Aria lay sprawled across the living room rug, her arms stretched out like a starfish, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazily overhead. The silence in the apartment was comforting, filled only with the occasional ticking of the wall clock and Ichiro's soft breathing as he read in his wheelchair by the window.
Her mind, however, was miles away—back in time, deep in a world that never existed but felt strangely close.
What if we had met in high school?
What if I had been in the same class as him?
What would I have worn? Would he have even looked at me?
In her mind, the world blurred into sepia tones—desks lined in perfect rows, sunbeams spilling across wooden floors, and chalk dust lingering in the air like snow. She saw herself there: hair tied in a clumsy ponytail, uniform wrinkled from rushing, notebook covered in doodles. She imagined Ichiro three seats away—crisp uniform, posture straight, eyes always sharp behind his glasses, as if the universe whispered its secrets only to him.
He wouldn't have looked at her. Not at first.
He would've been too busy solving equations before the teacher even wrote them down. Too focused on winning gold medals. Too brilliant to notice the girl who was always late, always forgetting her homework, always sneaking glances at him while pretending to look out the window.
But maybe—just maybe—there would've been a moment.
A dropped pen.
A shared umbrella.
A group project no one else wanted to do.
She would've hated how quiet he was. How serious. And he would've rolled his eyes every time she talked too much. But maybe, in some alternate hallway between math and literature class, they would've walked side by side. Not speaking. Not touching. Just… close enough to feel the possibility.
And maybe she would've fallen in love with him anyway.
Even then.
Even there.
"Hey," Ichiro's voice broke into her thoughts, gentle but grounding.
She blinked, pulled from her imaginary high school by the real version of him—older, wounded, distant, and yet… somehow softer now.
He tilted his head. "You've been staring at the ceiling for the last ten minutes."
Aria smiled sheepishly. "I was imagining what it would've been like if we were classmates."
He blinked, clearly not expecting that. "Classmates?"
"In high school," she clarified, stretching her limbs like a cat. "You in your glasses, top of the class, quiet and moody. Me? Perpetually late, average grades, loud. We'd never have spoken, but I'd definitely have had a crush on you."
He raised an eyebrow, amused. "And I would've probably thought you were annoying."
"Obviously," she grinned. "But then, one day, fate would've made us lab partners. And I'd mess up the experiment, and you'd roll your eyes but secretly do the work for both of us."
Ichiro chuckled, and the sound made her heart leap.
He set down the book in his lap and looked at her fully now. "You really think we'd have worked back then?"
Aria's smile faltered for just a second. "No," she admitted quietly. "Back then, I think I would've been just another girl in the back row to you."
A pause.
Ichiro's gaze lingered on her, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. "You weren't in the back row in this life, though."
"No," she said, voice light but eyes serious. "This time, I showed up front and center. Even forced a marriage on you."
A beat of silence.
Then, softly, he asked, "Do you regret it?"
She shook her head without hesitation. "Never. I don't regret forcing my way into your story, husband . I just… sometimes wonder if you'll ever really let me stay."
He didn't answer right away.
Instead, he reached for the mug of tea she had brought him earlier—bright red, the color she always insisted on.
"I don't hate tea anymore," he said quietly. "Not when you make it."
Aria looked at him, her heart doing that annoying flutter it always did when he let his guard down.
"And I don't think I would've ignored you in high school," he added, glancing out the window. "Not if you smiled the way you do now."
She stared at him, stunned.
He didn't look back at her. But he didn't need to.
In that moment, Aria didn't feel like the loud girl from the back row anymore.
She felt seen. Chosen. Even if only for a moment.
And sometimes, that was enough.