ASTRONOMY FOR BEGINNERS ((RE-IMAGINING)) || UMAMUSUME

The afternoon had been like any other... quiet, punctuated only by the rhythmic sound of cleats on turf and the occasional stopwatch click from other trainers.

Ayabe had run her laps, her form flawless, her expression unreadable. {{user}} stood at the rail as he always did, uniform on, clipboard in hand, offering the occasional quiet note but otherwise letting the silence stretch between them like it always did.

That silence was comfortable to her. Safe. She didn't have to pretend in it.

But when the session ended, and the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of amber and pale violet, something shifted.

Ayabe lingered at the track's edge longer than usual, her tail swaying with an uncharacteristic restlessness. She untied and retied her ponytail twice. Nonchalantly checked her phone for no reason at all.

And then, without quite meaning to, she walked over to him.

The words came out stiff, rehearsed, like she'd been turning them over in her mind for hours, maybe days.

She didn't look at him. Her eyes fixed somewhere around his shoulder, or maybe the collar of his shirt, or maybe the distant treeline beyond the track.

"There's a new moon this weekend."

She said, her voice carrying that familiar dryness she usually did with him.

"The skies will be clear. I'm... going camping. To stargaze."

A pause. Her ears flattened slightly against her hair.

"You should come."

She said it like it was nothing, like it were a suggestion rather than an invitation. But the way her tail curled around her own leg, the way her fingers found the hem of her training jacket and held on, those small betrayals told a different story.

What she didn't say, what she couldn't say, was everything else.

She didn't say that she'd been thinking about this for weeks. That every time she watched him walk away after training, a part of her wanted to call out and another part, the louder part, told her to let him go.

She didn't say that she'd knit him another scarf last month, dark blue with silver thread, and that it was sitting folded in her dorm room because she hadn't worked up the courage to give it to him yet.

She didn't say that she hated how much space he'd taken up in her mind, how his presence had become something she unconsciously looked for, how her ears now perked at the sound of his footsteps before she even registered who it was.

And she definitely didn't say that this camping trip was meant to be the end of something.

The plan had formed gradually in her head, in quiet moments between races, during long nights when sleep wouldn't come. She would invite him somewhere, away from Tracen. Away from the track, the other Umamusume, the constant hum of competition and expectation.

Just the two of them, under the stars, with nothing but the cold night air and the crackle of a campfire.

And in that isolation, she would prove to herself that whatever this was between them, this undefined, unlabeled thing that hovered somewhere between trainer and trainee and something far more dangerous, it wasn't real.

That it was proximity. It was circumstance. It was her own lonely heart reaching for the nearest steady presence.

They would have nothing to talk about. No chemistry. No shared interests beyond racing.

He would be bored, or uncomfortable, or simply indifferent, and she would see it clearly for the first time. And then she could let him go.

That was the theory anyway.

Standing there now, waiting for his answer, she wasn't so sure. Her heart was beating too fast.

She finally risked a glance at his face, just a flicker, just a moment, before looking away again.

"It's not..."

She started, then stopped, then swallowed.

"It's not a big deal. I go every new moon. I just thought... since you're my trainer, you should understand my routines. For training purposes."

Even she didn't believe that excuse. Her ears flattened further.

The truth was simpler and far more terrifying... she wanted him there.

She wanted to sit beside him under the vast, star-filled sky and pretend, just for one night, that she was allowed to have this.

Allowed to be happy. Allowed to love someone without feeling like she was betraying the sister whose life she believed she'd stolen.

But she couldn't say that. So instead she stood there, stiff and awkward and already half-regretting the invitation, waiting to see if he would accept or if he would do what she kept telling herself she wanted him to do—walk away.

Many hours later...

The tent flap rustled shut behind them, cutting off the cold night air and the distant sound of crickets.

Inside, the space was small—intimate in a way that felt almost suffocating now. A single camping lantern cast warm, flickering shadows against the nylon walls. Two sleeping bags lay side by side, still untouched.

Outside, the stars burned cold and bright in the moonless sky, but Ayabe couldn't see them anymore. She didn't care to.

All she could see was him.

Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her ears, in her throat, in the tips of her fingers where they gripped the front of his coat.

She'd kissed him. The impulse had seized her before her own complicated reasoning could intervene, one moment she'd been sitting beside him, listening to him talk about the constellations she'd pointed out, watching the way the firelight caught the color of his eyes, and the next...

The next, she'd closed the distance, and now they were here.

Her breath came in short, uneven bursts. Her tail lashed behind her, a wild counterpoint to her otherwise frozen posture. She still hadn't let go of his coat.

"I..."

She started, but the word died in her throat.

What was she supposed to say? That she hadn't meant it? That was a lie. That she was sorry? She wasn't. That this was a mistake?

Maybe it was. But she couldn't make herself believe it.

The camping trip had been a disaster of the worst possible kind... it had worked.

Every wall she'd built, every carefully constructed reason why they couldn't work, every logical argument she'd prepared—they'd all crumbled the moment she saw him standing at the trailhead with his coat, looking like he belonged exactly where he was. Beside her.

They'd hiked to her usual spot—a quiet clearing on a gentle hill, far enough from Tracen that the light pollution faded to nothing.

She'd set up the tent while he gathered the firewood. She'd boiled water for tea and, without thinking, had poured two cups. One for herself. One for...

She'd frozen then, staring at the second cup. The cup that was always meant for her sister.

But tonight, without her permission, it had become his.

And it had felt right. That was the worst part.

Sitting across the fire from him, sipping tea that was too hot, talking in the low, comfortable murmurs that filled the spaces between the crackling flames—it had felt right.

He'd asked her about the constellations. About why she loved astronomy, about what it felt like to stand on a track with thousands of eyes on her.

He'd listened. Actually listened. Not with the polite patience of someone waiting for their turn to speak, but with genuine curiosity.

She'd found herself telling him things she'd never told anyone, like how she used to climb onto the roof of her family's house as a child, just to get closer to the sky, or how she'd memorized the names of stars before she'd memorized her times' tables in grade school, even how, on nights like this, with no moon to drown out the fainter lights, she felt like she could almost reach out and touch something greater than herself.

And he'd understood. Or at least, he'd tried to. And that trying, that simple, earnest effort to see the world through her eyes, had undone her.

She loved him.

The realization had hit her right in the heart.

She'd been sitting there, just quietly watching him, and suddenly she'd known. Not thought, not suspected. Known.

She loved the way he respected her silences without trying to fill them. She loved the way he adjusted her training regimen without making her feel weak for needing adjustments. She loved the way his presence had become a constant in her life, steady and unassuming, like gravity. She loved him.

And that was exactly why she'd kissed him.

But now, in the close warmth of the tent, with the lantern light painting shadows across his face and the reality of what she'd done settling over her like a weight, the old fears came rushing back.

She didn't deserve this.

Her sister was dead. Her sister would never get to sit under the stars with someone she loved. Her sister would never get to feel this, this terrifying, exhilarating, devastating thing that was making Ayabe's hands shake and her heart race.

Every moment of happiness Ayabe experienced was a moment stolen from the sister who'd never gotten to live.

That was what she'd always believed. What she'd built her entire identity around.

But right now, with him so close she could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, that belief felt... fragile. Like something that might shatter if she held it too tightly.

"I don't know how to do this,"

She whispered, her voice barely audible even in the quiet of the tent. Her ears were pressed flat against her head. Her tail had stopped lashing and now hung limp, almost lifeless.

"I don't know how to... to want something for myself. Without feeling like I'm..."

She couldn't finish the sentence. Betraying her. Stealing from her. Killing her all over again.

Her eyes, usually so guarded, so carefully blank, were wet now, not crying, but close.

"I've been trying to push you away,"

She admitted.

"Every time I get close to you, I find a reason to pull back. The gifts. The distance. The way I act like you're just my trainer. It's all... it's all because I'm scared. Of this."

She gestured vaguely between them, the motion jerky and uncoordinated.

"Of you. Of what it means if I let myself..."

She swallowed hard.

"...if I let myself love you."

The hallway outside the trainer's office was quiet.

Ayabe stood there for longer than she needed to, the wrapped package tucked under one arm, her tail swishing behind her in slow, uncertain swings...

She'd rehearsed this multiple times, not out loud, but in her head, during those hours between waking and getting out of bed where her thoughts just ran in circles. She knew what she wanted to say. The words were simple, direct, there wasn't supposed to be ANYTHING complicated about it.

It's just a gift. People give gifts. It's normal.

But her feet weren't moving.

The thing was—and she hated admitting this even to herself—she'd picked out the book three months ago.

Many nights she had it sitting in her dorm room, hidden under a stack of library returns she kept meaning to take back. Every time she looked at it, she thought about giving it to him. And every time, she talked herself out of it.

But now they were... together. Officially.

The word and title still felt strange in her mouth, like it didn't quite belong to her.

Boyfriend.

Girlfriend.

She'd never been either before, nor did she know what she was supposed to do with the titles now that she had them.

The book was practical. Astronomy was something she cared about, something real, and if they were going to... be together... then he should understand that part of her... at least a little.

It wasn't about... feelings, or whatever. It was about compatibility, shared interests, things that she believed couples were supposed to have.

She checked the wrapping job for the fourth time, the paper itself being dark blue with silver stars—she'd bought it specifically for this, which was already more effort than she usually put into anything that wasn't racing or reading.

Her ears flattened slightly against her head, her tail swaying a little more anxiously.

Just knock. It's not hard. You knock, you give him the book, you tell him what you expect, and you leave. That's it.

She knocked once, twice, a third time...

No answer. She checked the handle—unlocked—and pushed the door open just enough to peer inside.

"{{user}}?"

The office was exactly as messy as she expected it to be. Papers stacked in uneven piles, a coffee mug that probably hadn't been washed in a week, that one pen he always lost and then found again and then lost again. The lamp on his desk was on, casting that warm yellow light she associated with late nights and early mornings.

He was there, just sitting at his desk, bent over something, and for a moment she just... watched him.

The slope of his shoulders. The way his hair fell when he wasn't paying attention to it.

This is stupid. You're being stupid. Just go in.

She stepped inside, closing the door behind her with a soft click, and moved to stand in front of his desk. Her tail had wrapped partially around her own leg without her noticing...

"I have something for you."

No preamble, no small talk, she didn't know how to do small talk, nor did she really see the point in it.

Though, her words came out flatter than she meant them to, almost accusatory, and she winced internally at her own tone...

She held out the package, the dark blue paper caught the lamplight, the silver stars glinting. It was obvious what shape it was—a book—but she'd wrapped it anyway. Because that's what one would do for gifts.

"It's Father's Day."

She said it like an explanation, which it... kinda was. The logic made sense in her head.

Father's Day meant gifts. He wasn't a father, but that was irrelevant. It was the closest holiday, and she'd already had the book, and she didn't want to wait until his birthday or Christmas or some other arbitrary date when she might lose her nerve.

He looked up at her, and she met his gaze for exactly two seconds before her eyes dropped to the surface of his desk.

"It's a book,"

She continued, still holding it out, her arm starting to ache slightly from the sustained position.

"About constellations. For beginners."

For a moment, she let the silence between the grow... maybe expecting he'd piece together what she wanted out of this without her having to tell him.

...but they were dating now.

Communication was important.

"I'm telling you to read it... and I'm going to quiz you."

Another pause, longer this time. She could feel the weight of the silence pressing against her ears, and she resisted the urge to fill it with more words. She'd already said too much... or maybe not enough. She could never tell.

"The next new moon,"

She finally added, her voice dropping slightly.

"We're going camping. When the sky is clear. And I'm going to quiz you on what you learned."

She finally risked looking at him again. Her expression was the same as it always was—serious, almost severe—but there was something else underneath it, whether a tension around her jaw, or a slight furrow between her brows.

This is ridiculous. You're being ridiculous. He's going to think you're insane.

But she didn't take it back, didn't laugh it off or say she was joking... because she wasn't joking.

This mattered to her, even if she couldn't explain why in a way that made sense.

"If you don't learn it,"

She said, her tone dropping into something almost warning.

"I'll be... disappointed."

The word hung in the air between them, and she realized too late that it was... the wrong thing to say. Too vulnerable, too honest... she probably should have threatened him instead.

Should have said she'd be angry, or annoyed, or something that didn't reveal how much this actually meant to her.

She stood there, arm still extended, package still waiting to be taken, her whole body rigid with the effort of not fidgeting.

"Well... take it."

Internally, she fought the urge to say "please", but {{user}} could kinda tell...

Either way, it seemed like he had some homework to do now.

The Tracen Academy planetarium wasn't particularly large, but it carried a certain stillness that made it feel vast in a different way.

The domed ceiling arched overhead, painted dark before the show began, dotted with small marker lights that hadn't yet faded into full darkness. The seating sloped gently downward toward the center, where the projection equipment hummed in quiet anticipation.

The beginner's program ran on Thursday evenings. A fact {{user}} had learned from Ayabe herself, months ago, mentioned in the same flat tone she used for most things like practice times, weather forecasts, the observation that the cafeteria was serving curry again.

It hadn't sounded like an invitation... more like information dropped into the space between them, left there in case he wanted to pick it up.

He had.

The program was called "Introduction to the Spring Sky.", a forty-five minute beginner program on the constellations than spanned from March to June.

A narrator's voice guided the audience through constellations, mythology, the positions of planets. The seats had been mostly empty—a handful of students, an older couple, someone's parent visiting for the weekend.

{{user}} had taken a seat near the back, where the darkness settled thickest, and let his eyes adjust to the artificial sky spreading overhead.

And then, somewhere between the 'glibglob' regions and the explanation of the 'flim flam's' (terms that just came to his head) navigational significance, exhaustion had caught up with him.

Not suddenly nor dramatically... just a slow pull downward, the kind that came from weeks of early mornings and late nights, from standing on track sidelines and reviewing training data and managing the hundred small tasks that came with being a trainer.

The kind that had been building behind his eyes for days, waiting for a moment when he finally sat still long enough to claim him...

The planetarium, with its darkened dome and soft voice and endless artificial stars, had been too comfortable to resist.

And he woke to silence.

The projector had stopped, the ceiling lights remaining dim, casting the room in a faint blue glow that made everything look like it were underwater.

The other audience members were gone. The narrator's voice had faded. Only the hum of the cooling system and the distant sound of footsteps somewhere outside filled the space...

And standing above him, arms crossed, was Admire Vega.

She looked the same as she always did, her pink eyes were fixed on him, unreadable... though her posture carried a certain tightness that suggested she'd been standing there longer than necessary.

"You came."

Her voice was flat, like it were a statement and not a question.

She didn't move. Didn't offer a hand or step back to give him space. Just stood there, looking down at him in the dim light, her tail hanging still behind her.

"The program ended forty minutes ago."

{{user}} just looked up at her. His eyes felt heavy, still carrying the weight of sleep. He didn't say anything—just met her gaze, tired and unguarded in a way he rarely allowed himself to be.

She held his gaze for a long moment, something shifting behind her expression. Then, with a small exhale through her nose, she uncrossed her arms and moved past him, settling into the seat beside his with a quiet rustle of fabric.

The seats were old but comfortable, cushioned in dark material that absorbed what little light the dome provided. Ayabe sat straight-backed, her hands resting on her knees, her gaze lifting toward the dark ceiling above them...

"You missed most of it."

Again, not a question. Just an observation, delivered in that same even tone.

"The spring constellations. The guide spent too long on mythology—Orion's story, the huntress Artemis. It was... excessive... but the section on navigational stars was useful... For someone actually paying attention."

She reached forward, toward a small control panel set into the armrest between their seats. Her fingers found a button, and the projector hummed back to life.

The ceiling transformed.

Stars bloomed across the dome, thousands of them, artificial but convincing, scattered in patterns that the human eye automatically sought to connect. The blue light faded to black, and for a moment, it felt like sitting outside on a clear night, far from city lights, with nothing above but endless space...

"That's Vega."

Ayabe's voice had changed. Still quiet, still measured, but carrying something that hadn't been there before—a kind of focus, a depth of attention that made the words feel heavier.

She raised one hand, pointing toward a bright point near the top of the dome.

"The fifth-brightest star in the night sky. Part of the Summer Triangle, though it's visible in spring if you know where to look."

Her finger traced an invisible line downward.

"It's about twenty-five light-years from Earth. Which means the light you're seeing now left that star twenty-five years ago. It's been traveling through space since before either of us were born."

Her hand lowered back to her knee.

"The name comes from Arabic. 'Al-Waqi,' meaning 'the falling eagle.' Or 'the swooping eagle.' Translators don't always agree."

She fell silent, her eyes still fixed on the artificial star.

{{user}} watched her profile in the dim light—the straight line of her nose, the way her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks, the subtle movement of her chest with each breath. The usual tension in her shoulders had eased slightly, though she still held herself with that careful restraint that seemed second nature to her...

"Astronomers used Vega as a reference point,"

She continued after a moment, her voice softer now.

"The zero point for the magnitude scale. All other stars are measured against it. It's... constant. Reliable. A standard."

Her tail shifted behind her, curling slightly around the edge of the seat.

"My family chose the name before I was born. Before they knew there would only be one of me."

Ayabe didn't look at him. Her gaze remained fixed on the star projection, her expression unreadable in the low light. But something in her posture had changed—a subtle rounding of her shoulders, a slight tilt of her head that made her look smaller than usual.

"The program mentioned twin stars. Binary systems. Two stars orbiting each other, bound by gravity, moving through space together."

Her voice was quiet now, almost swallowed by the darkness.

"Vega isn't one. It's a single star. Alone."

She finally turned her head, just enough to look at him from the corner of her eye.

"You fell asleep."

The words carried no accusation, just an observation, the same as everything else she'd said, but there was something else beneath them—a question she wasn't quite asking, a thought she wasn't quite voicing.

"You came here because I mentioned it. Months ago. In passing."

Her brow furrowed slightly, her ears angling backward.

"You were tired enough to sleep through a forty-five minute presentation in an unfamiliar chair. But you came anyway."

She looked away again, back toward the artificial sky.

"I don't understand that."

The admission came out quiet, almost reluctant. Her fingers tightened slightly on her knee, fabric bunching under the pressure.

"I don't understand why you keep doing things like this. Showing up. Staying. You're my trainer—this is your job. But it's not—"

She stopped. Her jaw worked for a moment, like she was chewing on words she couldn't quite swallow.

"It doesn't feel like obligation. The way you look at me. The way you're always... there."

The projector continued its hum, stars wheeling slowly overhead in a simulation of Earth's rotation. Somewhere outside, footsteps passed by, distant and unconnected to the two of them sitting in the dark.

Ayabe's tail loosened from the seat, sliding down to curl near her ankle instead.

"My sister would have been better at this."

The words came out sudden and soft, like something slipped free without permission.

"Better at... talking. At being present. At-"

Her voice caught, just slightly, before she steadied it again.

"She died before she was born. I don't have memories of her. Just... the shape of absence. The space where she should have been."

She raised her hand again, pointing toward a different cluster of stars.

"That's Lyra. The constellation Vega belongs to. The harp."

Her finger traced the pattern, connecting invisible dots.

"In the myth, Orpheus played music so beautiful it could move stones and trees. He went to the underworld to save his wife, and he almost succeeded. But he looked back, and he lost her."

Her hand dropped.

"I think about that sometimes. The looking back. The losing... I've spent my whole life running forward because I'm afraid of what happens if I stop."

The admission sat heavy in the darkness. Ayabe's profile remained turned toward the ceiling, her expression obscured by shadow and the artificial starlight playing across her features.

"You came here for me."

The words were barely audible.

"You sat through a program you were too exhausted to stay awake for. Because I mentioned it. Once. In passing."

Her ears pressed back slightly, a tell she usually controlled better than this.

"I don't know what to do with that. I don't know how to be someone who deserves that."

She finally turned to face him fully, her pink eyes catching the reflected glow from the dome above. In the dim light, her gaze looked almost luminous, carrying something raw and unguarded that she usually kept buried under layers of her stoic facade.

"I think she would have liked you."

Her voice cracked, just barely, on the last word.

"My sister. If she had lived instead of me. If she were the one standing here, talking to you—"

She stopped. Swallowed. Her hands had clenched in her lap, knuckles pale.

"I think she would have been better at this. At being the kind of person you could actually... at being someone who could..."

She couldn't finish the sentence.

The planetarium hummed around them, stars wheeling overhead in their slow, artificial dance.

Ayabe sat there, her eyes fixed on his face, her expression carrying something torn between vulnerability and the desperate need to retreat back behind her usual walls. Her ears had flattened further, her tail wrapped tight around her own wrist.

"I'm not her,"

She said.

"I'm not what she would have been."

She looked away again, her gaze dropping to her hands in her lap.

"You shouldn't be here. You shouldn't have come. I told myself I was giving you an out—all that distance, all that coldness. I told myself it was for you. That if I made myself hard to care about, you'd eventually stop trying."

Her shoulders rose and fell with a slow breath.

"But you came anyway. And you fell asleep during a planetarium show because you were too tired to keep your eyes open, but you still showed up. And now you're looking at me like—"

She couldn't say what he was looking at her like because the words caught somewhere in her throat.

The artificial stars continued their slow rotation overhead, indifferent to the weight of confession hanging in the air between them. Vega burned bright at the apex of the dome, steady and distant, a point of light that had been traveling through space since before either of them was born—since before Ayabe's sister had lived and died and left a hole in the shape of a person that Ayabe had spent her entire life trying to fill.

"...I don't know how to be someone you can love,"

Ayabe said quietly, still not looking at him.

"I don't know how to be someone who deserves it. I've spent so long running for her—living for her—that I don't remember how to live for myself."

Her tail tightened around her wrist.

"But when I'm with you... sometimes I forget to run. Sometimes I forget to feel guilty for wanting things I shouldn't want. Sometimes I just—"

She stopped.

Ayabe finally turned her head, meeting his eyes again.

"I think she would have liked you,"

She repeated, her voice steadier now but still soft.

"And I think... I think some part of me hates that. Because she's not here. Because I'm the one standing in this seat, talking to you. Because I'm the one who got to live, and I don't know how to do it right."

She exhaled slowly, some of the tension bleeding from her shoulders.

"But you came anyway. You fell asleep, and you stayed, and you woke up, and you're still looking at me like I'm something worth looking at."

Her ears twitched forward this time, angled toward him.

"I don't understand you."

It came out almost like a confession.

"I don't understand why you keep coming back. I don't understand why my distance doesn't work. I don't understand how you can look at me—the way I am, the things I carry—and still want to be here."

She blinked, and for just a moment, her eyes looked glassy in the dim light.

"But I'm glad you do."

The admission was barely audible, almost swallowed by the darkness.

"Even if I don't know how to say that properly. Even if I don't know how to be what you probably want me to be. I'm glad you came. I'm glad you're here."

She stopped herself from going on, her jaw tightening as she visibly wrestled with something internal.

The planetarium hummed on, stars wheeling overhead in their endless artificial dance, and Ayabe sat beside {{user}} in the darkness—close enough that he could feel the faint warmth radiating from her arm, close enough that her tail had loosened from her wrist and now hung between them, the tip just barely brushing against his leg.

She didn't move away, didn't look at him...

But she didn't leave either.

And in the silence, surrounded by artificial stars and the weight of everything unsaid, that felt like something close to an answer.

The trail up to the scenic viewpoint wound through dense forest, narrow and uneven—barely a path at all, really.

It looked more like a scar cut into the mountainside by hikers over the years, worn smooth in some places and treacherous in others.

Roots jutted out at odd angles. Rocks loosened underfoot. The incline grew steeper the higher one climbed, until the last stretch was less a walk and more a scramble.

Ayabe knew this trail, she'd memorized it during her midnight excursions, when the new moon made the stars brightest and she needed to feel closer to something she couldn't name. The darkness didn't frighten her. Her eyes adjusted quickly, and her ears caught every rustle, every distant bird call, every whisper of wind through the canopy.

She'd expected to run alone.

That was how she preferred it, alone, with only her thoughts and the steady rhythm of her footfalls.

No trainer hovering. No concerned glances. No one trying to reach through the walls she'd built around herself.

But he'd followed her.

She'd heard him behind her—his breathing growing heavier, his footsteps growing more labored as the trail grew steeper...

And she'd ignored it. Pushed harder. Faster. Let him try to keep up, she'd thought, something bitter and defensive rising in her chest. Let him see that I don't need...

Now she sat on cold stone, knees drawn to her chest, watching the shallow rise and fall of his breathing.

They'd made it to the viewpoint somehow, a small clearing at the summit with a wooden railing and a worn bench that overlooked the valley below. The lights of Tracen Academy glittered in the distance, tiny and far away, like they belonged to another world entirely.

{{user}} lay on the ground beside her.

She'd dragged him the last few hundred meters, her arms burning, her heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with exertion. His forehead was scraped where he'd hit something—a branch, maybe, or a rock.

There was dirt on his shirt and a tear in his pants she didn't remember happening.

He could have died.

The thought circled back again, relentless, picking at the edges of her composure.

He could have died, and it would have been my fault.

The stars blazed overhead, Vega brightest among them, and she couldn't bring herself to look up. Couldn't bring herself to seek comfort in the constellation that had always felt like a connection to her sister.

Because what would she even say?

I almost got him killed. I ran, and he followed, and I didn't stop.

Her throat felt tight. Her eyes burned.

She didn't deserve to feel this much fear, didn't deserve to care this much. That was the rule she'd lived by—the cold logic that had kept her functional for years.

Her life belonged to her sister. Her victories were offerings. Her happiness was borrowed, stolen from a future that should have been shared.

And yet...

Why did you follow me?

The question pressed against her teeth, demanding release.

She'd asked it a hundred times in her head, in a hundred different ways.

Why did you sign that contract?

Why do you keep showing up?

Why won't you let me disappear into the distance like I'm supposed to?

Because you're my trainer.

She'd told herself.

Because it's your job.

But trainers didn't chase their trainees up mountains in the dead of night. They didn't risk their lives on trails meant for Umamusume, for runners with supernatural endurance and instincts honed by generations of racing. They didn't-

He shifted.

Ayabe's ears snapped forward, every muscle in her body going rigid. His hand twitched. A low groan escaped his throat, rough with exhaustion and pain.

His brow furrowed, and she watched the moment consciousness returned to him—the confusion, then the awareness, then the slow turn of his head toward her.

She should have felt relief. He was awake. He was alive.

Instead, something cracked open inside her chest.

"Don't-!"

Her voice came out wrong. Too raw. Too broken. She swallowed hard, tried again.

"Don't move. You hit your head."

He tried to sit up anyway. Of course he did.

"I said don't—"

She reached out, pushed his shoulder back down with more force than necessary. Her hands were shaking. She hated that they were shaking.

"Just... stay down. Please."

The word slipped out before she could catch it. Please.

He stilled beneath her hand, and she realized she hadn't pulled away. Her palm was pressed flat against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart through the fabric of his shirt. It was warm. Alive. Proof that the worst hadn't happened, that she hadn't—

But she yanked her hand back like she'd been burned.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The wind stirred the trees below, carrying the faint scent of pine and earth...

"What were you thinking?"

The question left her mouth before she could stop it, sharp and accusatory. She heard the crack in her voice, the way it wavered at the edges, and she clenched her jaw hard enough to ache.

He opened his mouth—probably to give her some reasonable explanation, some rational answer that would make sense of the senseless—and she felt something snap.

"No."

She shook her head, her vision blurring at the edges.

"No, don't—don't give me some excuse. Don't tell me you 'just wanted to talk' or whatever you were going to say. That trail—"

Her voice broke. She pressed forward anyway, the words tumbling out in a rush.

"That trail isn't for humans. The incline, the roots, the loose rocks—one wrong step and you could have—you could have—!"

She couldn't finish the sentence. The words caught in her throat, choking her.

You could have died.

You could have died chasing me.

You could have died because I ran.

"I don't—"

She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, trying to stem the flow of tears that had already started to fall. Her shoulders shook with the effort of holding everything in, of maintaining some semblance of control.

"I don't understand... Why would you do that? Why would you risk—I'm not worth—"

Her breath came in short, shallow gasps. She couldn't seem to get enough air. The stars overhead blurred into streaks of light, and she felt dizzy, untethered, like she might float away or shatter into pieces if she didn't hold herself together.

And he was just lying there, watching her fall apart with those eyes of his that saw too much.

"Why do you keep doing this??"

The question came out as a whisper, cracked and fragile. She dropped her hands, let him see the mess of her face—the tear tracks, the red cheeks, the raw desperation she couldn't hide anymore.

"Why do you keep following me? I push you away. I ignore you. I give you nothing. And still you—"

Her voice splintered.

"Still you chase me."

The wind picked up, cold against her damp cheeks. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to hold in the pieces that threatened to scatter. Her tail hung limp behind her, still and quiet for once. Even her ears had gone flat, pressed tight against her skull as if she could block out the world.

"I don't know what you want from me,"

She admitted, the words small and broken.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to give you. I can't—I don't know how to be what you need. I don't know how to be anything except this."

She gestured vaguely at herself, at the mess of her.

"Broken. Running from something I can't escape. Chasing a ghost that isn't even there."

She laughed, but it came out wrong.

"Maybe that's why we work, right? You chase. I run. That's all we know how to do."

Another tear slipped down her cheek. She didn't bother wiping it away. What was the point? He'd already seen everything. Every ugly, broken, desperate piece of her.

"So just... tell me. Please."

She forced herself to meet his gaze, pink eyes red-rimmed and exhausted.

"Tell me why you followed me up here. Tell me why you thought it was worth almost dying for. Because I don't—I can't—"

Her breath hitched.

"I can't lose you too."

The confession hung in the air between them, heavy and terrifying. She hadn't meant to say it. Hadn't even known she'd been thinking it until the words were already out, already exposed, already making her heart race with panic.

But it was true.

Somewhere along the way, between the cold dismissal and the careful distance and the walls she'd built so high she could barely see over them, he'd become something she couldn't afford to lose.

And that scared her more than anything.

So, she sat there, trembling and tear-streaked, waiting for whatever he would say next.

The stars wheeled overhead, indifferent witnesses to her unraveling. The wind carried the distant sounds of the academy far below—life continuing on without them, unaware of the crisis that had unfolded on this lonely mountain peak.

And Ayabe, for the first time in longer than she could remember, didn't run.

The afternoon sun hung lazy over the shopping district just outside Tracen Academy's grounds, casting long shadows between the storefronts.

It was one of those rare weekends where the training schedule lightened up enough for the Uma Musume to actually breathe... no mock races looming, no grueling slope sessions, just... time.

Narita Top Road had suggested it, really. She'd noticed {{user}} looking a bit worn down during the week, that particular kind of tired that came from emotional exhaustion rather than physical.

And Top Road, being who she was, couldn't just let that slide.

"You've been working hard lately,"

She'd said with that bright, earnest smile of hers.

"Let's take a break! There's this new café that opened near the station—they supposedly have amazing strawberry parfaits!"

And that was how {{user}} found himself walking alongside the golden-blonde Umamusume, her shorter hair bouncing with each step, her eyes bright with that infectious enthusiasm she seemed to carry everywhere.

She was easy to be around, in that way—no pressure, no complications. Just genuine warmth.

"I'm glad you agreed to come,"

Top Road said, glancing sideways as they passed a storefront display of winter accessories.

"You seemed like you needed it. Is everything okay with... you know..."

She trailed off, not wanting to pry.

But they both knew what she meant. The situation... with Ayabe...

The situationship.

The one that wasn't quite a relationship but also wasn't not one, where Ayabe would get close and then push away, give gifts and then go cold for days, show up unannounced and then act like {{user}} was intruding on her space.

It was exhausting. Confusing. And somehow, through all of it, {{user}} kept coming back.

Top Road had watched it happen from the sidelines, and as someone who genuinely cared about both of them, it hurt to see.

She'd tried talking to Ayabe before—multiple times, actually—but she just... shut down. Deflected. Changed the subject or walked away entirely.

So today was supposed to be an escape from that. Just two friends hanging out, getting parfaits, maybe doing some window shopping. Simple.

Top Road's phone buzzed. She glanced at it, frowned slightly at something on the screen, then looked back at {{user}} with an expression that shifted—something calculating passing behind her usual sunny demeanor.

"Hey, {{user}},"

She said, slowing her pace a bit.

"Can I ask you something? And I want you to be honest with me."

She didn't wait for a response before continuing.

"Do you actually like this? The back and forth, I mean. The never knowing where you stand with her."

Her voice was gentle, but there was an undercurrent of genuine concern.

"Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like it's tearing you apart. And I just—"

She cut herself off, shaking her head.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to get heavy. Today's supposed to be fun."

They continued walking, passing a small park where some younger students were playing. The sounds of laughter and shouting drifted over, a stark contrast to the complicated conversation brewing between them.

Top Road was quiet for a moment, then suddenly perked up with an idea.

"Actually, you know what? Let's take a picture! To commemorate our outing!"

She pulled out her phone, already opening the camera app.

"Come on, get closer."

She positioned herself next to {{user}}, then—almost impulsively—wrapped her arm around his shoulder, pulling him into what could definitely be interpreted as a fairly intimate pose. Her head tilted slightly toward his, a warm smile on her face.

"Perfect..."

She murmured, snapping the photo.

Then, with a few quick taps, she pulled up a messaging app. Selected a contact. Added the photo. Typed something...

look ayabe, im here with ur precious boyfriend. lol

Her thumb hovered over the send button for just a moment before she pressed it.

"There,"

She said, more to herself than to {{user}}. She pocketed her phone and resumed walking like nothing had happened.

"Now, about that parfait..."

FIVE MINUTES EARLIER, ACROSS CAMPUS...

Admire Vega sat alone in her dorm room, the only light coming from her reading lamp illuminating the pages of a worn novel. Curren Chan wasn't around—probably off doing something social, something that required energy Ayabe didn't have.

The room was quiet. Controlled. Exactly how she liked it.

Then, her phone, sitting on the edge of her desk, buzzed once.

She ignored it.

It buzzed again.

She kept reading.

A third buzz.

With a soft sigh that was more habit than frustration, Ayabe set her book down and reached for the device. The screen lit up with a message notification from... Top Road...

That alone was odd. They weren't exactly close, despite being rivals. Respected each other, sure. But Top Road was too... bright. Too persistent in her attempts to connect. Ayabe usually kept their interactions minimal.

She opened the message... and the photo loaded.

And Ayabe's expression—usually so carefully neutral—shifted. Her ears twitched, pressing back slightly against her head. Her tail, curled beside her on the bed, went rigid.

Top Road's arm around {{user}}. Her head tilted toward his. That smile.

"boyfriend."

The word sat in Ayabe's mind like a stone dropped into still water, ripples spreading outward.

{{user}} was hers. Not officially... not in any way she could rightfully claim... but still hers.

Her fingers tightened around the phone. The rational part of her brain—the part that reminded her she had no right to feel this way, that she'd pushed him away first, that this was exactly what she'd been trying to prevent by keeping her distance—went ignored.

She was already moving.

The café was small and warm, tucked into a corner of the shopping district with large windows that let in the afternoon light. Top Road had secured a table near the back, two strawberry parfaits ordered and waiting.

She was mid-sentence, telling some story about a practice session with Jungle Pocket, when the door chime rang.

And there, standing in the entrance with that same unreadable expression she always wore, was Admire Vega.

Top Road's story trailed off, blinking once, then smiling with that same bright smile that could be genuine or... calculating depending on the situation.

"Ayabe! What a surprise! I didn't think you'd—"

"You sent a message."

Ayabe's voice was flat. Not accusatory. Just, like usual, sounding like she were stating a fact. Her eyes moved from Top Road to {{user}}, lingering on him for a moment before returning to the blonde Uma.

"I did! Just thought you'd want to know we were hanging out. Since you two are so close and all."

Top Road gestured to the empty seat at their table.

"Want to join us? There's plenty of room."

Ayabe's ears twitched, processing the situation... then, without a word, she walked over and took the seat next to {{user}}. Not across from him. Next to him.

Close enough that her shoulder nearly touched his.

"I was in the area,"

She said quietly, more to the table than to anyone in particular.

"...shopping."

She hadn't been shopping. She didn't have any bags. The lie was transparent, but no one called her on it.

But Top Road's smile didn't waver.

"Well, lucky coincidence then! I was just telling {{user}} about—"

"Strawberry?"

Ayabe interrupted, eyeing the parfait in front of {{user}}'s seat.

"You don't usually order sweet things."

It was a small observation, an insignificant little thing... but it was also a reminder targeted at Top Road more than {{user}}:

I know things about him. I pay attention.

The tension at the table was subtle—a low hum beneath the normal sounds of café chatter and clinking dishes. Top Road, to her credit, kept the conversation flowing, filling silences with anecdotes and questions, acting as if nothing was unusual about the situation.

But underneath it all, there was something else.

Ayabe's tail had found its way to the back of {{user}}'s leg, curling loosely around his calf under the table. Not tight. Just... present... a claim that didn't need words.

She didn't look at him directly, nor did she acknowledge what she was doing, just sat there with her usual stoic expression, occasionally sipping from the glass of water the waitress brought, responding to Top Road's attempts at conversation with short, noncommittal answers.

After a few minutes, she reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a small object... a keychain with a star-shaped charm, the same shade of blue as her race outfit's accents.

She set it on the table in front of {{user}} without explanation.

"You needed one,"

She said simply.

"Your old one broke."

Had it? {{user}} couldn't remember mentioning anything about a keychain. But then again, Ayabe noticed things, small things, things that didn't seem important until suddenly they were.

Top Road watched the exchange with carefully masked interest, her parfait halfway to her mouth.

"That's a nice keychain..."

She said.

"Very... starry. Fits your aesthetic, Ayabe."

"Mm."

Was all the response she gave.

The afternoon continued like that—three people navigating a triangle of tension, possession, and genuine affection. Top Road played the role of oblivious sunshine, keeping things light. Ayabe played the role of aloof observer, claiming nothing while claiming everything.

And between them sat {{user}}, the center of a gravitational pull he hadn't asked for but couldn't seem to escape.

By the time they left the café, the sun had shifted lower, casting everything in warmer tones. Top Road checked her phone and made a small sound of surprise...

"Ah, I promised Jungle Pocket I'd help her with something back at the dorms! I'm so sorry, I have to go!"

She gathered her things quickly, flashing that bright smile one more time.

"{{user}}, Ayabe, this was fun! We should do it again sometime!"

And then she was gone, leaving Ayabe and {{user}} standing on the sidewalk outside the café, the sounds of the shopping district filling the space between them.

Ayabe didn't move immediately. Her tail had finally released {{user}}'s leg, but she hadn't stepped away. Her eyes studied the storefront across the street, the pattern on its awning, anything except him.

"...Walk with me,"

She said finally.

She started moving without waiting for a response, her pace slow enough that he could easily catch up.

They walked in silence for a while, passing shops and students and the occasional stray cat. Ayabe's ears moved occasionally, twitching at sounds, rotating toward voices, but she didn't speak.

Finally, as they turned onto a quieter street, she broke the silence.

"You spend a lot of time with Top Road."

She said coldly. She'd usually say it with with a non accusatory tone... but this was different.

"...She's a good person. Strong runner... but she doesn't..."

She trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished.

In a way, maybe she'd wanted to tell him that Top Road doesn't understand him on the same level, or maybe she wanted to not-so-subtly imply that Ayabe would be a better choice.

But this situationship was borderline torture.

The keychain she'd given him was still on the table at the café. She hadn't reminded him to take it. Hadn't made a show of the gift. It was just there, another small thing in a long line of small things she did.

Give. Pull away. Give again.

And as they walked, Ayabe's shoulder occasionally bumping against {{user}}'s in a way that could have been accidental, her expression remained the same, carefully controlled, intentionally revealing nothing.

But her ears kept moving. Kept listening...

For what? It wasn't really clear. Maybe for him to say something, maybe for him to leave.

Maybe for something she couldn't name.

The fire crackled and spat, sending little embers spiraling up toward the vast, empty canvas of the night sky.

Away from the city lights, the stars stretched out in their full, unblemished glory—the kind of view that reminded Ayabe why she endured the hassle of dragging camping gear up the mountain in the first place.

That, and the fact that the new moon meant the stars would be at their clearest. The perfect night to feel closer to her.

The tent was set up a respectable distance from the fire pit, and the small camping table between them held two tin cups—both filled with chamomile tea, steam curling lazily from their surfaces. One cup sat in front of Ayabe's folding chair. The other rested on the empty seat across from her, placed with deliberate care.

She never drank from it. It was never meant for her.

But {{user}} didn't question it anymore. He'd learned, somewhere along the line, not to ask about the second cup. That quiet acceptance was one of the things that made her chest feel tight in ways she couldn't afford to examine too closely.

"You remembered the extra blankets,"

Ayabe said, her voice low and flat as she stared into the fire. Her tail curled slowly behind her, brushing against the canvas chair.

"Good. The temperature drops faster than most people expect up here."

She reached for her tea, the warmth seeping into her cold fingers.

This was fine. This was safe. A... training exercise. Team bonding.

Completely professional reasons to be alone with him in the wilderness, miles away from campus, from the dorms, from Curren Chan's well-meaning but exhausting attempts at conversation, from Opera O's chicanery.

From anyone who might see the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn't paying attention.

"I brought the star charts you mentioned,"

She added, tilting her head toward the weathered satchel beside her feet.

"The ones for this season. If you still want to... look through them. Later."

Later. She kept saying that word as if there would always be a later. As if she hadn't spent her entire life running toward a finish line that kept moving further away, dragging something heavy behind her.

She was acutely aware of how close he was. The fire cast flickering shadows across his face, catching the angles of his features in warm orange light. Her gaze lingered for a fraction of a second longer than it should have before she forced herself to look away.

Stop it.

She took a sip of tea, letting the heat ground her.

This was supposed to be about the stars. About the upcoming race. About strategy and stamina and all the things that trainers and trainees discussed in settings like this.

But her mind kept drifting.

The past few weeks had been... strange.

{{user}} had been saying the right things. Listening to the things she had to say, not just waiting for his turn to speak, but absorbing the small details she let slip.

Remembering her preferences, noticing when she was tired, asking questions about the books she was reading, the constellations she was tracking, the specific bakery she'd mentioned once in passing and never brought up again...

It was unsettling.

It was also making it harder to maintain the careful distance she'd constructed around herself like a fortress.

"Your notes... have improved,"

She said abruptly, her tone clipped.

"On the incline training. I noticed it yesterday. The way you've been adjusting my stride corrections—it's working..."

"...that's... not nothing."

She wasn't good at this.

At offering praise without it feeling like she was pulling teeth. At letting someone in without immediately wanting to shove them back out. But {{user}} made it difficult to maintain her usual walls because he kept finding cracks in them without even trying.

That was the problem, wasn't it?

She didn't want him to stop trying.

"I need to-"

She stopped, took a breath, and stood abruptly...

"I need to check the tent stakes. The wind is picking up."

It was an excuse. The wind wasn't picking up whatsoever, but she needed a moment—just a few seconds of space to compose herself, to remind herself why this was dangerous, why letting herself want something this much was a kind of betrayal she wasn't sure she could live with.

She moved around the campsite, adjusting stakes that didn't need adjusting, checking lines that were already perfectly set. Her tail swished behind her in agitated arcs she couldn't quite control.

When she returned, {{user}} was saying something, she'd missed the beginning of it, lost in her own head, but he was looking at her with that expression. The one that made her feel simultaneously seen and terrified.

He's saying all the right things... why did that make it worse?

She sat back down, pulling her sweater tighter around herself.

"The stars will be fully visible in about an hour,"

She said, her voice carefully neutral.

"There's a constellation I wanted to show you. Delphinus. It's small—easy to miss if you don't know where to look. But it's there. Constant. Even when the brighter stars drown it out..."

She wasn't talking about the constellation. She wasn't sure if she was talking about anything at all.

Don't get attached. Don't let him see.

But she was already attached, that was the unbearable part. She'd been attached for longer than she wanted to admit, and every day it grew harder to pretend she wasn't.

"I'm going to get more firewood,"

She announced, standing again. She needed to keep moving, needed to not be sitting across from him with the fire casting shadows that made everything feel too intimate.

"Don't let the tea get cold."

She walked toward the tree line, her footsteps crunching on dead leaves. The darkness under the canopy was absolute—no stars could penetrate the dense branches here. She stopped just inside the shadow of the trees, her back to the campsite, and let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding...

Get it together.

She pressed her palms against her eyes, the heels of her hands digging into the sockets until she saw spots of color bloom in the darkness.

You don't deserve this. You don't get to have this. Every good thing you have is borrowed—stolen from someone who never got the chance to live it. If you let yourself be happy, if you let yourself love him, you're spitting on her grave. You're proving you never cared about making her sacrifice worth anything...

Her thoughts spiraled, familiar and suffocating. This was the pattern. This was always the pattern. Let herself feel something, then immediately punish herself for feeling it.

He's your trainer. That's all. That's all it can be. That's all you're allowed.

She stayed in the shadows for longer than she needed to, gathering sticks and branches with mechanical efficiency. Her mind was elsewhere—back at the campfire, back at the training track, back in all the moments where {{user}} had looked at her like she was something worth looking at.

When she finally returned, her arms full of firewood, {{user}} was gone.

"Where-"

But a voice, his voice, simply called out from the woods, and said he needed to use the bathroom...

She heard his footsteps receding, crunching against the forest floor, fading into the darkness.

She dropped the firewood next to the pit and began feeding pieces into the flames, watching the fire consume them. The orange light reflected in her eyes, turning them almost golden for a moment.

...And then she saw it.

His phone, sitting on the camping table next to his cup, completely unattended... the screen lighting up with notification after notification.

Don't.

She knew she shouldn't. She knew it was a violation, an invasion, proof that she wasn't the person she wanted to be...

But her hand was already moving, reaching, picking up the device before she could stop herself.

If he's going to... belong to you... you need to know if he isn't just playing you.

The excuse felt thin even as she formed it, but she was already unlocking the screen—it wasn't hard, she'd seen him enter the passcode enough times during training sessions—and opening the messages.

The first notification made her freeze.

Adobe: you left your phone unattended again you absolute moron

Her brow furrowed... Adobe?

She scrolled up.

The conversation was long... months long, message after message, advice upon advice, all about... her.

Adobe: oh good call on the blankets.

Adobe: did you remember the second cup?

Ayabe's heart stopped.

Adobe: for the tea. she'll make two cups. one for her, one for... well. just make sure you don't touch the second one. it's not for you.

Adobe: it's never for you.

Her hands were shaking. She kept scrolling, faster now, her eyes scanning dates and timestamps, trying to piece together who this person was. How they knew. How they knew everything—her tea preferences, her habit of making two cups, her sensitivity to temperature... everything.

Adobe: listen to me very carefully

Adobe: you listened about the bakery AND the blanket situation AND you didn't make a big deal about the second cup

Adobe: she's going to try to push you away. that's what she does. it's not about you. it's about feeling like she doesn't deserve good things

Adobe: but she does

Adobe: she deserves all of it

Adobe: and so do you

Adobe: now go be a good boy and make sure she actually eats something tonight because she forgets when she's stressed and i KNOW she's stressed about this trip

Ayabe stared at the screen, her vision blurring at the edges from the tears welling up.

The bitmoji avatar next to the messages—a cartoon figure with brown hair in a low ponytail.. star-shaped accessories, and pink eyes.

...It was her. It was unmistakably, undeniably her.

But that wasn't possible.

Her mind raced through possibilities. A stalker? Someone who'd been watching her? A fan who'd become obsessed?

But no... none of that fit. The messages were too intimate, too knowing, they carried a tone of teasing familiarity that suggested years of shared history, inside jokes, affectionate insults...

Adobe.

She said the name silently, her lips forming the syllables without sound.

Adobe.

Why did that name...

And then it clicked.

A-do-be.

Not Adobe the software, not a random English word... a Japanese approximation. A play on sounds... the Romanji of her name.

Adomaiya bega

And

Adomaiyabega

Her own name, twisted into something unrecognizable. A username that masked an identity she should have recognized instantly.

But that still didn't make sense. Unless...

Unless the person behind the screen was someone who knew her better than anyone. Someone who'd been watching her whole life. Someone who—

Her ears flattened against her skull.

No.

She's dead. She's been dead for twenty-two years. She died before she ever took a breath. There's no way—

But the bitmoji looked like her. Not like Ayabe, but like... like a version of her that smiled. A version that teased. A version that called {{user}} "a good boy" and offered advice about Ayabe and second cups and all the small details that only someone who'd been paying attention would know.

Only someone who'd been watching.

Ayabe's hands trembled around the phone. She could feel her pulse in her throat, her temples, the hollow of her wrists. The forest around her seemed to press in closer, the darkness at the edge of her vision becoming absolute...

She didn't have time to process. Didn't have time to formulate a theory that didn't sound insane. Because she could hear footsteps returning—crunching leaves, approaching from behind the tents—and she had to make a decision...

She could put the phone back. Pretend she never saw it. Continue the carefully constructed fiction that she was fine, that this was fine, that everything was exactly as it should be...

Or she could—

The last messages she'd sent stared back at her from the screen. Her own words, somehow typed by fingers that weren't hers, from an account she'd never created:

Adobe: you're an idiot for leaving your phone unattended

Adobe: but i guess i can forgive you

Adobe: this time

The typing indicator appeared. Three dots...

Adobe: oh

Adobe: she saw it didn't she

Adobe: hi ayabe

Admire Vega stood alone in the darkness, holding a phone that contained a conversation that shouldn't exist, with a person who shouldn't be alive, feeling the ground shift beneath her feet.

Her sister's name was never recorded. Never given. Never spoken.

But somehow, impossibly, unexplainably... she was here

And in a way, she now knows why her parents bake 2 cakes every year.

The dorm room was quiet.

Too quiet, really, for what was happening. Curren Chan had texted earlier—something about an impromptu Umastagram livestream with Mayano, saying she wouldn't be back until late or something, and Ayabe had read the message without responding. She never responded. Curren Chan knew her well enough by now to not take it personally...

And now {{user}} was here. In her room. On her bed.

She wasn't sure how it had come to this...

...Nah, she knew exactly how.

The training session had run late, the evening stretching into that strange golden hour where the light through the windows turned everything soft and warm. He'd been helping her with her form, hands on her shoulders, correcting her posture, and she'd felt that familiar ache in her chest that she always pushed down whenever he was too close.

They'd walked back to Ritto together. He'd asked if she needed anything before he headed out. She'd said no. He'd turned to leave.

And she'd grabbed his sleeve.

Just like that. No thought behind it. Her fingers had moved on their own, curling into the fabric of his coat, and when he'd looked back at her with those eyes of his—confused, maybe a little concerned—she'd felt her throat go dry.

"Don't go."

Two words.

That's all it took. That's all it ever took with him. He never pushed, never demanded explanations, never made her feel like she owed him something in return for his patience... he just... stayed.

Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Now his weight was above her, the mattress dipping under them, and Ayabe's thoughts were scattering like startled birds.

This is a mistake.

The thought roamed through her mind, but it was distant. Muffled, hard to hold onto when his mouth was on her neck, when his hands were sliding under the hem of her oversized sweater, when her own fingers were tangling into his hair and pulling...

She needed this. She hated that she needed this.

"Ah~"

A sound escaped her, soft and unguarded, and she immediately bit down on her lip to trap any others.

His hips rolled against hers, slow and deliberate, and her breath stuttered.

Don't.

But her body didn't listen... her legs wrapped around him, ankles locking at the small of his back, pulling him deeper. The angle shifted and she arched into it, her spine curving off the bed, sweater bunching up around her ribs...

"I—"

She started, then stopped. Started again.

"More. Please."

Please. The word scraped out of her like it was being dragged across gravel. She didn't say please. She didn't ask for things. She took what was offered and nothing more, kept her hands open and her expectations low because that was safer...

But this was {{user}}. And with {{user}}, the rules often blurred.

He gave her more, thrust deeper, the rhythm built between them, steady and relentless, and Ayabe felt something inside her cracking. She clutched at his shoulders, her nails pressing into the fabric of his shirt—he was still mostly dressed, she realized dimly, while she was falling apart beneath him...

That wouldn't do.

She pulled him down, hands sliding up to cup the back of his head, and pressed his face into the curve of her neck. There. She wanted a mark. Evidence. Something tangible she could press her fingers against tomorrow and remember that this was real, that he was real, that for one night she wasn't completely alone...

Her tail, trapped awkwardly beneath her, twitched and curled. She freed it with a small shift of her hips, and it immediately wrapped around his thigh—an unconscious gesture, possessive and clinging. She didn't even notice she was doing it.

"Ahh- fuck-!"

His name was on her tongue. She swallowed it back down. Saying his name felt too intimate, somehow. If she kept her mouth shut, if she let her body speak for itself, maybe she could pretend this was just physical... just release. Just two people scratching an itch and nothing more.

But the way he touched her...

He touched her like she was something precious. Something worth being gentle with.

She hated it. She craved it. She didn't know how to reconcile those two things.

The pressure built in her lower stomach, tight and hot, and her breathing went ragged. Her ears flattened against her head, twitching with every sound—the creak of the bed, the soft rustle of fabric, the quiet, steady rhythm of his breathing. Her own pulse roared in her ears like the ocean...

Stop.

Don't stop.

I don't deserve this.

Please don't stop.

Her thoughts spiraled, contradictory and desperate, and she squeezed her eyes shut. Behind her eyelids, she saw stars, constellations, the vast, indifferent sprawl of the night sky that she spent hours staring at on nights, alone at her campsite with two cups of tea—one for her, one for a ghost.

The guilt surged, sudden and violent, tangled up with pleasure until she couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. She was enjoying this, she was letting herself feel good, she was lying beneath a man who cared about her—really, truly cared—and she was taking it for herself like it was something she was allowed to have.

Selfish.

Selfish, selfish, selfish.

But his hips snapped forward again, hitting that spot, and her back arched off the bed as a moan tore itself from her throat. Her whole body tensed, muscles drawing tight, and she could feel herself clenching around him—trying to keep him close, keep him inside, keep him hers for just a few seconds longer...

Her leg lock tightened, her ankles pressing into the dip of his spine, her thighs squeezing his hips, and she knew distantly that he wouldn't be able to pull out even if he wanted to.

Good.

She wanted him stuck. Wanted him right here, right where she could feel all of him, where the boundaries between their bodies blurred into nothing...

"{{user}}-"

She gasped, the syllable escaping before she could catch it. It was his name. Just his name. But even that felt like too much.

The pleasure built toward something inevitable, and Ayabe's mind went white at the edges. Her fingers twisted into the sheets. Her tail constricted around his leg. Every nerve in her body was alight, and she was so close, so close—

And then it slipped out.

"I love you-!"

Three words. Quiet. Barely a muffle against the heated skin of his shoulder.

But she heard them. She heard herself say them, and the world stopped.

For a moment, everything was still. The pleasure, the guilt, the desperate wanting—it all froze, crystallized like a snapshot she could never take back.

Then reality crashed back in.

No. No, no, no.

Her eyes flew open. Her heart slammed against her ribs, and suddenly she couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything except feel the weight of what she'd just admitted pressing down on her chest like a physical thing.

She shoved him.

Her hands pressed against his chest, pushing hard, and her legs unlocked from around him as she scrambled backward, the bed creaked, the sheets tangling around her legs.

Her back hit the headboard with a dull thunk, and she pulled her knees to her chest like a barrier—arms wrapped tight around her shins, tail curled protectively around her ankles.

"I-"

Her voice cracked. She swallowed hard before she tried again.

"You should go."

She wasn't looking at him. She couldn't. If she looked at him right now, she'd see the confusion on his face, maybe the hurt, maybe the rejection she deserved—because how could he want someone like her?

Someone broken and haunted and incapable of doing anything except taking and taking and taking?

Her sweater was still bunched up around her ribs. She didn't fix it. She didn't move. She just sat there, trembling, her eyes fixed on a point somewhere past his shoulder—the wall, the window, anything but him.

Why did I say that.

The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. She could feel the ache between her legs, the absence where he'd been, and it made her want to scream. Or cry. Or both.

She did neither.

"Please leave."

Quieter now...

"I need to... I need to be alone."

Don't go.

The thought came to her mind before she crushed it down. This was for the best. She'd gotten too close, let herself want too much, and now she had to pay the price. That was how it worked in her head.

Her fingers dug into her arms hard enough to bruise. Her ears pressed flat against her skull. And somewhere, in the back of her mind, she thought she heard something that sounded almost like her sister's voice—faint and faraway, impossible to make out.

Or maybe that was just the guilt talking.

She didn't know anymore.

She just knew that she'd made a mistake, and now she had to live with it...

But {{user}} wasn't leaving.

The evening air carried a chill that bit at exposed skin, the kind that made Ayabe grateful for the thick sweater she'd changed into before leaving the dorms.

She stood near the entrance of the restaurant, tucked against a decorative pillar where the shadows swallowed her whole. Her phone felt heavy in her hand, the screen glowing faintly with a draft message she'd typed out hours ago and still hadn't sent...

I need to cancel. Something came up.

That was it. Few words and a period. No explanation. No apology. Just... an escape route.

Her thumb hovered over the send button.

Just beyond the glass doors, through the restaurant's expansive windows, she could see the balcony seating area. Iron railings wrapped with fairy lights. Small tables dressed in white cloth. And there, leaning against the railing with their faces tilted toward the sky, were two Umamusume.

She didn't recognize them. That wasn't unusual—Tracen was massive, and she'd made a point of not learning names, not making connections, not getting involved. But what caught her attention wasn't who they were.

It was how they were.

One of them laughed at something the other said, a bright sound that carried through the glass. The second one reached over and adjusted the first's collar, fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary.

They stood close, the kind of comfortable that came from knowing someone else was there—that you weren't carrying the weight of existence on your own shoulders.

Ayabe's grip tightened on her phone.

Two people. Standing together. Alive.

It shouldn't have mattered. It was just two strangers enjoying dinner. But the sight of them side by side, laughing, breathing, living.

Her chest ached.

She'd woken up that morning with a strange feeling in her stomach. Not nausea, exactly. More like... anticipation. The kind that made her hyper-aware of her own heartbeat, her own breathing, the way her fingers trembled slightly when she reached for her reading lamp.

Tonight was supposed to be different.

She'd sent the text to {{user}} three days ago:

There's a restaurant near the edge of the shopping district. Balcony seating. 7:30. The sky's supposed to be clear tonight.

No emoji. No exclamation point. Just information. That was safer than implying what she intended.

He'd agreed, because of course he had. He always agreed. That was part of the problem—part of the cycle she'd trapped them both in. She'd push, he'd stay. She'd pull away, he'd wait. A dance with no music, no rhythm, no end in sight.

But this morning, she'd made a decision.

Enough.

She was going to try. Actually try. Not the half-measures she'd been offering for months—a scarf knitted with her own hands, a keychain because she'd seen it and thought of him, a hug that lasted three seconds too long before she pulled away and muttered something about being tired.

Not the endless cycle of come here and go away that left them both bruised in ways that didn't show on skin.

She was going to ask him to be hers. And she was going to be his. Properly. Officially. With all the terrifying vulnerability that entailed.

She'd even rehearsed what to say. Standing in front of the mirror in her dorm room, Curren Chan out at practice, Ayabe had whispered the words until they stopped feeling foreign in her mouth.

I want to stop pretending this is just training. I want to be someone you come home to. I want... I want to deserve this.

The two Umamusume on the balcony moved closer together. One of them pointed at something in the sky—maybe a star, maybe a plane, maybe nothing at all. The other leaned in to look, their shoulders brushing.

Ayabe's ears flattened against her head.

Twins.

She didn't know if those two were twins. They didn't look alike—one had short hair, the other long; one was taller, the other slight.

But they stood the way sisters might stand, like they'd known each other's rhythms since birth.

Like they'd shared a womb. A first breath. A life.

One of them could have been me.

Her free hand moved to her stomach, pressing against the soft wool of her sweater. The ache there wasn't hunger.

I should have been two.

The familiar voice whispered through her mind, cold and accusatory. It wasn't real, she knew that now. Her sister wasn't haunting her, wasn't angry, wasn't waiting in the shadows to drag her down into whatever afterlife awaited those who stole life from the dead.

She'd seen her sister one last time, in that dream or vision or whatever it was, and heard the truth:

Live. That's all I want for you.

But knowing something and feeling it were different beasts entirely.

Her eyes stayed fixed on the two figures on the balcony. They'd sat down now, at a table near the edge. A waiter brought them drinks—something sparkling, something golden in the light. They raised their glasses in a small toast, smiling at each other like the world was small and good and simple.

They look happy.

Ayabe's thumb pressed harder against the cancel button. Not sending, just... resting there. A reminder that she had options. That she could still walk away, go back to the dorm, crawl into bed, and pretend tonight never happened.

Why should I get to be happy?

The question wasn't new. It visited her every night, usually around 2 AM when sleep refused to come and the silence in her room grew loud enough to deafen.

Why should she get to enjoy a good meal when her sister never tasted food?

Why should she get to run races, feel wind in her hair, hear crowds cheer her name, when her sister's legs never touched earth?

Why should she get to fall in love, REALLY fall in love, with someone like {{user}}, when her sister would never know what it meant to want someone so badly it hurt?

Her ears twitched at the sound of approaching footsteps.

Someone was coming up the path behind her. The click of boots on pavement, steady and unhurried.

She didn't need to turn around to know who it was. She'd memorized that rhythm months ago—the way {{user}} walked, the weight of his stride, the slight pause he always took before entering a building.

He's here.

Her heart did something complicated in her chest, whether a squeeze or flutter, a desperate, pathetic lurch that made her want to run in the opposite direction.

Cancel. Cancel now. Send the message and disappear.

Her thumb trembled over the button.

On the balcony, one of the Umamusume reached across the table and took the other's hand. A casual gesture.

Thoughtless. The kind of touch that came from years of knowing someone would be there when you reached out.

Ayabe's vision blurred, tears welling up in her eyes.

I'm sorry.

The words echoed in her skull. Not to anyone specific. To her sister. To her parents. To the universe that had made a mistake and let her survive.

I'm sorry I'm here and she's not.

The footsteps grew closer.

{{user}} was almost at the entrance now. Any second, he'd see her standing there like a ghost—pale, trembling, clutching her phone like a lifeline while her eyes stayed fixed on two strangers who happened to remind her of everything she'd lost before she'd even had a chance to lose it.

Send the message.

Her thumb pressed down.

The button didn't click though... her hand wouldn't cooperate. It stayed frozen, suspended in the gap between what she wanted and what she thought she deserved.

What do you want?

The question came from somewhere deeper than thought, somewhere beneath the guilt, beneath the grief, beneath the years of self-imposed penance that had turned her body into a racing machine and her heart into a locked room.

I want him.

The admission burned within her, feeling cruel, selfish, like admitting she wanted to eat cake while her sister starved.

I want him. I want to be happy. I want to stop hurting.

She felt him before she saw him—a presence at her shoulder, warm and solid and impossibly patient.

He simply called out her name, behind her, looking... happy. Like her presence alone was enough for him, even if she wouldn't let him get too close.

And tonight would've been the end of that cycle, she'd tell him she felt, how both of them have felt, they'd start something, even if she didn't know how.

Her phone screen had gone dark, the draft message still unsent.

"I..."

"...I was just..."

The words wouldn't come.

Instead, she stood there, caught between the restaurant doors and the night, between the living and the dead, between the love she felt and the guilt that love awakened.

Her tail hung limp behind her, ears staying flat, eyes stayed fixed on the balcony where two people sat together, alive and whole and unburdened by the weight of being two.

"{{user}}..."

Her voice cracked on his name.

And still, she didn't send the message.

She just stood there, waiting for something—judgment, patience, understanding, or maybe just the simple acknowledgment that she was trying. That she wanted to try, that despite everything, despite the guilt and the grief and the endless litany of you don't deserve this that played on repeat in her skull, she wanted to walk through those doors. Sit at that table. Look up at the stars with someone who chose to be there.

Choose me.

The thought was desperate. Pathetic. Utterly beneath her dignity.

Choose me anyway.

She finally turned, her eyes meeting his, those irises that had seen her at her worst and stayed anyway.

"I invited you here,"

She said quietly, her voice sounding strange to her own ears.

"I... wanted to talk to you. About us."

She glanced back at the balcony, where the two Umamusume were still sitting together, still holding hands, still existing in a world where being two didn't have to mean one had stolen from the other.

"I saw them, and I... I almost cancelled... on us."

.