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Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you can still spot her sitting in that seat.
It takes a bit of a chance, of course she doesn’t come to the library every day. But today happens to be your lucky day. See? The one walking straight toward the farthest corner—that’s the “weirdo” everyone talks about.
Did you notice? She’s rummaging through her bag again. That’s always the first thing she does.
And there it is again, that notebook. That old-fashioned pink notebook whose design went out of style ages ago. I’ve never even seen something like that in stores before.
And take a closer look, doesn’t it seem absurdly thick? Its owner must have added pages to it over time. Well, that’s not unusual for a loose-leaf notebook, but with that many extra pages… doesn’t it get heavy carrying it around?
Apparently, the girl at the center of the gossip couldn’t hear the distant chatter of the children. As usual, she took out the notebook and began flipping through it page by page.
The handwriting in the first few pages had already faded into near illegibility, though traces of childishness still lingered in the clumsy strokes. Further in, the writing grew steadier, sharper, more refined. The amount written gradually became less than before, yet the dates continued without missing a single day.
She turned to the newest blank page and fished a black pen from her pencil case. She had bought it specially on the way here, stopping at a stationery store just for that. Only this morning had she realized all the black pens at home had quietly run dry. Using ink of any other color in this notebook would have felt far too jarring.
After thinking for a while, she pulled off the pen cap and finally began to write. Thick black ink spread slowly across the yellowed paper:
“To my beloved…”
——————
“I · First Encounter”
At thirteen, Demiurge met her first true friend.
Before starting middle school, her family moved to a larger city. To Demiurge, it felt like a nightmare. Just when she had finally begun to grow familiar with her classmates, she had to leave them behind and start over with completely new people.
On the first day of school, most of her new classmates were either reuniting with friends from the past or quickly finding new ones. Only Demiurge sat alone at her desk, her thoughts drifting far away.
After school, she walked home by herself. The setting sun cast the girl’s shadow onto the tall red brick wall beside the street, making her look even more solitary. The shadow moved slowly forward with her, until it fell across a sheet of glass and disappeared.
“Hm?”
Something suddenly caught the corner of her eye, and she turned her head curiously.
Behind the school library’s floor-to-ceiling window, there sat a young girl with peach-pink hair. She sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning back on to the wall, and her head slightly tilting to rest on the window. Without noticing the stare, she was diving deeply into the notebook in her hands, whose cover was as pink as the owner’s hair. A pen in her hand, the girl was writing something down rapidly. Though separated by a piece of thick glass, deep in her heart Demiurge could hear the sound of the pen scratching on the rough paper.
What was it? A story? A diary? A strange curiosity burst within Demiurge’s mind.
A strange curiosity bloomed within her.
Demiurge pressed herself against the enormous window. The afternoon sunlight reflected off the glass and warped the words upon the page. She narrowed her eyes, almost trying to squeeze herself through the window, but still she couldn’t make out a thing.
Suddenly, the girl on the other side snapped the notebook shut.
Demiurge held her breath, terrified that her spying had been noticed. Before she could react, the girl had already risen to her feet, clutching the notebook to her chest as she walked away with light, effortless steps, never once looking back.
Instinctively, Demiurge parted her lips. A desperate “Wait!” caught in her throat as she finally remembered the thick barrier between them.
What a pity…
She hadn’t managed to see what was written inside the notebook. She hadn’t even seen the girl’s face clearly. The only thing burned into her memory was the peach-pink hair flapping against her shoulders as she ran.
She had almost forgotten how long it had been since she last saw hair that color.
——————
At lunchtime the next day, Demiurge still couldn’t stop thinking about that pink-ish silhouette.
Even she herself couldn’t explain why she cared so much about the girl. Yet something restless stirred deep inside her: a desire to learn the words she had written, to learn her name.
Outside the classroom window, a flash of pink crossed the corner of her vision before disappearing again.
Demiurge almost bounced up from her seat.
Before she could think about it twice, she was already on her feet, rushing out the classroom door almost instinctively.
She darted into the stairwell and hurried down the flights of stairs, footsteps echoing layer after layer through the empty building. Gripping the handrail, she practically stumbled toward the first floor, as her chest aching faintly with every hurried breath.
Bursting out of the school building, she found scattered students still fooling around on the field. The dull pounding of basketballs striking the ground echoed again and again, unsettling her for some reason. Demiurge froze in place, eyes darting frantically through the crowd.
Nothing.
Had she imagined it?
Just as hesitation crept in, the edge of her vision caught a glimpse of pink hair swaying softly.
The girl was turning into the small grove behind the school.
Demiurge’s heartbeats became so violent, and before she realized it, she was chasing after her.
The grove was much quieter than outside. Footprints sank unevenly into the dirt path, and Demiurge followed the trail the girl had left behind until the pink figure entered her sight once more.
The girl walked slowly deeper into the woods, hands clasped behind her back, as though she had known all along that someone was following her.
Suddenly, Demiurge grew nervous. Her legs tingled faintly, refusing to move.
Say something. Stop her. Why are you always such a coward?
Seeing the figure begin to drift farther away, panic finally seized her. She rushed forward in a few hurried steps and instinctively grabbed the girl’s wrist.
“Wait! What’s your name?!”
She had been far too impatient. The words burst from her mouth sounding more like an accusation than a question, startling even herself.
The pink-haired girl turned around. A flash of surprise crossed her face for only an instant before disappearing again, yet Demiurge caught it clearly.
She must have been too rude. Too abrupt. For sure she had frightened her—
Damn it.
Demiurge bent forward and lowered her head. If she couldn’t see the girl’s expression, maybe she wouldn’t have to face the embarrassment of her own behavior…
That’s a lie.
The effects of her frantic sprint began to catch up to her. Pain surged through her throat and into her mouth and nose. Each breath dragged in the chilly early-autumn air like tiny blades scraping against her lungs. Sweat slid down her forehead and into her eyes, stinging sharply.
“You…”
A shadow fell onto her, blocking most of Demiurge’s vision. The girl had bent down and leant closer to her
For no reason at all, Demiurge began trembling.
“Are you okay?” the girl asked softly.
“—!”
Why? She wasn’t annoyed? She wasn’t angry? Why was she worrying about her instead?
A slim hand appeared before her eyes. It seemed about to reach toward her cheek, only to hesitate and withdraw halfway before taking hold of Demiurge’s hand instead.
“Hey, hey. Look at me?”
“Hm?” Demiurge lifted her head reflexively. “I-I’m fine!” She blinked blankly for a moment before hurriedly wiping her face clean. Through her still-blurred vision, she finally managed to see the girl clearly.
The girl was about the same height as Demiurge. The moment she raised her head, she found herself staring directly into a pair of watery, shimmering eyes.
“You asked for my name? Well… I’m Cyrene.”
The girl—or rather, Cyrene—pointed to herself before stepping a little closer, pressing a finger lightly against Demiurge’s chest.
“And you are…”
“…Demiurge.”
The answer came out in a slightly hoarse voice, making her realize just how dry her throat had become. Embarrassed heat spread silently across her cheeks, and even her voice softened.
“Ah… sorry. I was being so rude earlier. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
But Cyrene didn’t seem to mind. Tilting her head thoughtfully, she murmured:
“Demiurge… that’s right.”
Noticing Demiurge’s awkwardness, Cyrene snapped out of her thoughts and laughed softly. She grabbed Demiurge’s hand and swung it gently from side to side.
“Alright, don’t worry, I'm not mad at you. You were curious about this, weren’t you?”
As she spoke, she somehow produced a notebook from nowhere. The very same one Demiurge had seen yesterday.
“Huh? How did you know?”
“I can read minds,” Cyrene replied with exaggerated seriousness, nodding solemnly. But the moment she caught Demiurge’s astonished, almost admiring expression, she burst into laughter.
“Pfft— I’m kidding.”
“If you’re curious, then go ahead and read it.”
She pressed the thick notebook into Demiurge’s hands. For some reason it felt unusually heavy, far heavier than an ordinary notebook should.
“Relax. There’s nothing in there you’re not allowed to see.”
As if she had guessed Demiurge’s thoughts again, Cyrene gently patted her head. Only after the flustered student nodded did she finally seem reassured. Then she turned as though ready to leave.
“Wait! Cyrene… will we meet again?”
Almost unconsciously, Demiurge called after her once more—this time she didn’t grab her.
Why hadn’t she asked what class Cyrene was in? Even Demiurge herself didn’t know.
Some quiet voice deep inside her already knew: she wouldn’t answer.
“Hm… if you want to see me, then naturally we’ll meet again. After all, your story is still yours to write.” Cyrene’s gaze fell upon the notebook in Demiurge’s hands. She said nothing more, leaving behind only those vague, puzzling words.
If I want to see her…?
Demiurge lowered her head in thought and no longer tried to stop her. She didn’t even notice when the girl disappeared once again.
Her gaze drifted down to her own hand.
Cyrene was holding it just moments ago. Now it was empty, only the faint itch left behind by the notebook’s plastic cover brushing against her palm.
………………
Should she open the notebook? Demiurge sat stiffly at her desk, unable to decide.
At that moment, she imagined her feelings were probably much like Pandora's just before opening the box. The thought had haunted her all afternoon—open it, don't open it, open it, don't open it—until she had finally endured the wait all the way home. Even with Cyrene's reassurance, she still felt uneasy. To be granted permission so easily to peek inside, to learn another one’s secrets... But did she really have the right to do so?
Her heartbeat quickened. Thump. Thump.
In the silence of her room, the sound felt strangely loud.
Maybe it would be easier if she didn't let the contents leap straight into her eyes. With that thought, she closed her eyes and opened the notebook.
Then she immediately leaned back against her chair, snatching her hands away as though she had touched something hot. The notebook slipped from her grasp and landed on the desk with a sharp noise, falling open somewhere among the first few pages.
Slowly, Demiurge opened her eyes. After taking several deep breaths, she finally leaned forward and stole a glance.
Blank. There were no traces of ink nor handwriting. Nothing but blank pages.
"...?" Unable to believe it, she grabbed the notebook and flipped through every page in quick succession before stopping at the title page. It truly was empty from beginning to end—so pristine that not even the faint impressions left by a pen pressing against paper could be found.
Demiurge blinked in confusion.
I've been pranked. That was her first thought. Yet rather than annoyance or disappointment, what she felt was relief.
What exactly had she been so worried about?
Perhaps it was because the strange sensation of peeking into someone’s privacy had vanished. Feeling more at ease, she picked up the notebook with both hands, intending to close it and put it back into her schoolbag.
Then something caught her eye: a faint pencil doodle sat in the corner of the title page. It was a peach. Beside it was a line of tiny writing—so tiny she hadn't noticed it before at all: If you want answers, write them yourself.
The message felt oddly out of place in an otherwise empty notebook, almost as if it had been written specifically for whoever happened to read it.
An impulse she couldn't name struck her. Demiurge picked up a pen and, at a slight angle across the page, wrote the notebook's first true sentence:
I want to see…
See who?
See her?
She thought for a moment. In the end, what she wrote was:
I want to see you.
She set down the pen and snapped the notebook shut with a clap. Letting out a long breath, she couldn't help laughing at herself. How silly. Could writing her wish in this mysterious notebook really make it come true?
The Demiurge of the next day would tell her that it could.
When she arrived at school the following morning, an unfamiliar pale-pink envelope sat atop her desk. She noticed it immediately and picked it up in confusion. Inside was a short note:
Meet me in the grove after school?
There was no signature in the bottom-right corner. Only a tiny pink doodle of a peach.
Demiurge knew who had sent it.
………………
“Just a coincidence?” Demiurge asked when they met again. She had only just written those words in her notebook, and the very next day, this “invitation” arrived. Yet, if she were to attribute it to Cyrene’s usual personality, it also seemed perfectly reasonable…
“Calling it a coincidence is a bit too unromantic, don't you think?” Cyrene covered her heart, putting up a hurt expression. Then she winked at Demiurge and teased, "Maybe our hearts just work the same way?"
Was that it? Demiurge didn't press further. She quietly squatted down and sat cross-legged on the grass. Her pinky accidentally brushed against Cyrene’s, and she hastily looked up to gauge the other girl's reaction, but Cyrene didn't seem to notice. Embarrassed, Demiurge shifted slightly to the other side to widen the distance between them, though her ears secretly flushed a delicate pink.
Completely oblivious, the blue-eyed girl leaned in even closer, pressing right up against Demiurge. "Alright, let me see what you've written." With that, she reached out and took the notebook from Demiurge's hands on her own.
The pages flipped by, stopping at the line: “I want to see you.” Cyrene blinked, a faint blush sweeping across her face. She cleared her throat and, turned to look at Demiurge, who had buried her face in her arms in sheer embarrassment. “See! I wanted to see you, and you wanted to see me. We really can read each other’s minds, huh?”
Each other’s minds... Demiurge silently savored the phrase. It was a sweetness, a strange sweetness, a sweetness she liked, trickling down her throat like juice.
She tilted her head and rested it against Cyrene’s shoulder. The other girl’s body trembled slightly, perhaps out of surprise, but she immediately shifted her posture, adjusting herself so their heads rested together.
Thump, thump.
The girls' heartbeats quickened and quieted at the exact same moments, intertwining until only a single rhythm remained. It resonated through the silent woods, echoed through everything, as though they had never been apart.
………………
The sky gradually darkened, startling the two girls out of their quiet reverie. Demiurge glanced at her watch and was shocked to see that the hands already pointed to the time they should be heading home. She scrambled to her feet, dusting off the hem of her clothes, and hurriedly packed her school bag. Cyrene said nothing; she remained leaning where she was, propping her head up with one hand, quietly watching Demiurge. Her blue eyes, softened by a tender gaze, looked like water, observing the other girl as if watching a small animal.
“Ah, right! Here, take this back.” Demiurge picked up the notebook and handed it to Cyrene.
“Silly…” The girl froze for a second, then brought her hand to her mouth and let out a few soft giggles once she realized what was happening. “This is a gift for you. Here, use it as a diary, maybe? Whether you're happy or upset... put everything down in it.”
A gift for me? Demiurge’s eyes widened. Come to think of it, it felt like... it had been a very long time since she had received a gift from someone her own age.
“What's wrong? Why so surprised? It wasn't even expensive.”
“No... it's just, will you know what I’m writing?” As she spoke, a slight tremor shook her chest; her heart beat a little louder, almost shouting her thoughts out loud.
“Oh? Hehe, if you want me to... I will know all of it~” Cyrene leaned closer, taking her hands and whispering, “...Just kidding! But I really look forward to you sharing it with me.”
However, Demiurge's thoughts seemed to drift to a very distant place.
The warm touch felt like a swaddling cloth, tightly wrapping her hands inside. The warmth melted into her palms, turning into a gentle current that traveled along her pulse straight to her heart.
Cyrene's hands were... what one could call delicate and smooth.
Could Cyrene be her?
They were so much alike, with the exact same appearance and the exact same personality—Demiurge found it hard to imagine that she would meet two people who were so completely identical.
No, probably not.
How could such clean hands belong to a "wild kid" like that?
I · First Encounter…?
When Demiurge was six years old, she once had a “friend” whom she called Peach. Like many short friendships between children, they met only once.
At that time she was quiet and withdrawn. She often hid in corners, watching other kids her age play together, yet never dared to join them. Her parents were busy with work and never noticed her loneliness, and gradually she grew used to being by herself.
That summer, her parents took her on a trip to the countryside.
It was the height of the tourist season, and the train station was packed with people. Her mother gripped little Demiurge’s wrist tightly, repeating again and again, “Stay close. Don’t get separated from us.”
Of course, the words were futile. It wasn’t too long before the mother would discover that her young daughter had vanished without her noticing.
From the moment she stepped into the open hall outside the station, Demiurge’s attention had been caught by a stray cat by the roadside. The instant the grip on her wrist loosened, she padded over to it in small steps.
Unfortunately, the cat was nothing like the friendly pets she had seen in the city. The moment she got close, it arched its back and hissed before darting away, deep into the wheat field nearby.
“Wait!” For once she was bold. Without thinking, she ran after it.
Only when stalks of wheat began brushing against her face, their heads scratching at her skin, did Demiurge stop and look up. By then she had wandered deep into the wheat fields. When she turned around, she could no longer see the station. The vast fields stretched endlessly around her. There was no one else there.
A quiet sense of confusion and fear creeped upon Demiurge’s heart.
It was noon, and the sun burned overhead. In the hazy heat, she suddenly noticed a peach tree standing alone in the endless plain. It looked strangely out of place.
It was midsummer, yet the tree bore no fruit. Only a few peach blossoms dotted the lush green leaves, as if the tree had fallen a season behind the rest of the world.
She stumbled toward it and hid beneath the shade. The coolness helped clear her mind a little. Finally realizing her situation, the young girl didn’t know what to do and began to sniffle softly.
What should she do?
If she couldn’t find the way back, how would she ever get home?
Just as tears were about to spill down her face, a light laugh—clear as the ringing of a bell—came from above her.
Demiurge looked up blankly.
A girl about her age came into view. She had short peach-pink hair, a faint smile on her lips, and blue eyes as calm as the surface of a lake. The girl sat on the lowest branch of the tree, wearing a pure white dress with a small, flattened cloth bag slung across her shoulder. She swung her legs back and forth, making the whole tree sway gently.
Staring at this girl who suddenly appeared, Demiurge froze, even forgetting to cry.
Seeing her silence, the girl in the tree spoke first. “You’re lost, aren’t you?”
“Hey, do you want to go home?” the laughter disappeared in her voice, “Help me find the shoe I lost, and I’ll take you back to the town.” It sounded like an unreasonable request, but her tone was serious.
Examining for a while, Demiurge finally noticed that one of her feet wore a sandal that looked a little too large, while the other was completely bare. Before Demiurge could respond, the girl hopped down from the tree. She landed beside her lightly, almost soundlessly, like a feather.
The timid kid shrank back a little, then nodded silently.
“Then let’s go.” The other girl waved her hand and grabbed Demiurge’s wrist, pulling her into the depths of the fields.
The wind rushed past them as the two children ran deeper and deeper into the tall wheat. The stranger’s cloth bag bounced against her side, occasionally brushing against Demiurge’s arm with soft thumps. Beneath their feet the earth was damp and uneven, leaving a trail of footprints behind them. As they passed, the wheat swayed as well. Demiurge’s steps were unsteady, and she nearly slipped several times, but the lively girl always pulled her back up. Demiurge panted heavily, sweat running down her forehead, while the other girl seemed not the least bit tired, still smiling with an easy calm.
“Wait…!” Demiurge gasped really hard. “Aren’t… we supposed to be looking for your shoe? How do you… know where to go?”
The girl ahead glanced back but didn’t slow down at all. She tilted her head slightly and said nothing—only giggled.
“Hey—!” Demiurge frowned and struggled. “Let… let go!”
Her legs were beginning to feel weak. Her heart pounded faster and faster, whether from exhaustion or fear she couldn’t tell.
“Huh?”
The girl seemed startled by her sudden reaction and instinctively released her grip.
Thump.
Demiurge fell straight into the mud. It didn’t hurt, but it stunned both children.
“Whoa! Are you okay?!”
Demiurge blinked, staring blankly at the dimming sky and then at the wheat surrounding her like tall walls. The world before her eyes blurred.
And then—
She burst into tears.
“W-what’s wrong?”
The girl’s previously calm expression cracked in panic. She rummaged through the bag she carried and suddenly pulled out a peach.
“Good thing I brought this… After running so much, you must be thirsty.”
She was right. Demiurge had been separated from her parents from the very beginning and hadn’t had a single bite or drink since. The moment she saw food, all her fear disappeared.
She wiped her tears and shyly accepted the peach, biting into it eagerly. Sweet juice filled her mouth and dripped down her chin, which she wiped away clumsily.
“Huh… that worked way too easily,” the girl muttered.
“So… where are you taking me?” Demiurge suddenly stopped halfway through the peach and looked up at her.
Instead of answering, the girl glanced at the half-eaten fruit in Demiurge’s hand.
“You’re not finishing it?”
Demiurge shook her head.
In the next moment, the girl leaned down and took a bite from the peach.
“I’ve already bit into it!” the city kid protested, blushing in disbelief.
The girl ignored her. She stood up, tossed the peach pit casually onto the ground, and gave an ambiguous answer,
“Going home.”
“Oh…” Demiurge lowered her head. “But it’s getting dark… and we still haven’t found your shoe.”
“Ha! You’re still thinking about that?” Laughing, the girl pulled her up and pointed into the distance. “Look. What’s over there?”
Beyond the layers of wheat stood a cluster of lights glowing warmly, tinting the sky red. Rows of houses were packed together, and at the far end stood a large roadside sign that read in crooked letters:
Welcome to The Town.
“Whoa?? Unbelievable...” The child's voice could not hide her astonishment.
“Now that you're home, I guess it's time for us to say goodbye?” The girl took Demiurge's hand and swung it gently back and forth. Her hand was warm, and small. When the two hands clasped together, each could only wrap around half of the other's palm.
“Wait! I still don't know your name!”
“Hehe.” The girl curled her lips into a smile. “What do you think I should be called?” Her voice was soft.
Peach.
Without a moment's hesitation, the name appeared in Demiurge's mind.
Distant shouting echoed across the fields. She turned and saw several figures running toward her from the town, flashlights in hand. The beams of light made her squint.
Suddenly a push struck her back, knocking her to the ground.
When she looked up again, her parents’ worried faces filled her vision.
“Oh my goodness, we’ve been looking everywhere for you! Running off like that—are you hurt?”
They pulled the little girl up and hugged her tightly, anxiously checking her clothes and limbs.
“Why did you lose a shoe? Does your foot hurt?”
A shoe?
Demiurge looked down in confusion. Her right foot was bare, covered in mud.
When had she lost it? She couldn’t remember. It had been a brand-new sandal, a gift for the summer.
“…You scared us to death,” her parents continued as they walked back. “If that old farmer hadn’t noticed the wheat shaking and the footprints in the field, we would never have known where to search…”
Demiurge barely listened. She stared blankly back at the fields behind them.
The wheat had returned to stillness. The streak of pink had vanished, as if it had never been there at all.
“There was a girl… She stayed with me the whole time,” Demiurge murmured.
“What?” her mother asked, touching her forehead. “Oh dear, you’re burning up! You must have gotten heatstroke. Let’s get you home and give you some medicine.”
Six-year-old Demiurge spent a somewhat lonely summer in the town.
Soon the summer was nearly over. She never saw “Peach” again. The shopkeeper who sold peaches said he had never seen such a girl. The farmers in the fields said the same. Her parents insisted it had only been a hallucination caused by heatstroke, and she obediently stopped bringing it up.
But before leaving, she still begged her parents to take her to look for the peach tree where she had met “Peach”. They searched the place she remembered, but the tree was nowhere to be found.
“Kids just have vivid imaginations,” her parents later explained when telling the story to others.
When they finally boarded the train home, Demiurge still pressed against the window, gazing longingly at the empty fields outside.
“I’ll remember her,” firmly, she said.
II · First Knowing
Could a second person truly exist who was so remarkably similar to "Peach"? Or rather, was she truly so fortunate as to meet such a captivating person twice in her life? Demiurge could not bring herself to believe it.
The same tone of voice, the same appearance, the same dazzling personality... there were far too many similarities, too many to count, too many to ever finish listing.
Yet, the facts kept pushing her toward a different conclusion.
With “Peach”‘s constantly darting, restless personality, how could a child raised wild in the countryside have hands as clean, fair, and utterly unblemished as Cyrene’s? Even Demiurge's own fingers had developed thin calluses from years of writing.
Moreover, considering how many times she had moved over the past few years... how could such a coincidence, or destiny, even exist in this world just to bring them back together?
Long afterward, Demiurge stopped agonizing over the question.
No matter who Cyrene truly was, and regardless of whether she had initially grown close to her out of curiosity or a lingering attachment to that figure from her past, the present Demiurge had genuinely and deeply fallen for this pink-haired girl.
There were times when Cyrene would cup her face, comforting her in a voice so gentle it made her catch her breath; there were other times she would suddenly act on a whim, taking her hand and plunging her into the crowded throngs of people she usually sought to avoid.
“Look! How beautiful this world is!" Cyrene would take her han, spin her around, and shout. "Love it! Go on, love this world!"
She knew very little about Cyrene, but Cyrene's deep love for this world was something she knew as clearly as if it were carved into her very bones.
But it seems the world isn't the only thing I've fallen in love with. Sometimes, Demiurge desperately wanted to say those words.
Gradually, she began to crave having her hands held, to crave talking about everything and nothing with her, and to crave baring her entire soul to her. It was a novel, unprecedented emotion she had never felt for anyone else. It felt as though a hand had reached into her chest, gripping her heart—suffocating her, yet saving her all at once.
Was it a crush? Was it love?
The young girl couldn't tell, but the feeling had already nested itself deep within her chest. Three years—a full three years—was more than enough time for it to ferment and swell, struggling to burst from her lips.
And so, late every night, she would take up her pen and spill everything on the pages of the pink notebook. Her handwriting was so feverish, as if failing to fill the notebook or failing to press the pen tip forcefully into the paper would mean her feelings couldn't be proven true.
If she wanted to, if she truly wanted to, Cyrene could know all of it.
This was what Cyrene had wanted, wasn't it?
…………
The fireworks of late spring would explode violently within the young girls’ hearts.
“Look, we've actually known each other for so long,” Demiurge said during one of their hangouts, opening the notebook, whose corners long since crumpled, and handing it to Cyrene.
She was right; the notebook was more than half-filled with black ink, and even the last few blank pages bore layered, indistinguishable impressions pressed through from previous pages.
“Wow, you're right!” Cyrene arched her eyebrows, that unchanging, familiar smile swirling in her eyes. “Look at what you wrote on this page... hehe, even though it's been so long, I still remember your reaction back then.”
Her fingertips pressed against the paper, tracing slowly across the lines of text, her rounded nails leaving faint scratches as she moved. When she pointed to a certain sentence, her movement froze, and the smile on her face stiffened for a fleeting moment.
Demiurge held her breath, her fingers digging deeply into the dirt behind her.
That was the particular sentence she had written, the one she had always hoped Cyrene would see.
Clap! The notebook was slammed shut. Cyrene let out a long breath, the smile returning to her face, though it was somewhat rigid. “Alright! It's getting late, you should head home, shouldn't you?” She stood up and turned toward the other side so Demiurge couldn't see her face, her voice sounding a little raspy.
“Wait! You saw it, didn't you?” Demiurge grabbed her by the wrist.
"Hmm? What are you talking about?" Perhaps out of guilt, Cyrene lowered her voice, but her sound still trembled with an obvious lightness.
Don't ignore me. Please.
Demiurge wanted to scream it out.
But what actually escaped her lips was a different sentence entirely:
"I—
“I like you!"
She didn't shout it loudly enough; the words were instantly drowned out by the distant fireworks and the roaring cheers of the crowd, celebrating something unknown.
Nononono–!
She knew she had messed up again.
“I'm sorry! But... I can't...” Cyrene's frantic reply still echoed in her ears.
Watching Cyrene's receding figure as she walked away, Demiurge did not chase after her.
Not long after, a small note was added to the notebook.
And a long, long time after that, she opened the notebook once again. The note fluttered out from the pages, landing softly in the palm of her hand.
"I'm sorry. I must be awful for leaving without saying goodbye.
“I'm sorry, but for the rest of your own story, please stay well, and write it out yourself."
There was no signature, but in the bottom right corner, a peach was drawn—as it has always been.
III · First Love
At her age of eighteen, the summer skies were always heavy. Dark clouds pressed low against the horizon, stretching endlessly into the unreachable distance where earth met sky.
And here, rain was a frequent visitor. Like tonight.
Demiurge stood beneath a bus shelter, irritation written plainly across her face. She was not waiting for a bus—there wasn't even a route from here to the apartment she rented. Another gust of wind swept through, carrying water pooled on the roof. Together with the heavy raindrops, it came crashing down. Demiurge stepped back, but not far enough. The splash still spilled over her shoes, leaving them damp.
It was an utterly ordinary day. She should have been used to this by now. And yet, of all days, her umbrella had chosen today to break.
The weather forecast promised rain throughout the entire night. She could hardly spend the evening trapped in a bus shelter. Frowning, Demiurge leaned out and glanced into the storm several times. The rain showed no sign of easing.
It seemed there was only one option left: running home.
Splash. As if her luck had not already been bad enough, the moment she stepped out from the shelter, her foot landed squarely in a puddle. With a grimace, she lowered her gaze. Yet within the reflection floated a streak of pink, vivid even in the gloom.
Demiurge's heart sank. She stared at the murky puddle, lost in thought, paying no attention to the rain soaking through her clothes as it drummed against her shoulders.
What exactly was she hoping to see?
The downpour shattered the puddle's surface into fragments, making any reflection impossible to hold. And after that careless step, the image had scattered even further. No matter how closely she leaned in, all she could see was her own face, blurred beyond recognition.
"...Ah. Of course." After a while, Demiurge let out a self-mocking laugh and straightened. "She left a long time ago. What am I even looking for?"
And yet no one knew better than she did. Even if time had buried the image of the pink-haired girl, even if memory had gradually worn her away, she had never truly disappeared. She remained exactly where she had always been, inside her mind. Like a splinter lodged beneath a fingertip since childhood, long after the pain had faded, stubbornly refusing to leave.
Demiurge stood motionless. The faint smile everyone loved still rested upon her lips as always, yet no trace of mirth could be found in her eyes. Without noticing, she had twisted a corner of her coat into a knot. When she finally released it, the wrinkled fabric slowly unwound itself.
"Hm?" Something felt wrong. Demiurge opened her hand, her palm was completely dry.
Strange. How long had she been standing here? Her coat should have been soaked through by now. Even the rain overhead seemed frozen. It had been quite some time since she had felt a single drop strike her skin.
Ah. It's her. The thought arrived without reason.
Demiurge inhaled deeply, then let the breath out slowly. Finally, she turned around to face the guess she had spent years refusing to face.
"Do the words you said back then still stand?" The girl holding the umbrella spoke.
And just like that, Demiurge fell once more into that pale-blue lake.
Why did you leave without saying goodbye? Why did you suddenly come back? Where have you been all these years? She had countless questions. Yet none of them would leave her lips.
Was obtaining an answer really that important? That was the excuse she gave herself.
What else could she say? Should she act like the characters from those melodramas—shouting at the person in front of her, crying No! They don't count anymore! I don't love you anymore!
Even when none of that was true?
Then silence would do. Cyrene would not mind. She probably had no right to mind.
So she simply closed her eyes and allowed the hot, burning tears to gather beneath her eyelids, scorching her eyes from within. Like that, Demiurge rested her head against Cyrene's shoulder. Cyrene was still wearing that wool coat, absurdly out of season. The rough fibers brushed against Demiurge's lashes, as though trying to coax the tears free. One by one they escaped, rolling down into the fabric's woven patterns.
No, no. Don't misunderstand her. Those tears were not born of grief, nor of anger. She had not felt emotions like those for many years—not even when Cyrene had disappeared without a word.
Fear. That was what it was. The fear that had followed her her entire life, the fear that speaking her feelings aloud would make her hated, the fear that questioning someone would only lead to being abandoned again.
"I'm sorry..." Cyrene took her hand, as one of her own hands settled gently over Demiurge's palm, holding it with great care. Her gaze remained lowered, long lashes hiding those beautiful blue eyes. Demiurge could not see her expression.
All she knew was that a faint trembling traveled through the hand holding hers.
………………
The next day, Demiurge woke in a haze of confusion.
Soft sunlight filtered through the curtains. The room was filled with a warmth that did not belong to the morning. Turning her head, she found a sleeping face beside her.
She could only recall fragments of the previous night. She remembered Cyrene guiding her home while her vision blurred, remembered both of them getting drenched during a series of half-hearted struggles, remembered collapsing onto the sofa while Cyrene stood nearby.
And she remembered clutching Cyrene's wrist tightly, murmuring:"Don't leave again."
But what had Cyrene said in reply?
Demiurge sat upright and pressed her fingers against her tightly furrowed brow, trying to recover the missing memories. Everything afterward felt severed, as if they were totally cut off. No matter how hard she tried, she could not remember. Only a pounding headache remained.
"...my selfish wish... please forgive me..."
"I've... always been... always will be..." Only scattered fragments echoed in her ears.
Were they a promise? She no longer had the strength to pursue the answer.
A wave of dizziness washed over her. Touching her forehead, she found it abnormally warm. After getting caught in the rain last night, a fever was hardly surprising. With a helpless sigh, she lay back down.
The person beside her shifted slightly, seemingly awake. After glancing at her, Demiurge turned away again, stubbornly refusing to look. She closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep. Yet her breathing slowed, and before long she truly drifted into a deep sleep.
Within her dreams, a slightly cool hand rested against her forehead. A few indistinct words reached her ears, spoken in a panicked voice.
Not long afterward, the other side of the bed grew lighter, leaving only emptiness.
………………
A few days later, Demiurge ran into the Granny next door in the apartment hallway.
“Dear, where have you been these past few days? I don't think I've seen you around,” Granny asked. She had always been the caring type.
“It's nothing, really. I got sick. My gir—my roommate was taking care of me.” Demiurge waved her hand dismissively.
“Roommate? Since when did you get one?” The woman looked toward Demiurge's apartment door, as though thinking something over. “I've gone out several times and never once saw her.”
“Maybe you just missed each other?” Demiurge didn't think much of it. She stepped around the neighbor, who seemed eager to continue questioning her, and pressed the elevator button. “Her schedule is ridiculously nocturnal.”
Thinking back on it now, it was a little embarrassing. When she had woken up that morning and found the space beside her empty, she had immediately assumed Cyrene had left again. She had rushed out of the bedroom in a panic, only to find Cyrene brewing medicine for her in the kitchen.
Even though she knew it had been a misunderstanding, the unease never truly disappeared.
She was still afraid whenever she woke to find the bed cold beside her. She was still afraid whenever she came home to an empty living room. Afraid that Cyrene would vanish once more without warning and dissolve into nothingness.
At least she came back. Everything is finally back on track, isn't it? She won't disappoint me again. That was the only way Demiurge could comfort herself.
But she was wrong again.
The weather at the end of summer was even more stifling than it had been at the beginning. The heat left people restless and uneasy. Yet it wasn't only the weather that unsettled her. It was Cyrene, who grew calmer and calmer as the days passed. Almost unnaturally so.
“The weather's this hot and you still expect me to bounce around like usual?” When Demiurge pointed it out, Cyrene laughed it off as always, but her eyes avoided hers.
“Ah, right. School's starting again soon for you, isn't it?” Cyrene changed the subject on her own. “That's amazing. You've become such a capable grown-up already...” As she spoke, her gaze drifted out the window, focused on some distant place far beyond sight.
Yep. Demiurge responded quietly. The uneasiness clamored inside her mind. Closing her eyes, she wrapped her arms around Cyrene from behind. She buried her face in the girl's neck. Loose strands of hair tickled her skin, and she pressed closer, slipping past them until her lips brushed against Cyrene's neck. She rubbed her cheek there a few times.
“I missed you,” Demiurge mumbled out of nowhere.
“How come?” Cyrene left out a laugh and reached up to ruffle her hair. “Aren't we together every day?”
Yeah...Aren't we always together?
And then she left. Just as Demiurge had known she would.
When she returned home that day, the entire apartment felt cold.
Demiurge stepped inside hesitantly and called Cyrene's name, but unlike usual, no answer came. The apartment remained spotless. Every object sat exactly where it had always been. Even Cyrene's clothes were still there.
Nothing was missing. Except her.
She had left without taking a single thing.
Anger? Demiurge didn't know. All she knew was that her chest burned, as though it had been boiled alive. Every drop of blood in her body seemed to surge toward her heart and her head, until a ringing filled her ears, until her hands turned ice-cold when she picked up the familiar notebook resting on the dining table.
Why did you leave? And what excuse is there this time?
Ha. She had almost forgotten.
Cyrene had never even explained the last time she disappeared.
Demiurge couldn't speak. The moment she opened her mouth, her throat tightened painfully. She hadn't been angry when Cyrene ignored her, she hadn’t been angry when Cyrene left the first time, she hadn't been angry either, when Cyrene returned without a word. But now, for the first time, she was furious with all the intensity of a complete and genuine human being.
She hated Cyrene for breaking her promise. She hated her for leaving without a goodbye. And she hated that possibility…
The possibility that Cyrene simply didn't care about her at all.
Yet Demiurge still opened the pink notebook.
Her vision had begun to blur. Her hands trembled so badly that it took several attempts before she managed to catch the edge of the page.
Something new had appeared on the title page: a sandal, a lone sandal, its outline softened and bleeding at the edges, resting quietly beside the peach doodle. Demiurge remembered clearly that it had not been there before.
The ringing in her ears grew louder.
IV· Epilogue
The train carried Demiurge away.
The passenger seated beside her asked where she planned to get off. She shook her head and said she did not know. And she truly did not. She had merely glanced at the direction on the map before buying a ticket to the final station. But when the enticing scent of wheat pulled her up from sleep, Demiurge stepped off the train without a second thought and ran.
The station outside had changed so much she could barely recognize it. The endless wheat fields of the past were gone, leaving only their fragrance lingering in the air. And there stood the peach tree that should not have been there. Ten years later, it seemed to have finally entered the next season of its life. While the fruit on every other tree had long since ripened, it had only now borne its very first glossy peach.
Step by step, Demiurge kept her eyes fixed on the tree as she walked toward it. It grew larger and larger in her vision until she finally stood before it. Only then did she notice that from the tip of its lowest branch hung a child's sandal. It looked almost brand new, so absurd that it nearly made her laugh.
“Will you tell me?” she asked, resting a hand against the trunk. “Where is Cyrene?”
The tree had not changed. The texture of its bark was still clear beneath her palm, scratching faint red marks into her pale skin, just as it had twelve years ago.
A gust of wind swept through. The branches trembled, leaves rustling softly. Was that its answer?
A solitary leaf drifted loose and stole away Demiurge's attention. It swayed back and forth through the air, spinning twice before finally settling onto a pond not far away.
Strange. Had that pond always been here?
Curiosity drew her closer. Demiurge followed the fallen leaf and bent down beside the pale-blue water.
The reflection in the pond stared directly back at her, and she stared directly at it. The wind rippled across the surface, blurring her features into a whirlpool that revolved around a single center, turning and turning until it made her dizzy. Hair, eyes, nose, lips—everything twisted together, merged together, no longer distinguishable from one another.
For several seconds, Demiurge forgot to breathe.
How could this be? How could this possibly be?
The water did not stop trembling. She saw it. She saw it perfectly clearly.
And then everything made sense.
Why Cyrene resembled Peach so closely, even though none of the signs of time that should have appeared on Peach are found on Cyrene? Why Cyrene had always come and gone, so silently so unnoticeably. Why no one except herself ever seemed to care about Cyrene's existence. Why every wound, every sorrow, every hardship had always seemed somehow detached from Cyrene.
For ten years, Demiurge had swallowed countless questions in silence. She had never been good at asking them, always hoping the answers would someday find their way to her instead. And now every unanswered question, every unspoken answer, crashed over her all at once like a flood.
Of course, because Cyrene was here. At that distant place that was still within reach. At this place she could see, yet never touch. Wasn't that Cyrene? – That lovely peach-pink hair; Those beautiful eyes and brows; Those eyes that seemed pink one moment and water-blue the next whenever the light caught them. Cyrene was right there in the pond, shattered into a thousand pieces, unmistakable and true.
Look. How beautiful she was.
She remembered it now.
Who was Peach? Who was Cyrene? And who was Demiurge? She was Cyrene; she was herself.
“I have always been by your side, and I always will be.” It was an echo from the past — a promise “she herself” had once spoken, branded upon her lips and tongue, declaring a truth that could not be denied.
Demiurge covered her face, unable to stop herself from laughing. The laughter was first stifled in her throat, then gradually grew unrestrained, until it was finally swallowed by surging tears.
An atom can never truly touch another atom throughout its entire existence.
How fortunate she was, to have fallen in love with someone so close before her eyes, someone seemingly within reach.
And yet, no matter how infinitely the distance between them was compressed—
How pathetic she was, to have fallen in love with someone she could never truly be with; someone she could never embrace or kiss, someone with whom she could never, like countless other lovers, openly proclaim their love to the world.
As if loving a mirror.
So whether cold or burning hot, no matter how real the trembling in her palm felt, it was nothing more than an untouchable “illusion.”
She looked up. A girl about her age stood before her. The figure was so radiant it was almost painful to stare. She could not keep her eyes open long enough to line out the girl's face. Laughter, clear as bells, drifted from somewhere impossibly near and impossibly far, ethereal and reassuring all at once. Warmth—or rather, burning heat—wrapped around her hands. It hurt. It was so hot it felt cold.
The atoms knew there was no way to move any closer.
Demiurge trembled. She shrank back instinctively, yet her hands honestly betrayed her, gripping that blazing presence with all the strength she had. She must not let go. If she let go, she would leave.
She would go away from her once more.
And yet, who could truly define what it meant to “touch”?
"Peach..." Her lips never moved, yet she could hear her own voice, distant and unreachable. It sounded muffled, thick with emotion, perhaps laughter, perhaps tears.
"You found my sandal.
"And you found me too…
"Come on, come on. Just as I promised you.
"Go home."