The cleaning duty roster cycled through the class of over thirty students. A twist of fate—or perhaps narrative convenience—had placed Sakurai Saki's name on the last day before Golden Week.
His emotional control had held firm. Even the heated exchange with Kaguya Shinomiya at noon hadn't broken his composure; he'd maintained a cold, logical front, avoiding any truly personal blows.
Just finish cleaning, then tutor the Five Sisters. The day will pass without incident.
He allowed himself a glance over his shoulder at Hayasaka Ai, who was silently straightening desks. The other student on duty had begged off with a sudden "emergency." Hayasaka had volunteered to take her place.
Kaguya Shinomiya's accusation from lunch echoed in the quiet classroom.
"You scumbag! You know she likes you!"
Had he been toying with anyone's feelings? The romance hadn't even begun. He was familiar with the trope—the indecisive harem protagonist maintaining a careful, ambiguous equilibrium with every girl, reaping all the benefits before finally making a choice. The "ship wars." The audience adored the uncertainty, the thrill of the unresolved. Once a heroine was crowned, the stage lost its magic; the other girls seemed to fade into narrative oblivion.
Sakurai Saki despised cover art that spoiled the ending. He had no interest in presiding over a faction war.
'Just say those four words to me. I will surrender.'
This was the unspoken rule he had etched into his own heart. He didn't dare take the first step—it violated his self-imposed quarantine. His powers were still a volatile, dangerous unknown, a threat to anyone who got too close.
Yet he was starved for connection. So he'd crafted this fragile loophole: if someone was brave enough, reckless enough, to confess their feelings to him… he would let down his guard. He would bear the risk. He would try.
'It's been half a year! Why are four syllables so impossible?!'
He'd initially doubted the depth of Hayasaka's feelings, but her recent, more assertive actions—pinning him against the wall—had erased all doubt. Fujiwara Chika's affection was equally obvious.
So why the silence? Was he somehow… unworthy?
He finished erasing the blackboard, the white dust falling like unanswered questions.
Click.
The sound of the back door closing. He turned. It was just the wind, or a latch settling. The front door remained open. No cause for alarm.
"I'm going to water the plants," Hayasaka Ai said, her voice soft. She surveyed the room; the desks were in perfect, regimented rows.
"Okay." Sakurai Saki returned to wiping down the chalk tray.
Once in the hallway, Hayasaka Ai reached into her pocket. She unwrapped two pieces of gum and placed them in her mouth, the sharp, clean mint flavor flooding her senses.
If this is to be our first kiss, I want it to be a good memory. He often chewed gum during breaks. This way, the experience would be pleasant for both of them.
Her decision was made. A simple confession would not suffice. She had observed him carefully: Sakurai Saki was a fortress of will, but once a breach was made, he could become unexpectedly pliant. This plan, a bold escalation, had a high probability of success.
At the sink, filling the watering can, she saw a flash of color down the hall—Fujiwara Chika, black bow bouncing, heading toward the Student Council room with her trademark radiant smile. Lively. Cute. Universally adored in a way Hayasaka Ai, in her true self, could never be.
Hayasaka looked down at her own hands, the water running cold over her fingers.
'Can I really do this?'
The question surfaced, unbidden and chilling. As a lifebound servant of the Shinomiya family, her existence was not her own. She was Kaguya's shadow, privy to too many secrets to ever be truly released. Her talk of "quitting" was a fantasy, a daydream she nurtured to survive.
'Could someone like me ever have a normal, happy life?'
The answer felt preordained: No.
Eighty percent of her waking hours were dedicated to Kaguya's care and security. Her time was a currency spent by the Shinomiya family. If they dated, when would they meet? She had to accompany Kaguya home immediately after school. Weekends were booked with etiquette lessons, security drills, and social obligations.
She was a girl with a master, not a life of her own.
The mint on her tongue suddenly tasted bitter. The water overflowed the can, cold and shocking against her skin. She turned off the tap.
In the silent, empty hallway, Hayasaka Ai stood frozen, holding a watering can she no longer had the heart to use, the weight of her reality crashing down upon the fragile castle of her hopes. The stage was set, the script written, but the actress was realizing she might not be allowed to play the part.
He always went to the Student Council room after school. Could she slip away to join him? No. That was Kaguya's private domain.
If she abandoned everything—her duties, her identity, her debt to the Shinomiyas—and asked him to run away with her, would he? Probably not. He was a scholarship student from a modest wagashi shop family, with a future brightened by a Shuchiin diploma. He wouldn't throw that away for a runaway fantasy with a servant girl.
Then… what was the point of this confession?
She couldn't offer what a normal girlfriend could. She couldn't even play online games with him every night.
"…Maybe I should just give up."
The whisper escaped her, half the courage she'd mustered dissolving into the sterile hallway air.
"Ai-chan~ What's wrong? You're spilling water." A cheerful voice cut through her reverie. Fujiwara Chika, who had just passed by, had doubled back.
"Oh! S-Sorry!" Hayasaka Ai's gyaru persona snapped back into place, a well-worn mask. "Chika-chan, why'd you come back?"
"I saw you looking kinda down! Came to check on you!" Chika beamed, then turned to leave. "Alright! Off to the council room!"
She took a few steps, paused, and spun around, her expression uncharacteristically earnest. "Y'know, Ai-chan… I don't know what you're thinking about, but you gotta keep going! Even when things are tough, you just have to keep moving forward!"
The simple, stubborn optimism was like a slap.
"…Thank you, Chika."
Hayasaka Ai watched her bounce away, the black bow a fading speck of cheer. She picked up the watering can.
The more you think, the more tangled you become. The more you fear loss.
Forget the future. Seize the present.
Go. Confess. To. Him.
"Did something happen?"
Sakurai Saki watched as Hayasaka Ai practically stormed back into the classroom, a kettle gripped like a weapon. Her aura was less 'fetching water' and more 'charging into battle.'
"No…" She set the kettle down with a definitive thunk on a nearby desk.
"Aren't you going to water the plants?" His question was one of pure, detached curiosity.
Hayasaka Ai didn't answer. Instead, she walked to the front door and, with a soft but final click, turned the lock. The back door was already secured.
The classroom was now a sealed room.
Sakurai Saki's internal alarms gave a faint ping. A locked room scenario… Is this a murder plot?
"Um…" Hayasaka Ai's voice wavered. She fumbled, picking up the kettle again as if remembering her alibi. "There's… dust. On the floor. Hard to clean if the door's open."
She was digging the hole deeper. "The wind… would scatter it. Since we're on duty… we should do a proper job."
A thin stream of water trickled from the spout, soaking the plant's soil until it pooled in the tray below. She stared, transfixed, until it nearly overflowed.
Sakurai Saki glanced at the sunlit floor. There was dust, motes dancing in the golden hour light. But locking the door was an extreme solution.
Hayasaka Ai put the kettle down. Her legs felt like water, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. She forced herself to turn.
And there he was.
The setting sun gilded his ink-black hair, highlighting the clean lines of his jaw. His uniform was slightly askew, a touch of endearing carelessness. Even the chalk dust swirling near the blackboard seemed to orbit him like a constellation.
He looked at her, a faint, questioning smile on his lips.
"What's wrong?"
'This isn't fair.'
The thought was a final, desperate protest before she surrendered. Hayasaka Ai took a step forward.
Tap. Tap.
Her indoor shoes sounded like a countdown on the linoleum. The distance between them closed.
Sakurai Saki assumed she needed something from the desk behind him.
Until a warm, slightly trembling hand cupped his cheek.
'…Huh?'
He allowed her to gently turn his face toward hers, confusion softening his features.
"Um…" Hayasaka Ai's face was a brilliant scarlet. The words tangled in her throat. "I… I have something to tell you."
The setting. The locked door. The palpable tension. Even Sakurai Saki's notoriously dense romantic radar blared to life.
[Confession. Incoming.]
The four words he had paradoxically yearned for and dreaded.
But not now. The dangerous side effects of today's power were a landmine beneath this moment. A surge of emotion could regress him in an instant, shattering this fragile scene.
Yet, despite the logic, his treacherous heart hammered against his sternum, a wild, eager rhythm he couldn't suppress.
"I want to confess to you."
The sentence fell between them. Then, as if the admission drained her last ounce of strength, she buried her burning face in his chest.
'It's real. It's actually happening.'
Sakurai Saki stood frozen, his arms hovering awkwardly at his sides, a general without a battle plan.
"Your heart…" Her voice, muffled against his shirt, was unlike any he'd heard before—not the classroom gyaru, not the gaming rival. This was soft, intimate, and playful. "…It's beating so fast."
"…Can you hug me?"
It was a request, whispered in that new, devastating tone. A tone that bypassed all his defenses and logical objections.
He couldn't refuse.
Slowly, his arms came to rest around her slender waist, drawing her closer. The clean, subtle scent of her shampoo filled his senses, and a wave of pure, unadulterated warmth bloomed in his chest—a happiness so foreign and sudden it left him breathless. The sealed room no longer felt like a trap, but a world unto itself, holding its breath for what came next.
Hayasaka Ai looked up. Their eyes met in the sun-dusted silence, a current passing between them that needed no words.
The distance closed with infinite slowness, each millimeter an eternity, until the warmth of their breath mingled—a shared, intimate climate.
This time, there was no interruption. No world outside the sealed room.
Hayasaka Ai slowly closed her eyes, her arms winding around his neck, drawing him the final, decisive fraction closer.
"Kiss me," she whispered, the words a command and a plea.
"Okay."
Sakurai Saki tilted his head and bridged the last gap.
The universe contracted to a single point of contact—the impossibly soft, yielding warmth of her lips. His heart, already racing, shattered past any rational limit, but the idea of suppressing this emotion was now laughable, abandoned entirely.
A first, tentative kiss. A brief separation for a shuddering breath.
"Not enough…" she murmured against his mouth, her voice dazed.
"Okay."
He kissed her again, deeper this time. One minute dissolved into two.
"Not enough…"
"Gentler…"
Instruction and instinct blurred together. Gradually, the gentle exploration grew more urgent, a shared hunger awakening. A long, breathless while later, they finally parted, resting their foreheads together.
"Ha…" Hayasaka Ai gasped softly, a sound of pure overwhelm. She nipped his lower lip in a playful, breathless complaint. "Next time… be gentler~"
I can't breathe.
"Sorry," Sakurai Saki murmured, his own breath ragged. He tried to look away, to regain some composure, but found his gaze magnetically locked on her. "It's… my first kiss."
Her fair skin was flushed, a few stray golden hairs stuck to her damp temple. Her face, always beautiful, was now incandescent with a new, devastating charm. He wanted to freeze this moment, to make this version of her—soft, wanting, his—a treasure he could keep forever.
"It's okay…" she breathed, rising on her toes to press a feather-light kiss to his cheek. A promise. "You'll get used to it later."
Then, with palpable reluctance, she slipped from his embrace, taking a few graceful steps back. Sakurai Saki's eyes never left her.
He knew what came next.
Hayasaka Ai took a deep, steadying breath, her hands clasped demurely before her. When she spoke, her voice was clear and gentle, every syllable resonating in the quiet room.
"Sakurai-kun. I like you."
"I've liked you… since half a year ago."
"Please… go out with me?"
In that moment, she was perfect. The shy dip of her head, the hopeful curve of her lips, the golden light haloing her form—it was an image branded into memory. Sakurai Saki's senses heightened to an almost painful clarity: the fading contrail of a jet outside the window, the lazy dance of dust motes, the distant caw of a crow on the sports field.
His throat worked. No sound emerged.
"Can I?" she prompted after a few eternal seconds, a flicker of uncertainty touching her downcast eyes. "Or… no?"
Sakurai Saki finally surfaced from the depths of his own shock. "Sorry," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "I'm… a bit excited. I didn't know how to answer."
Does that mean yes? Hope fluttered in her chest. She waited, counting the frantic beats of her own heart.
Then, she looked up.
And the hope froze, then shattered.
The expression on Sakurai Saki's face was all wrong. The warmth, the dazed affection from moments before was gone. He looked at her as one would look at a curious stranger.
"Who are you?" he asked, his voice flat and calm as he glanced around the classroom with analytical detachment.
"Hayasaka… Ai…" Her own name sounded foreign on her lips, lost.
Sakurai Saki ignored the confusion in her tone. "I see. A side effect, then." He probed inwardly at today's ability, piecing together the rough, horrifying outline. He took out his phone, navigating to Line. The first chat was with 'Fujiwara Chika.'
Someone I'm close to, likely.
He typed a quick message—[Fujiwara-kun, my 'younger brother' might be coming by later. Can you help him? He'll be waiting in the first-floor changing room.]
The regression wasn't over. It could plunge him further back. He had to contain the situation.
With that clinical thought, he walked toward the locked door.
Hayasaka Ai watched his retreating back, her mind a void of white noise. Was I… rejected?
A sob tore from her throat before she could stop it.
Sakurai Saki reached the door, hand on the lock. He paused, glanced back over his shoulder at the crying girl, and frowned, an expression of pure, childish irritation. "Stop crying. I probably did agree to your confession."
He unlocked the door with a decisive click and walked out, leaving her alone in the silent, sunlit room.
Future girlfriend? Someone I'd pay a price to protect? The concepts made no sense to him in this state.
He descended to the first-floor changing room. Empty. Good. He locked the door from the inside. No cameras here—he'd mapped every surveillance blind spot in the school upon enrollment.
"How many seals are active?" he murmured to himself.
He was assessing the metaphysical locks on his own body. Seven core seals in total: left hand, right hand, left foot, right foot, brain, heart, head. The daily random ability was a separate, volatile variable.
The limbs governed physical enhancement. The heart, regeneration. The head, prophecy. The brain, everything else. A sealed aspect meant a powerless aspect.
He had never sealed his heart. Currently, four locks were active: all four limbs. Physical enhancements were a nuisance in daily life—tenfold strength or speed was difficult to control and risked exposure. The Sakurai of one year ago knew nothing of Future Diaries, but he understood the terrifying potential of his unshackled past self.
"Whoosh—"
The sound was spectral, metallic. Two chains of shimmering, intangible iron manifested from the air itself, coiling around his torso before dissolving into his body, reinforcing the seals.
The task complete, Sakurai Saki sat on a wooden bench in the empty changing room and closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable.
A few minutes later, a visible shudder ran through him. His frame contracted, his shoulders narrowing, his height diminishing. His previously fitted uniform hung loose and baggy on his suddenly smaller form.
"…A temporal displacement?" His voice was higher, younger. He looked around with cool, detached curiosity. "This is… a bathhouse changing room?"
Following standard human procedure for such a location, the logical next step would be to disrobe.
Influenced by the side effect's regression, the mind now housed in this 10-year-old's body was devoid of fear or social hesitation.
So, with methodical calm, 10-year-old Sakurai began to unbutton his shirt.
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