Weekend sun hit nine and still bit like a stray dog; people on the street fanned themselves, hunting for any cave of air‑conditioning.

Summer light burned like a forge. Cars flowed like a river of steel, while pedestrians thinned to scattered reeds. A few students huddled under tree shade, dark pools of coolness, boys and girls waiting for friends—ordinary as cicadas singing at noon.

Whoosh.

The shop door sighed open. A teen—no, a girl—stepped in, silhouette fine as bamboo. The shape told its own quiet truth.

Blue jeans like a strip of sky; a pale green tee with a trail of English letters like a flock of birds. Her bare arms were milk‑white against the heat, drawing eyes like moths to a lantern. A baseball cap shaded her face, a visor of shadow; black hair spilled in loose strands like ink. The style sat between lanes, boyish on the surface, the details whispering feminine if you traced the lines.

Only flaw: her chest was flat as a board—no hills, just a calm plain.

She didn’t care. Calm settled over her like night tide as she checked her phone; seriousness skimmed her small face like a passing cloud.

That night she’d received a text from Maya Hanazaka—old history poured out like rain—junior high, being isolated after outing her orientation, Mizuki woven through it like a thread. It was an explanation, a plea for Yun Shi’s forgiveness.

Restless swelled first, like wind tugging a curtain; then thought followed, as steady as footsteps. Yun Shi stared at that message for a long time, the heart never quite still.

Why does a girl who loves girls have to walk in thorn bushes?

Why can’t friends learn to share shade under the same tree?

They’d been friends once, now strangers passing like boats at night. It made no sense, like a bridge cut mid‑river.

From Maya’s words, she and her old friends had been close as spring grass. Yet the text said she would sever those ties, become her true self, alone as a single lantern.

No. That path felt wrong, because—

“Because it’s… Maya Hanazaka,” she breathed, the name a weight like a stone in water.

This was running from daylight, not truth—fear of past faces, fear of looking straight at them.

Yun Shi didn’t want that to happen. She wanted Maya to be herself, but not drown in yesterday’s flood.

Why think like an idiot? Because some idiot rubbed off on her like chalk dust, and now her thoughts wore the same messy fingerprints.

If being an idiot once can snap someone else awake, then fine. Worth it.

Earlier, she’d called Moa. In the Underworld, Moa had reach like roots under pavement; finding files on Chiyako Asakusa and Ayame Kusunoki was nothing. Yun Shi mapped their hangouts like a hunter tracing tracks, and decided to face them.

Chiyako Asakusa and Ayame Kusunoki attended Himegamikawa High, part‑time shifts marked like ticks on a clock. Yun Shi walked in as if by accident, a breeze through the door, and told them why she’d come—she wanted them to understand Maya.

“I admit it,” Chiyako exhaled, guilt a shadow on her face. “We gave Maya bad memories once. I know it’s our own fault.”

“I want to go back,” Ayame added, voice frayed like old cloth, “but that road feels gone.”

They sighed. Yun Shi stayed cool, back to the chair like a tree to earth, eyes on their regret like evening on glass.

“Maya Hanazaka plans to cut ties with you,” she said, words flat as a calm lake with a riptide beneath.

“Eh?” Shock froze them like deer in headlights.

“W‑wait,” Ayame stammered, panic fluttering like a trapped bird. “I wanted her to drop that ‘yuri’ thing, but I never said break it off.”

“Me either,” Chiyako blurted, hands twisting like vines. “I never said I hated her.”

“She said it herself,” Yun Shi replied, indifferent as winter sun. “Your feelings? Doesn’t matter against her choice.”

The two wilted, spirits crumpling like paper in rain. Yun Shi had expected that.

Maya wants to hack away old friends because they denied her. It’s a serious reason, sure—but to Yun Shi it was stupid to the bone. Those friends tried to pull a friend back from a cliff; it wasn’t denial, it was care. The line was thin as silk, but intention mattered.

Sometimes explanations blow away like dandelion seeds. Misunderstandings grow like weeds, and in the end two hearts harden into enemies.

With two lifetimes in her pocket, Yun Shi knew; she’d seen it before. In the last life, a close brother fell for a girl—sweet as spring, love loud as fireworks. One day he saw her around a few guys, cozy as cats in sun. Fury cracked him open; he confronted her, face storm‑black. She explained again and again, hands clasped like prayer, but his rage was a wall. He broke up.

She’d been clean, those guys were old friends, nothing more. His stubborn misread killed the garden. Self‑inflicted.

Back then, the brothers said he’d been reckless, blind as a charging bull.

Now Maya stood in a similar weather. Yun Shi refused to let the same storm flatten another tree. It was a friend’s wish, as small and fierce as a candle.

“Then here’s the only path,” Yun Shi said, voice a blade laid soft. “Accept her orientation.”

“Eh?” The word hung, thin as smoke.

“Idiots,” she pressed, a slap of cold water. “If she wants to cut ties because you won’t accept who she likes, then accept it and the knife disappears.”

“…” Silence puddled between them.

“You’ve lost to your own stubbornness,” she went on, rhythm steady as drums. “She likes girls. That won’t change. Stop thrashing in the net. Cool down. Accept her. Then you can walk back to before. If you’d accepted back then, none of this would’ve grown weeds.”

Why do this? Why play the bleeding‑heart fool?

It didn’t fit her bones. So why?

Yun Shi’s answer was simple as a pebble in the palm.

She couldn’t stand it.

Watching Maya lose her best friends—she wouldn’t let that tragedy bloom beside her. The world had enough cases like dry leaves; she refused to add one more near her. Who knows—next time it might be her.

She hadn’t had a real friend in ages. Maya was rare as a comet in this life. If she called someone a friend, she had no reason to stand still.

“Accept her,” she said, no quiver, no bow. “You don’t have another choice.”

It was meant to be a friend’s plea. It came out an order, sharp as a whistle. That annoyed her like grit in a shoe.

Chiyako and Ayame sank into the longest silence, eyes on their cups like ponds holding old skies. Maybe they were walking backward through memory.

“I’ll go get Maya Hanazaka,” Yun Shi said, rising like a drawn bow. “You’ll talk face‑to‑face.”

She stood. Chiyako glanced up, voice small as bell‑chime. “Why are you doing this?”

“Don’t twist it,” Yun Shi shot back, temper crackling like dry twigs. “I just can’t stand her choice. Be grateful. Make up with her, you idiots.”

Same old Yun Shi. She sprinted from the shop like a wind gust. Truth be told, she’d timed it for their clock‑out; now it was already eleven. She had to bring Maya.

Calling wouldn’t work; Maya would refuse, dug in like a stump. So she’d go to her door.

One more call first.

“Hello, who’s this?” The voice came through, smooth as water.

“Miyuki Kiseki? It’s me,” Yun Shi said, words clipped like steps.

“Oh—Yun‑kun. What’s up?” Miyuki’s tone warmed, a lamp in dusk.

“I need to ask about junior‑high—about you and Maya Hanazaka,” Yun Shi replied, urgency a drumbeat under her voice.

“Uh… why?” Breath hitched like a kite snagged.

“Idiot. I’m calling because I already know enough to ask,” Yun Shi snapped, a spark. “I met her old friends. Just finished talking.”

“Huh! You met… Chiyako and Ayame? I haven’t seen them in forever…”

“Anyway, come over. I’ll text you the address. They’re at the shop. I’m going to get Maya. She needs to talk to her friends, properly.”

“What do you mean, Yun‑kun—hey, don’t hang—”

She hung up. Eyes forward, she broke into a run, a streak down the street, ignoring looks like flies. No time to care.

Faster. Feet drummed like rain. Where to? Doesn’t matter.

Just bring her. That’s the line.

Only one thought pulsed like a lighthouse. Do it—because she’s a friend.

Maya’s usual face flashed in Yun Shi’s mind—always teasing girls like a mischievous fox, always hating boys like a cat hissing.

If she keeps sinking in this misunderstanding, she’ll twist herself, and the bond with everyone will sour like fruit left in sun.

Only now did Yun Shi get it—the “harem anime” male lead who plays the idiot hero for girls. It wasn’t to look cool under stage lights. It was because you can’t stand watching and doing nothing. You want to move. You want to change the weather.

If she won’t change, then I will. I’ll yank her out, I’ll be the fool. I’m done being that lukewarm, drifting self. Simple as that.

Yun Shi felt the same. No more cold eyes for someone she called friend. If possible, she wanted to step inside the circle for real.

So she ran.

She flagged a taxi, dove in like a swimmer. Impatient heat thumped in her chest until the car stopped.

Destination: a traditional Japanese single‑story home, quiet as a shrine. The “Hanazaka” nameplate glinted; this was Maya’s house. She pressed the doorbell without a second thought.

“Coming—ah, and you are?” A woman opened the door, face gentle as soft rain—Maya’s mother, from the look and the homewear.

“Is Maya Hanazaka home?” Yun Shi asked, voice steady as a plumb line.

“Oh, a friend? Come in,” the mother smiled, ushering her in like breeze through a curtain.

Yun Shi waited at the entry, mind a taut string, not a glance for the décor, until a familiar silhouette crossed the hall.

“Yun Shi? How’d you know where I live?” Maya asked, in loungewear, surprise popping like a spark.

“Easy. The internet,” Yun Shi said, cutting like a knife. “More importantly, we need to talk. You’re coming with me.”

She wouldn’t mention Moa’s help. The only plan now was movement.

“Go? Go where?” Maya blinked, confusion a swirl of smoke.

“Stop with the questions,” Yun Shi pointed, tone brooking no wind. “Come with me. I’m going to knock some sense into you, you clueless girl.”

Maya had never imagined her life could spin this vivid, colors blooming like fireworks—and all because of the girl standing at her door.