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Nene Yashiro died at the young age of 15.
That's what it says on the tombstone in front of her.
Crouching down, Nene runs her hand along the grooves of the engraved letters. The font they picked is nice, she thinks to herself. The stone's color is an elegantly polished dark slate. The shape is a pleasantly simple rectangle. By all accounts, it's a fine headstone.
Not that she was expecting something terrible. Nor was she expecting a grand monument in her name. Her parents are loving and sensible. This memorial is a perfect reflection of that.
Seeing the tasteful headstone eases Nene's mind more than she had thought it would, honestly. Funerals are expensive and the worry that she had been a financial burden on her parents remained a consistent thought in the back of her head. It especially stings when she remembers that it had been paired with the grief of losing their only child.
She wonders how they're doing now, 10 years after her death. Surely, they've regained a normal routine. Maybe not the normal routine she used to know with them, but some new kind of contented everyday life. Have they changed her bedroom at home? Her mom did always talk about wanting an in-home gym. Hopefully she was able to have that once Nene disappeared. It's comforting to think that maybe one good thing has come out of all this—though she'll probably never be able to actually verify that comfort.
Continuing to glance around the grave, Nene feels a strange sense of nostalgia, though she's unsure why that is. This is the first time she's gotten to see all of this. Which makes sense when she considers that she was never supposed to see any of it. The dead aren't meant to read their own epitaphs.
Speaking of which, Nene slides her eyes down, below her name, below the dates, down to the short passage sitting just above the grass.
Planted on this earth, she now blooms amongst the stars.
How corny.
Still, it's fitting. A simple, "In loving memory," or, "May she rest in peace," just doesn't have that flair of ornate romance she's known for. This is definitely something Nene could see herself jotting down in her diary on some cold night, her sighs dreamy and her fantasies dreamier.
That said, she wonders who the wordsmith behind this is. At first thought, Nene assumes it's all her parents' work. After all, they're the ones who paid for everything—the ones who lost their child. They should be the ones who get to decide how she's remembered, right? But neither of them are exactly poets. Plus, the gardening reference she can understand coming from them. The star thing though… It almost makes her chuckle, how much it reminds her of—
"Nene…?"
Everything seems to slow down around her, yet still it happens all at once. Nene twists around at her name, responding to it even after all these years of not having heard it once. Or maybe she's responding to that voice. That painfully familiar voice clawing its way from her eardrums straight into the low ache forming in her chest. And as she watches those amber eyes go wide and hears the rustle of a flower bouquet hitting the ground, Nene recognizes that ache all too well—intense, searing regret.
Nene Yashiro died at the young age of 15.
That's what it says on the tombstone in front of them.
Then again, who said that the dead were always truthful?
The thing about faking your own death is that it comes with a lot of rules. Small inconvenient everyday ones. Slightly more imperative occasional ones. And then there are the huge obvious plan-shattering rules that are so incredibly easy to follow and rarely an issue.
Not visiting your own grave is definitely one of those last ones.
At inconsequential, day-to-day places like grocery stores or restaurants, you at least have the advantage of being able to plant a seed of doubt in someone's mind—that they’ve made a mistake and called out to someone they don’t actually know. It's much harder to escape recognition in places where people are already actively thinking about you. Like, for instance, the place people go to mourn you.
It's been a decent number of years since Nene has had to defend herself from such things. In the beginning, her face was still fresh in people's minds. That poor young girl they had seen on the news the night before. But as many sad stories in the news do, eventually Nene faded from public memory and it became a hell of a lot easier to pick up a sandwich at a convenience store.
Right now though, she isn't scrounging for a quick, cheap meal and the person in front of her isn't some stranger who can't recall the name of the dead girl they heard about on the radio that morning.
Right now, she's just feet away from where she's supposed to be buried, as if she's become a living piece of her own memorial, and the person before her is someone who knows her inside and out.
Or rather… he used to. Before she died.
Amane Yugi.
The older of two twins who grew up next door to her. The biggest astronomy nerd she's ever known. The worst card player anybody's ever known.
Her very best friend.
And the boy she'd fallen in love with so many years ago—not that she was ever able to tell him.
A younger version of herself might have succumbed to the potential of this kind of romantic reunion. Unfortunate circumstances tearing her away from the one she loves. Finally being brought back together years later. She would run into his arms, tearful and overwhelmed, and he would welcome her back with gentle hushes and promises that everything is going to be okay.
She's grown too pragmatic to give in to that kind of rose-colored dream now though.
"I'm sorry?" Nene says, putting on her old performance. "Were you talking to me?"
Almost immediately, she regrets forgetting to disguise her voice. The wheels in Amane's head are already spinning at full speed and Nene can see him wince slightly as they grind even faster just hearing her speak.
He blinks a few times, almost as if he's waiting for her to disappear upon opening his eyes again. Of course, she doesn't. Nene stands there in front of him patiently despite her incredible urge to book it as far away as possible. Eventually, his blinking is joined by some unsure stuttering. His mouth opens and closes, about to say something and then rethinking his words over and over again.
Honestly, Nene's just impressed that he's still conscious. If it was her in Amane's shoes, she's fairly positive that she'd faint from shock. That doesn't make her feel any less sorry for him, though.
It's just as Nene is about to say something to help him out that Amane speaks up, his voice a bit too loud and a bit too shaky. "It… it is you, isn't it? Nene?" The last syllable of her name cracks in his throat and it surprises Nene how gut wrenching the sound is.
As inconspicuous as possible, Nene takes a deep breath and smiles sympathetically. "I'm sorry. I think you have me confused for someone else," she says, taking a step back.
That might have been her first mistake… aside from the whole visiting her own grave thing. Trying to make an escape too quickly never works well. It's too suspicious. It's too abrupt. It's too jarring for someone who's trying to sort out his thoughts at seeing his dead friend again. So although it startles her, Nene can't really blame Amane for rushing forward to grab for her wrist. However, Nene had grown alert even before she "died" and is quick to pull her hand back—though it's just a second too late.
The resistance pulls Nene back before she hears the snap of Amane tearing her bracelet off. An explosion of colorful glass beads fall all around them in a crystalline shower. However, it lasts only a moment or two before all of the pitter-patter comes to a stop, the fragments of what was once her favorite bracelet settling in the cracks of the sidewalk and dips in the grass.
They stay silent and still for what Nene feels is an agonizing amount of time. And as Amane's eyes bore into her almost pleadingly, she berates herself again. In this situation, a normal person would yell or run or something. But while Amane's brain is moving a mile a minute, Nene's is crawling sluggishly behind. All of her reflexes are too slow. Dangerously slow. If she keeps treating Amane this leniently, everything she's worked for will crash down around her in the worst ways she can imagine.
And it should be so easy. He could be anyone from her past. Her parents, her classmates—it doesn't matter. Because she's not Nene Yashiro anymore. She can't be. Ever again. So despite memories she might have once shared with him long ago, Amane Yugi is just another stranger to her now. He has to be.
Fortunately for Nene, Amane does snap to his senses, dropping the broken chain and taking a dazed step away. "I… I'm sorry," he says, looking surprised at himself. "You’re right. You can’t be her. I don't know what I was…"
Again, Nene curses her slow reaction time. If she'd made a break for it just a bit ago, she could have been halfway across the cemetery by now. Instead, though, she's standing there. Dumbfounded. Rubbing the new red imprint around her wrist. Staring at Amane's dejected expression as he fidgets uncomfortably.
Ten years of running and hiding all scream at her. This is the opportunity she needs. Just one singular moment of weakness that she can take advantage of. Leave him with a final word confirming that he's made a mistake and confidently walk away without looking back.
She has her blade poised to strike right into the crack in his armor—ready to cut deep into that vulnerability.
"Do you… need help finding her?"
But she drops it instead.
Unexpectedly, but understandably, Amane chuckles sadly at the offer, casting his gaze toward the headstone. "No. No, I know right where she is," he answers solemnly. Nene doesn't have to follow his eyes to know what he's looking at. Amane continues after a short pause. "Hey, listen. I'm sorry for losing it there. It's just…" Suddenly he's looking back at Nene and she's never felt a heavier weight from someone’s gaze landing on her. "You remind me of her. A lot ."
There's a part of her that wants to make a joke. Wants to point out the irony of him being reminded of her… by her. She wants so badly to engage in their old casual tone, shooting banter back and forth until either he embarrasses her with some lame quip or she flusters him proudly. It's been quite a while and she's definitely out of practice, but the comfort of her effortless conversations with Amane feels so close and familiar. As if they had never stopped.
To ensure she doesn't slip and fall into that trap of easy chatting, Nene makes the first move she can think of. With just a couple steps forward, she picks up the bouquet Amane dropped and gently wipes away any dirt from the paper wrapping it. After plucking a couple loose beads that had landed in the blossoms, she holds the flowers out and says, "Camellias, right? Did she like these?"
Amane takes them so gingerly, as if they'll shatter in his hands after the rough treatment he's given them. "She liked all kinds of flowers and plants. She was a gardener," he replies solemnly. "But out of everything she grew," a pause as he bends down to place the flowers on Nene's gravestone and stands back up, "I always liked these the most."
"Why's that?" Nene asks, genuinely curious.
A sheepish smile appears on Amane's face. "I don't really know, to be honest. I was a real brat when we were kids, so I don't think I liked them because they're pretty. That would have been too embarrassing to admit." Both of them share a small chuckle before he shrugs with a sigh. "Maybe now it's just that they remind me of her," he offers.
Not wanting to lose that momentum of levity, Nene smirks. "Bringing camellias to a girl, huh?" Half of her has a mind to nudge him playfully, but she resists, keeping in mind the lack of familiarity between them since they "just met" only minutes ago. "You know what they symbolize, right? You must have really loved this Nene girl."
She giggles, waiting for that flustered red face to defiantly rebuke her suggestion. Waiting for his voice to jump an octave as he denies everything about the concept. Waiting for him to grumble something under his breath in defeat.
But none of that happens. Instead, she hears his voice, more forlorn than she's ever heard it before.
"Yeah… Yeah, I really did."
Five tiny words. That's all it takes to bring Nene's entire being to a screeching halt. Everything inside of her freezes while everything around her dissipates into an irrelevant blur. All she can see is Amane standing in front of her tombstone, smiling down at her grave so tenderly that she almost thinks it's a prank. Part of her hopes that it is. What she wouldn't give for Amane to turn to her with his usual shit-eating grin and a snarky one liner. That way she wouldn't have to wrestle with this horrible jealousy. Jealousy for herself of all people. She wouldn't have to yearn for that warm expression to be aimed at her, only to realize the cruel irony that it already is. Because that plot of earth is her and has been for ten years now.
And it hurts to know that she’s probably missed so many of those soft looks meant just for her.
"O-oh, uhh! Are you okay?!"
Another heavy tear sneaks its way down Nene's face as she blinks at the sudden panic in Amane's voice.
At some point, the tears had started falling, but Nene has no idea when. Her cheeks are soaked enough to know that it's either been a decent amount of time or a decent amount of tears. Maybe both.
Already far too late, she rushes her arms up to swipe at her eyes. "I'm fine! It's nothing!" she declares, voice a bit weaker than she intends.
As she desperately tries to dry her face, she can see Amane's eyes widen with realization and she's nervous for a moment before he says, "Oh my god, it's the bracelet isn't it?" His head swivels back and forth at the beads littering the ground. "Shit, umm… It's okay! I can pay for it. Just let me—"
"No, no, no, don't worry about it! It was just an accident." Another rule she's learned to follow: grab every opening people offer. If Amane wants to attach the wrong reason to her outburst, Nene certainly won't stop him.
Patting his pockets as he looks for his wallet, Amane replies, "It doesn't matter if it was an accident—you're crying . Aha!" Finally finding his billfold, he begins to flip through it.
Until a slender hand appears over it, stopping him in his tracks.
Immediately his attention shifts to Nene, captivated by intense scarlet eyes burning through him. "You know how you could really pay me back?" She pauses, continuing when he slowly shakes his head. "Keep bringing those flowers here. Use the money you were going to give me to buy extras. I think that girl would really like that."
Another round of silence sits heavy in Nene's ears and Amane's incredulous amber gaze sits even heavier in her eyes. Normally she's grateful for silence. She doesn't have to think of good lies in response to nothing. Now, it's only adding to her suspense and dread. All she wants is for him to give up—accept that he doesn't owe her anything and let her go. Because he doesn't owe her a single thing. If anything, she owes him so much more. For the grief of being left behind. For the time he spent healing. For the suffering he went through just because she was a coward.
For the cruelty of simply existing in front of him again.
"Let me take you to lunch."
Amane's wide-eyed stare doesn't yield an inch, almost like even he's unsure of what he's saying—unsure, but somehow resolute.
Of course, Nene matches him with her own shock. "Lunch…?"
He nods. "I can't just not do anything, so at least let me do the bare minimum. Let me take you to lunch," he insists. "Even if it's just a coffee place or something."
As if the mere suggestion is otherworldly, Nene takes a staggered step back. Amane follows suit with a step forward to close the gap between them again.
Nervously, she tries for the easiest lie she can grab. "I really can't. I need to be somewhere soon and—"
"Doesn't have to be today. Just… whenever you're free," he counters, pulling out his phone. "Please." Nene notes that he doesn't ask so much as urges.
Back and forth and up and down, Nene's eyes skitter around the cemetery, looking for some kind of hint as to how she can get out of this. Unfortunately, she comes up empty and sighs in defeat. "We'll see. My schedule's usually pretty full," she mumbles, taking her own phone out. She makes an active note to not open her calendar app, lest he see her "full schedule" of empty time and eventless weeks ahead of her.
They exchange numbers, not that Nene plans on ever using it. This is as close to an escape as she can get at this point. It doesn't matter if Amane has her number anyway. She can just ignore him if he tries to contact her. Maybe even block his number. Regardless, she can't help but grin just a little bit at the new contact screen.
"So should I put this under Cemetery Loverboy or…?"
He chuckles. "Try Amane."
This is crazy, she decides as she types in the last couple letters, already having started before he even had a chance to begin answering.
Absolutely unbelievable.
And so very stupid.
"I guess I'll just put you in as Mysterious Graverobber then," he jokes.
She giggles. Partly at Amane's lame sense of humor, but mostly at the ridiculous notion of reintroducing herself to someone who used to know her so intimately and entirely.
It's crazy.
Absolutely unbelievable.
And so. Very. God damned. Stupid.
But all she can do in this strange situation is comply. So with as much confidence as Nene can muster, she presents to her dearest friend the identity she's been living under for the last decade of her life.
"You can call me Hanako."