part of the 'research' for the book?"
"Maybe," Marin said, her voice dropping an octave. She sat down on a bench overlooking the water and patted the spot next to her. "The prompt for this chapter is: The First Real Date. How does the writer describe it?"
Rika sat, leaning her crutches against the bench. She took out her navy notebook, but for the first time, she didn't know how to start.
"I'd write about the light," Rika said softly, watching the sun reflect off the water. "How it hits the yellow of your dress and makes it look like you're glowing. I'd write about how the canal sounds like a heartbeat. And..." She paused, her eyes catching the way Marin’s hand was trembling in her lap. "I'd write about the fear that if I blink, the scene will end."
Marin went quiet. The playful mask she wore didn't slip, but it softened. She reached out and took Rika’s hand, lacing their fingers together. Her skin felt like parchment—thin and warm.
"Then don't blink," Marin whispered. "Just stay here with me."
They sat in silence as the sky turned a bruised purple. Marin leaned her head on Rika’s shoulder, her breathing becoming heavier, as if the day’s excitement had drained her battery to zero.
"Rika," Marin said, her voice barely audible over the water. "If the story we're writing... if the ending isn't a happy one... would you still finish it?"
Rika felt a cold shiver that had nothing to do with the evening breeze. She thought of the Pancreas movie, of the suddenness of life, and of the secret Marin was keeping in her leather diary.
"I’ll finish it," Rika promised, her grip on Marin’s hand tightening. "I'll make sure it's the most beautiful story ever written. No matter what."
Marin didn't answer. She had fallen asleep against Rika’s shoulder, her face peaceful, looking like a girl who had finally found a place to anchor herself.
Rika opened her notebook and wrote one single line:
Today, the writer realized that some stories are worth the heartbreak of the final page.
ns216.73.216.141da2
and then Add to home screen.