The thing about Koharu was, when she acted cold, it wasn't the usual storm-you-into-a-corner-and-fight kind of cold. No, this was the "glitch in the system" cold — the kind where the software's gone haywire and you're just standing there, watching her freeze like a blue screen on a crappy laptop.
She didn't pick fights. She didn't yell. She just... vanished. From my side of the world, at least.
It was a Monday morning, the week after that ridiculous acting duel where I somehow convinced half the school I wasn't just some background noise. Koharu's absence felt like the power outage after a blackout — sudden, inconvenient, and just plain dark.
I caught Riku Saionji leaning against his usual corner by the lockers, all smug and actor-y like he owned the place. Not that he didn't, at least in some circles.
"She doesn't get jealous," Riku said with a smirk, eyes narrowing like he was watching a particularly slow train wreck. "She gets lost. You're not the villain, but she's glitching."
I frowned. "Glitching?"
He shrugged. "Jealousy's easy. Koharu's too stubborn for that cliché. She's scared — of you, maybe. Or what you represent. A replacement."
Replacement. Funny word to throw around when I've spent my whole life pretending to be invisible.
That hit a little too close. So I did what any self-respecting NPC would do: I decided to debug the situation.
The problem was, Koharu wasn't going to come back just because I mumbled some lame apology or threw her a few extra lines in the script. No, this needed... finesse.
I went to Mitsuki, the Puzzle Club head and my reluctant sidekick in all things cryptic.
"I want to get Koharu back," I said, trying to sound casual like I wasn't about to throw a life raft to a sinking ship.
Mitsuki blinked, adjusted her glasses. "You're asking for a code to reboot Koharu.exe."
"Basically."
Her eyes twinkled behind those lenses. "A scavenger hunt. Playful. Challenging. With enough personal touches so she can't ignore it."
Challenge accepted.
I spent the next two days crafting a trail of riddles — each referencing some dumb moment we shared, inside jokes that only she and I understood. There was a code hidden in a book we'd both pretended to read in the library, a puzzle taped under the bench where she'd forced me to eat lunch, even a goofy haiku stuck inside the janitor's closet.
Every step was a tiny invitation, a "Hey, I'm still here. And I'm not going anywhere."
I wasn't sure if it would work, but it was better than sitting around waiting for her to decide if I was worth the trouble.
The final clue was simple — meet me under the sakura tree after school.
I waited, leaning against the rough bark like some extra in a bad rom-com, watching the petals drift like confetti in slow motion. The air smelled like spring and awkward confessions.
Then she appeared.
Koharu, arms crossed, cheeks slightly flushed but trying so hard not to show it. Her usual loud energy replaced by quiet vulnerability.
"Figure it out?" I asked, trying not to sound like I was holding my breath.
She huffed, half a smile breaking through. "Maybe. You're ridiculous."
"NPCs don't set traps like that, do they?" I teased, stepping a little closer.
She didn't answer. Instead, her eyes locked onto mine, and for a moment, the whole world shrank down to just us and the falling cherry blossoms.
I thought maybe, just maybe, this was it.
The moment.
Our faces were so close I could see the tiny flecks in her eyes, the way her lips twitched like she was about to say something important.
And then the shrill sound of a school bell shattered the bubble.
Mitsuki, of all people, burst out from behind the tree, clutching a stack of overdue library books and looking like a deer caught in headlights.
"Sorry! I... uh... I forgot to return these," she stammered, her cheeks pinker than a sakura petal herself.
Koharu blinked, stepping back and wiping her mouth like she'd just been caught mid-confession.
I coughed awkwardly. "Right. Nothing to see here."
Koharu shot me a glare that screamed, You're so dead, but her eyes betrayed a hint of something softer — maybe relief.
Mitsuki shuffled away, leaving us standing there beneath the cherry blossoms, the almost-kiss hanging in the air like a forgotten secret.
I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to act cool but failing miserably inside.
Koharu finally muttered, "You're such a pain."
"Only for you," I said, with a grin that was maybe too genuine.
For the first time in a while, the glitch seemed to fix itself — not with a bang, but a quiet reboot.
Maybe this story wasn't so background after all.
---