Lunch smelled like burned soy sauce and melting sneakers.
Haruki sat on the bench near the bike racks, poking at a half-eaten croquette and trying not to think about breakfast. Or percentages. Or that weird number this morning that said he could've made it on time—if he'd run a little faster.
Too late now.
He'd barely taken a bite when Yui dropped down beside him with the force of someone trying to ignore a heartbeat.
"Hey," she said, eyes darting like a squirrel that just remembered ten deadlines.
Haruki glanced up. "You're twitchy. Did someone die?"
"Not yet." She held out something small and creased. A folded note. "You're doing a favor."
Haruki raised an eyebrow, still chewing. "Is this your will?"
"Funny." She shoved it toward him again. "It's for Watanabe. You're giving it to him."
He blinked. "Watanabe? Soccer Watanabe?"
"Do we know another guy who walks like he's in a shampoo commercial?"
The paper felt warm in his hand. Folded twice. No doodles. Just her handwriting—green ink, slightly smudged.
Then, as always, came the shimmer:
"Deliver the note: 31% chance it ends well — he might laugh, read it aloud, or ignore it."
A second later:
"Pretend you lost it: 88% chance Yui won't be mad."
Simple numbers. Simple choice.
He looked over. Yui was peeling the label off her drink bottle, edge by edge, like she could rip her nerves out of the plastic. Loud, bold, fearless Yui—quiet for once.
"I don't know if this is stupid," she said. "But I kind of need to know if it is."
Haruki didn't answer right away.
The numbers glowed quietly in the air.
But they weren't enough.
He slipped the note into his pocket. "I'll do it."
Yui let out a breath like she'd been holding it all day. "Thanks."
Watanabe was behind the gym, like always—phone in one hand, sports bottle in the other. His hair was perfect. His smile was half-loaded like a weapon. A walking highlight reel.
Haruki approached slowly.
The probability hovered at his side again, pulsing:
"31% chance it ends well."
He stepped into the light. "Yo."
Watanabe glanced up. "Haruki. What's up?"
Haruki held out the note. "Yui asked me to give you this."
A flicker passed through Watanabe's eyes. Quick. Unreadable. He took the note and opened it.
Silence.
Then—a laugh. Not cruel. Not kind either. Just… surprised.
"Didn't expect that," he said finally. "Tell her I'm flattered."
He folded the note once, twice, slid it into his pocket like it was nothing more than a used receipt.
Then he was gone. Not smug. Not dramatic. Just… gone.
Haruki stayed there a moment longer, staring at the empty space.
The number hadn't lied.
Yui was near the stairwell, where the light hit weird and the walls always smelled like old chalk.
She didn't look up when he walked over.
"I gave it to him," Haruki said.
Nothing.
"He read it. Laughed. Said he was flattered."
Still nothing.
Then Yui gave a short nod. When she turned, she was smiling.
Not wide. Not broken. Just… steady.
"Yeah," she said. "I figured."
Haruki hesitated. "You okay?"
"I thought maybe I'd get a better number," she said. Haruki froze for half a second—until she added, "Figuratively. Not, like, your floating math test kind."
He almost laughed.
Then she said, "Thanks for giving it to him. It was still worth it."
No prompt appeared.
No shimmering odds.
Just her. Her choice. His follow-through.
Back in the hallway between classes, Haruki leaned against the lockers, watching students orbit around each other like clockwork. Same laughs. Same jokes. Same masks.
The numbers had warned him.
31%. Practically screamed, don't bother.
But he'd done it anyway.
And yeah—it didn't go great. No fairy tale. No hidden feelings revealed. But…
It was honest.
It was brave.
And it didn't need to end well to mean something.
He opened his notes app and typed:
Some choices aren't about outcomes. They're about being someone worth trusting.
The screen dimmed on that line.
On the way home, the wind pressed against his blazer, and cherry petals skated across the sidewalk like tiny dancers. Up ahead, a group of kids were tossing a soda can at a trash bin. Missing. Again and again.
One kid finally walked over and dropped it in without a word.
Haruki smiled faintly.
Above the can, a soft shimmer lit the air:
"Make a small good choice: 100% chance it still matters."
Yeah.
That tracked.
At home, he slipped off his shoes and climbed the stairs two at a time.
School bag—floor. Blazer—chair. Phone—face down.
He lay there, staring at the ceiling.
The numbers were still part of his life. Still unexplained. Still strange.
But today proved something.
They weren't the main character.
He was.