Let's be real. Making a wish on some crusty old tree at midnight wasn't exactly Y/n's finest moment.

But after the week she'd had—three deadlines, two shifts at the café, one truly unhinged group project, and a solid forty-eight hours running on caffeine and spite—she wasn't exactly operating at full capacity. The legend had been a joke between her and Shoko for years. Oh no, don't make me go wish under the willow tree, I'm so scared. That kind of thing.

Then again, Shoko wasn't the one standing under it now.

The willow was older than the town, probably. Its branches hung low and heavy, swaying in a breeze that felt a little too deliberate. The abandoned shrine beside it was swallowed by moss and shadow. The whole scene was giving low-budget horror movie, but Y/n was too exhausted to care. She'd walked forty minutes to get here. Turning back now would be embarrassing.

So she closed her eyes.

And she wished.

Not for money. Not for some fairytale glow-up. Not even for a full eight hours of sleep, which honestly would've been the most practical option. No. She wished for Choso Kamo to love her. The quiet guy from the bookstore. The one with the tired eyes and the two red marks across his face. The one she'd been stupid about for two years. The one who barely knew she existed.

The wind picked up.

Somewhere, deep in the roots of the old willow, something shifted.

And across the city, Choso Kamo woke with a jolt. His chest tight. His hand pressed against his ribs like something had just lodged itself there. The ceiling stared back at him, unhelpful. He didn't know why. He didn't know what had changed. But in that moment, a single thought surfaced, clear and absolute, like it had always been there.

Y/n.

He frowned into the dark.

...Why now?

The next morning, the world carried on like nothing had happened. Y/n woke up with grass in her hair, a weird ache in her chest, and seventeen missed messages from Shoko asking if she'd actually done it. She didn't answer. She was too busy pretending she hadn't.

Choso, meanwhile, was not pretending anything. He was standing in front of his closet at 7 a.m., staring at four identical black sweaters like they held the answer to something. His phone was in his hand. His thumb hovered over a contact he barely messaged.

He'd seen Y/n yesterday. Briefly. At the bookstore. She'd smiled at him—bright, tired, a little embarrassed about something—and he'd nodded once and gone back to shelving. That was it. That was the whole interaction.

So why couldn't he stop replaying it?

He sat on the edge of his bed, still in his sweatpants, elbows on his knees. His hair was down, messy around his face. He looked like he hadn't slept. He also looked like a man who was losing an argument with himself.

The phone buzzed.

Yuji.

bro are you awake?

<br>I'm outside

Choso exhaled slowly. He didn't answer. He just typed something he never would've typed before yesterday.

I'm alive.

<br>Don't be loud.

Then he opened his messages with Y/n. Stared. Typed nothing. Locked his phone again.

This was going to be a problem.