Can a misanthrope have a harem?

The park was quiet, wrapped in the heavy heat of a lingering summer evening. Mahiru's footsteps were soft on the gravel path as she approached the bench where Iroha sat, her posture tense, her eyes distant.

"Iroha," Mahiru said gently, taking a seat beside her.

Iroha glanced up, surprise flickering in her eyes before settling into a weary smile. "Mahiru-san… I didn't expect to see you here."

Mahiru returned the smile, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Neither did I. But… we need to talk."

They sat side by side in silence for a moment, the cicadas droning faintly in the background.

"Today," Mahiru began quietly, "it was clear… he's struggling. More than we realize."

Iroha nodded, biting her lip. "I feel it too. It's like there's a part of him, a part of us, that's always just out of reach."

Mahiru's gaze softened. "I've been wondering something for a while. Iroha, do you ever remember things? Memories that feel… too real, from a time or place you shouldn't know?"

Iroha's eyes widened slightly. "Yes. Sometimes, I get flashes, fragments of moments with him that I can't explain. Like memories from another life."

Mahiru exhaled slowly, relief flickering across her face. "Me too. I thought I was alone in that."

Iroha looked at her, surprised. "You remember too?"

Mahiru smiled softly. "I do. And I think there's more. There's someone else, Komi Shouko. She has memories too."

Iroha's fingers fidgeted nervously with the hem of her skirt. "I thought I was the only one. I thought I was losing my mind."

Mahiru's voice grew gentler. "I've been trying to piece it together, why he forgets, why we forget. Why every timeline ends the same way."

Iroha swallowed hard. "I've had memories of him, and of you, but you've always felt like a stranger. Like a shadow from a dream."

Mahiru's heart skipped, a sudden realization dawning. "Iroha… do you think… that maybe we've met before? In another time?"

Iroha's breath hitched. "I don't know. But now that you say it… I think I always sensed it."

Mahiru reached out, lightly touching Iroha's hand. "I'm glad I'm not the only one carrying this weight. Maybe… maybe we can help each other. Help him."

Iroha's eyes glistened with tears, a mixture of hope and sadness. "I want that. I want to stop feeling like I'm chasing ghosts."

Mahiru smiled softly. "Then let's make a promise. No matter how lost he seems, we won't give up. And we won't let him face this alone."

Iroha hesitated, then whispered, "Do you think he knows? About us? About the memories?"

Mahiru shook her head slowly. "I don't think so. Not yet. Sometimes he looks through us like we're strangers. But I see the cracks. Maybe if we hold on, we can help him remember."

Iroha nodded, squeezing Mahiru's hand. "I hope so. I hate seeing him like this. So distant, so cold."

Mahiru's eyes darkened slightly, her voice low. "He's a misanthrope. It's his armor. But underneath… there's more. We have to find it."

A quiet companionship bloomed between them, fragile, but real.

"Thank you, Mahiru-san," Iroha whispered.

Mahiru squeezed her hand gently. "We're in this together now."

As the sun dipped below the horizon, they rose and walked back toward the city lights, bound by shared memories and a new purpose, part allies, part kindred spirits, all hoping to reclaim the fragmenting pieces of Aiko's heart.

...

[The Next day - Sunday]

It was Sunday. No school. No noise but the dull hum of the apartment. Just how I liked it.

Then, the doorbell shattered the silence.

I didn't want visitors. Didn't want anyone. Not now. Not ever.

But I looked anyway.

Haruno Yukinoshita.

The name stirred something, not warmth, not kindness, but a vague irritation. I already hated people before I ever met her. Before anyone ever met me.

I cracked the door just a bit.

"What do you want?" I said, voice cold.

She smiled, but it was that fake kind of smile. Like she was hiding everything behind it.

"I thought I'd check on you," she said carefully. "See if you're alright."

She helped me once, back when I was an orphan. Until middle school, when she had to leave for some business trip or whatever excuse she gave. She sent money every week like clockwork. But coming here? That was new.

"Why now?" I asked, skepticism thick in my throat.

She hesitated, the smile flickering. "Because you're still here. Still fighting."

I looked away. I hated the way she cared. The way people always want something.

"You never had to do it," I said. "You could've walked away anytime."

"I didn't want to," she said softly.

Her eyes flickered, something raw, but buried deep.

I hated the weight of old memories, the nights she stayed when no one else did, the quiet presence that never quite fit.

"I'm not that kid anymore," I said, voice low and rough.

"Neither am I," she said. "But some things don't change."

Her words hung between us.

"I remember who you were," she said quietly. "I see who you are now. And I'm not giving up."

I didn't answer.

Because I wanted to believe her. But I was afraid to.

Still, I didn't slam the door shut.

"Come in," I said, voice heavy.

She stepped inside, and for a moment, the apartment felt less empty.

Maybe it was the start of something. Or maybe just a new kind of burden.

Either way, I didn't push her out.

Haruno stepped inside quietly, her footsteps soft against the worn floor. The air was heavy with summer heat and the faint scent of dust.

I closed the door behind her but kept my arms crossed, leaning against the frame like a shield.

"So," she said, voice calm, "how have you been?"

I glanced at her without answering. The truth was complicated. I didn't trust myself to speak it aloud. Not to her. Not to anyone.

"You don't have to pretend," she added, reading the silence. "I know you hate this, hate people."

I wanted to snap back, to tell her she didn't know me. But she did. At least better than anyone else.

"I know you didn't ask for me to stay," she said, "and I wasn't there forever. But you were alone. And I was... the only one who didn't turn away."

Her words stabbed a little. I hated needing anyone. I hated the way needing felt like weakness.

"You could've left," I said finally. "Like everyone else."

Her eyes didn't waver. "I didn't. Because even then, I saw something in you worth holding on to."

I turned away, staring out the grimy window. The city blurred behind the glass, distant and uncaring. Just like me.

I thought about all the times I'd felt invisible. How I'd learned to push people away before they could hurt me. Before I could feel anything.

Haruno's presence was like a weight pressing down, too close, too real.

But then, beneath it all, there was a flicker. Something like... gratitude?

I hated that too.

"I don't know if I want to be saved," I said quietly.

She stepped closer, her voice softer now. "I'm not here to save you. Just to remind you when everything else feels like a storm, someone's still here."

My heart slammed against my ribs like a wild thing trying to break free.

I swallowed hard. "Why? Why do you care so much?"

She smiled, this time not fake, but tired and real.

"Because I remember who you were before the world broke you. And maybe I'm selfish, but I don't want to lose you again."

I looked at her. For the first time, the armor around me didn't feel quite so solid.

Maybe I wasn't ready to let her in.

But maybe, just maybe, I didn't have to be alone forever.

I moved to the small table by the window and sat down without asking her to follow.

She did anyway. She always did.

Haruno folded herself neatly into the chair opposite mine, crossing one leg over the other with that same effortless elegance she'd always had. Like she didn't belong in this crumbling apartment, like she was visiting from another world.

Maybe she was.

"Do you still drink coffee without sugar?" she asked suddenly, glancing toward the kitchen counter.

I tensed. "Yeah. What of it?"

"No reason." She smiled. "Just remembered."

I narrowed my eyes. "That was years ago."

"You'd be surprised what sticks."

Her words held something. Not nostalgia exactly. Something deeper. Like longing, she was too proud to admit to.

I leaned back. "You remembered that, but not the part where I didn't want company?"

She tilted her head, amused. "You say that, but you let me in."

I didn't answer.

She was right, and I hated that.

The silence stretched. Outside, cicadas whined lazily in the evening heat. Inside, it felt like all the air had thickened between us.

"You send money," I said eventually, my voice flat. "Every week. Even now."

"I promised I'd take care of you."

"You left."

"I had to," she replied, the first crack in her composure showing. "Family business. My father was sick. I didn't want to go."

"You didn't say goodbye."

"I wrote you a letter."

"I never read it."

A pause.

"...I know."

Something shifted. Her gaze dropped to her lap, lashes casting shadows against her cheek. For once, she looked vulnerable.

It didn't suit her. Or maybe it did. I didn't know anymore.

"Why are you here, Haruno?" I asked.

Her eyes met mine. "Because you looked like you were disappearing again. Like back then, when you stopped eating. Stopped speaking."

"I didn't ask you to watch."

"You didn't have to."

The words sat heavy in the room. I could feel her watching me. Not judging. Not even pitying.

Just… seeing me.

No one ever did that. Not really. Not without wanting something in return.

But Haruno had already given more than she should have.

And I'd never asked for it. Never earned it.

That made it worse.

"I'm not the boy you raised," I said bitterly. "That version of me is gone."

"I know," she said. "I'm not here to find him. I'm here because I care about the one in front of me."

I turned my face toward the window.

She stayed.

No lectures. No warmth. Just... presence.

It was unbearable.

And for some reason, I didn't ask her to leave.

Haruno leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table, chin balanced on her hand.

"You've grown colder," she murmured. "But you were always like this, weren't you?"

"I don't remember ever being different."

"No," she said, watching me. "I suppose you wouldn't."

I frowned. "You say that like it means something."

She smiled, the kind of smile that looked soft but meant nothing. "It doesn't. Just an old woman being sentimental."

"You're not old."

"But I've watched you grow. That makes me something."

I didn't respond.

She looked around the apartment, the empty coffee mugs, the single, neat futon, the yellowed books piled along the wall.

"Still alone."

"Still peaceful."

"I don't believe you."

I met her gaze. "And what do you believe?"

She hesitated. Just for a second.

"I believe," she said slowly, "that some people are born with cracks in their soul. And sometimes, someone else fills those cracks, even for a little while."

Her voice softened. "You don't remember it, but once, I think I was one of those people."

Something twisted in my chest.

I looked away. "You're talking nonsense."

"Maybe," she replied. "But… I'm here. That has to count for something."

A long silence.

Then, I asked quietly, "Why do you still send money?"

She smiled again, smaller now. More honest. "Because I promised your younger self that even if I couldn't stay, I'd never stop taking care of you."

I clenched my fists beneath the table.

Why does that hurt?

She stood slowly. "I'll be back. Whether you want me to or not."

As she walked to the door, she paused.

"I hope one day… you'll remember me kindly."

And then she was gone.

Leaving behind the echo of something I couldn't name.

Something that felt a lot like love.

...

The silence returned once Haruno left, but it wasn't the kind I liked.

It clung to the walls like moisture, heavy and stale. I sat there at the table long after the door clicked shut, watching the soft sway of dust in the golden streaks of sunset bleeding in through the window.

She said she hoped I'd remember her kindly.

I didn't remember her at all.

Or maybe I did. In pieces. Like someone whispering a memory underwater. A face in candlelight, a hand smoothing down the back of my head as I cried and didn't know why. A woman's laughter that didn't hurt to hear.

But I couldn't trust that. I couldn't trust anything that felt warm. That's how it always starts the pulling in, the closeness, and then it ends the same way.

With distance. With silence. With me alone, again.

I got up, moved to the window, and opened it slightly. The summer air rolled in, hot and slow, brushing against my skin like it knew I hated being touched.

I should've told her not to come back.

I didn't.

...

[Meanwhile – Komi Shouko's Room]

Komi sat cross-legged on her bed, notebook open in front of her. The pages were filled with drawings. Him. Aiko. In places they'd never been together. On rooftops. On snow-covered bridges. At festival stalls under purple fireworks.

She didn't know which memories were real anymore.

But they felt real.

Her hand hovered over a half-finished sketch of Aiko holding a fox mask. His face was blank, but his eyes… they were always the same. Sad. Tired. Like he was already halfway gone.

She pressed her pencil to the page and wrote a date in the corner.

December 28th.

Komi shivered, even though it was hot.

Something always ended then.

The world was quieter here, softer somehow, like a half-remembered dream. Komi's fingers traced the worn edge of the fox mask she held, its hollow eyes staring back at her. The night was still except for the distant murmur of fireworks, bursting and fading above the river.

She remembered his face then, Aiko's face - the way his eyes never quite met hers. Sad, tired, like he was already carrying the weight of a thousand forgotten lifetimes.

No matter what she did, no matter how much she wanted to change it, the ending was always the same.

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Thanks for reading. You can also give me ideas for the future or pinpoint plot holes that I may have forgotten, if you want.

Haruno will be the last girl introduced. If I do more, I'll forget about some. Hope this is enough. If you guys want, I can introduce maybe 1 or 2 girls, that's it.