Scene 1: The Fainting Spell

It happened on a perfectly ordinary afternoon.

We were sitting in the park near her house, sketching the fountain while children ran around laughing. Hikari was drawing intently, her tongue peeking out as she concentrated — a habit that always made me smile.

“Haruki,” she said suddenly, “what color do you think the wind would be if we could see it?”

I laughed. “Transparent isn’t enough?”

“Nope. That’s boring.” She tapped her pencil against her lip thoughtfully. “Maybe light blue. Like sky melted into motion.”

“Light blue, huh?” I said, looking at her sketch. “Then draw it.”

But before she could answer, her hand slipped. The pencil fell to the ground.

Then she followed it.

“Hikari—!”

She crumpled sideways, hitting the grass. For a moment, the world seemed to stop — the sound of water, children, wind — all gone.

I dropped to my knees, shaking her shoulders. “Hey! Wake up! Hikari!”

Her breathing was shallow, her skin clammy. I shouted for help, panic making my voice break.

An older man nearby rushed over, calling an ambulance. I sat there holding her hand, my heart pounding so hard it hurt.

Her fingers were cold. Too cold.

Scene 2: Waiting Room

The hospital waiting room was bright and silent. Machines beeped behind closed doors; the smell of disinfectant filled the air.

I sat there, numb, my hands still shaking.

After what felt like hours, the door opened and her mother stepped out. Her eyes were red, but she managed a small, polite smile when she saw me.

“She’s stable,” she said softly.

The air left my lungs in a rush. “Can I see her?”

Her mother hesitated. “She’s sleeping. Maybe tomorrow.”

I nodded — but I couldn’t stop the question that came next. “What… what’s wrong with her?”

Her mother looked down. Her fingers twisted the edge of her sleeve.

“She has… a lung condition. It’s serious.”

She stopped there, as if saying more would make it too real.

Scene 3: The Doctor’s Words

I lingered longer than I should have, sitting near the vending machine in the dim corridor, when I overheard two nurses passing by.

“…The girl in 302?”

“Yeah. Idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis, right?”

“So young… poor thing. The lungs stiffen until…”

Their voices faded, but the words stayed.

Idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis.

A long name for something that sounded like slow suffocation.

I didn’t understand the medical part. I just knew it meant she was in pain.

Scene 4: Her Window

Before leaving, I passed by her room. The blinds were half-open, and inside, I saw her sleeping — pale, hooked up to a monitor, her hair spread over the pillow like spilled ink.

Her chest rose and fell slowly, painfully.

I pressed my forehead against the glass, swallowing hard.

So that’s what it was.

That’s why she smiled so hard.

That’s why she kept running, chasing, laughing — as if every second mattered.

Because it did.

Scene 5: The Name

That night, I sat at my desk, the words echoing again and again in my head.

Idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis.

A cruel, clinical phrase. Cold and heavy.

And yet, somehow, it felt like a name for everything I couldn’t understand about her — the fragility behind her laughter, the trembling behind her strength.

The next morning, I made a decision.

If her time was limited, then I would make sure none of it was wasted.

No more hesitating.

No more pretending I didn’t see the truth.

I would be there — every step, every day, every breath she still had left.

[To Be Continued in Chapter 16]