Kaito. His best friend. The man who’d lent him rent money when his freelance design gig dried up. The man who’d held his hair back when he’d drunk too much at the office party. And now, the man whose girlfriend was standing barefoot in a thin sweatshirt, offering him a beer.

The apartment smelled like her—jasmine shampoo and the faint, metallic tang of her printmaking inks. Rina was an artist. That’s how Kaito had introduced them three years ago. “Erito, this is Rina. She sees the world in colors I don’t even have names for.”

Kaito turned then, and Erito saw it—the crack in his best friend’s chest, raw and weeping. “Then why ?”

Erito had no good answer. He still doesn’t, years later. He could say chemistry . He could say the heart wants what it wants . But the truth was uglier: he had wanted something that wasn’t his, and he had taken it. Not because Rina was special. Not because Kaito was flawed. But because, for one selfish, burning moment, Erito had wanted to feel chosen.

He still dreams of cobalt ink. But now, when he wakes, he doesn’t reach for his phone. He makes coffee. He goes to work. And he tries, every day, to become someone who deserves a story where he is not the villain.

He walked away. Erito watched him go, the city lights smearing into gold and red through his tears.

“Can I ask you something?” Rina set her beer down. The clink of glass on the oak table was a small explosion. “Do you ever feel like you’re in the wrong story?”

Kaito found it in Rina’s coat pocket—a ramen shop in a neighborhood she had no reason to visit. The same neighborhood where Erito lived. Kaito was not stupid. He was a systems analyst. He spent his life connecting dots.