Can a misanthrope have a harem?

Komi sat alone in her room, the sketchbook open in her lap. The pages were filled with images of him, Aiko, though she'd never been able to draw his smile properly. She always forgot where to place the curve of his lips. Or maybe he never smiled.

She turned to a page tucked between others, a sketch unlike the rest.

A shrine.

Snowfall.

Aiko was standing beside her, holding her pinky in his. Not her hand. Just her pinky, like a fragile promise.

The date was written in a shaky pen.

Komi's hand trembled as she touched the page.

She could never remember what happened after that.

Only the feeling of her hand slipping through his.

...

[First Period – Monday Morning, Classroom]

The room was too loud for how tired I felt.

Chairs scraped. Chalk clacked. Someone laughed too hard about something that didn't matter. And I just sat there, staring at the streaks of dust caught in the morning light, letting the world move around me.

Yui was quietly flipping through her notes, occasionally glancing over like she wanted to say something. She didn't.

Mahiru is behind Alya. She hadn't spoken to me since that date. Not really. We passed each other on the stairs that morning. She smiled. I didn't smile back.

I didn't have the energy. Something had shifted. Maybe that was good. Maybe I could breathe again. Maybe I hated it.

The teacher walked in. The first period started. I didn't hear a word.

...

Mahiru watched Aiko's back, the subtle way his shoulders tensed, the slight drag in his movements.

He was shutting down again. Just like before. Just like in the other timelines.

Her fingers clenched in her lap.

If she didn't do something soon, it would all repeat.

He'd disappear again.

And none of them would be able to stop it.

...

The bell rang. Chairs scraped again.

As everyone moved to leave, Utaha Kasumigaoka appeared at the door. She didn't enter,just leaned in, eyes scanning until they landed on Aiko.

She gave him a small nod, not a smile. Just a signal.

He didn't return it.

But he stood anyway.

And followed her out of the room.

Mahiru didn't move at all. Yui whispered something under her breath. Alya stared, brow furrowed.

And the room felt colder when he left.

...

The rooftop was too bright, too quiet.

I closed the door behind me with a soft click, the kind that felt final. Utaha stood by the railing, her long hair stirring in the wind like something out of a book cover.

Of course, she already had a thermos in hand. Of course, it was coffee.

"Didn't peg you for a stalker," I said, walking past her toward the bench.

Utaha didn't flinch. "I don't follow you, Aiko. I just... arrive when the script demands it."

I sank onto the bench. "So now you think life's a story?"

"No," she said quietly. "I know it is. Because I'm the one writing it."

She turned, backlit by the sun, face unreadable. In her free hand was a folded sheet of paper, lined, handwritten, torn at the corner.

She held it out.

I didn't take it.

"What's this?" I asked.

"The next chapter," she said simply. "Of the story I'm serializing in the school paper."

I narrowed my eyes. "Why would I want to read that?"

Her voice was colder now. "Because it's about you. About me. About all of us."

I stared at the folded paper, then back at her. "You're going all in on this delusion, huh?"

"No." Her tone turned razor-sharp. "You're the one in denial. Every girl around you remembers things they shouldn't. Feel things they can't explain. And you-" she took a step closer, "-you keep pretending it's just a coincidence. That you're just a normal boy in a normal school. But you're not."

I didn't move. My fingers curled around the edge of the bench.

She knelt beside me, lowering her voice. "Have you ever wondered why that day always feels wrong? Like a date stamped into your bones?"

I stiffened.

Utaha smiled. Sadly. Triumphantly. "You don't remember it yet. But your body does. Your soul does. And when the clock strikes midnight on that day, you always die. Every time."

"..."

I wanted to laugh. Tell her to get help.

But my throat was dry. My skin felt cold despite the sun.

"You're insane," I said, but it came out quieter than I wanted.

"And yet you're still here. Listening." She finally placed the paper down beside me on the bench.

Utaha stood again, adjusting her skirt like this was all business.

"You can throw it away if you want," she said. "But if you read it, you'll see what I mean. The chapter ends with a boy dying. Again."

"Is this your idea of a joke?"

"No. This is a warning."

She turned to go, but paused.

"You're not the only one who suffers, Aiko. We all remember you. Even when you forget us. We love you. Even when you don't recognize us. We lose you, over and over, and we still come back."

"...Why?"

She looked at me then. The way no one else ever really looked. Like she saw past my skin. Like she remembered the versions of me that even I couldn't grasp.

"Because the story's not done. And I'm not ready to write the ending yet."

I didn't look at her, but I didn't touch the paper either. It just sat there. Quiet. Heavy.

"…How do you know they remember?" I asked, finally breaking the silence.

Utaha didn't answer right away. She tilted her head slightly, the wind playing with the ends of her hair. Her eyes stayed on mine, still, unwavering.

"I watch," she said softly. "I listen."

"That's not an answer."

A faint smile touched her lips. "Some girls dream of snow that never fell. Others hum melodies that were never written. And some flinch when a calendar turns to winter."

I blinked. "What does that even mean?"

She stepped closer, voice like silk hiding a blade. "People carry more than they realize, Aiko. You'd be surprised how loud silence becomes… when you've lived it before."

I stared at her, but she didn't elaborate.

"You're not saying anything," I said, irritation creeping in.

"I'm saying plenty," she replied, her voice steady. "You're just not ready to hear it yet."

She reached into her bag and pulled out a folded page, probably another draft from her serialized story, and placed it gently beside me on the bench.

"I leave clues," she said. "Some people recognize them. Others pretend not to."

I picked up the paper but didn't unfold it.

"You're being cryptic for no reason."

"I'm being merciful."

That one stung. More than I expected.

Before I could reply to Utaha's "merciful" cryptic nonsense, the rooftop door creaked open again.

I sighed.

Of course.

Mahiru stood in the doorway, her expression calm but distant, like she'd been thinking too hard again. A moment later, Iroha slipped in behind her, all sunshine and sharp edges, holding two canned coffees like she was showing up to a party she hadn't been invited to.

"You've got fans," I muttered to Utaha.

She didn't smile this time. Just folded her arms and watched them approach, expression unreadable.

Mahiru's gaze landed on the paper beside me, the one Utaha had left. Her brow twitched.

"You're pushing him again," she said softly to Utaha.

"Someone has to," Utaha replied. "You've all had your chance. You coddle him. Pretend it's not happening. I write it."

"You weaponize it," Mahiru snapped back, voice low.

"At least I don't bury it in smiles and soup."

"At least I don't reduce him to a character in my story."

Their eyes locked, and I felt like I was watching a knife fight under silk.

Iroha stepped between them before it got worse. "Okaaay, girls, maybe this isn't the place for another round of 'who understands Aiko better.' Some of us are here to check on the guy, not each other."

She turned to me, dropping one of the cans into my hand. "Here. Don't say I never take care of you."

"I didn't ask for this," I muttered, but didn't let go of the can.

"Yeah, well, no one asked you to keep self-destructing either," Iroha said, tone too light to be casual.

Mahiru sat down beside me, close but not touching. Her presence was quieter than Utaha's, but heavier somehow. "You haven't been eating much," she said. "You're drawing into yourself again. I've seen it before."

I didn't respond.

She reached into her bag and handed me a wrapped rice ball. Homemade. Of course.

"I'm not hungry," I said.

"You're never hungry," Mahiru replied gently. "And then you vanish."

Silence.

Then Utaha laughed once, bitter and elegant. "See? You think I'm cryptic? They're all grieving ghosts."

"And you're what?" I shot back. "The author of the apocalypse?"

She smiled without warmth. "Maybe just the one trying to get it written before it happens again."

Iroha leaned on the railing behind me, unwrapping a lollipop and letting it dangle from her lips. "You're all so dramatic. I just wanted to eat lunch with the weird, depressed boy I'm kind of obsessed with."

I looked at her, and she winked, but her hand was clenched too tightly around the candy wrapper.

Another silence. Too much honesty in too little space.

I finally cracked the can open. Drank. Bitter, lukewarm.

"…I didn't ask for any of this," I muttered.

"We know," Mahiru said, so soft I almost missed it.

"That's why we're here," Iroha added, tone forced-light.

"To break through," Utaha finished. "Before it's too late."

The wind tugged at my hair. Far below, the school continued, shouting, laughter, bells. But up here, it was just them, and me, and the weight of every life I couldn't remember pressing down on my chest.

And that date is coming like a loaded gun.

...

[Somewhere Else. Some Time Ago. Snow falling. A shrine in the distance.]

It had been snowing for hours.

Mahiru's fingers were numb, and the fabric of her coat was soaked through. Her boots crunched softly against the frozen steps as she climbed. Slowly. Carefully. Each step felt like the wrong direction, but she couldn't stop.

He was waiting at the top.

Aiko.

He stood near the torii gate, his back turned, breath fogging in the icy air. His black coat fluttered in the wind. He didn't move when she approached. Didn't speak.

She didn't call out to him. Just reached out and took his hand.

No, just his pinky.

That's all he ever gave her.

That was enough.

"Why did you come here?" he asked.

His voice was tired. Not angry. Just tired. Like someone who'd been carrying the end of the world in his lungs too long.

Mahiru hesitated. "Because I had to."

"You shouldn't have followed me."

"You always say that. But I always do."

His pinky tightened around hers. Barely.

She wanted to cry, but didn't. Not yet.

"Do you remember?" he asked suddenly. "Last time?"

"No," she lied.

He chuckled, bitter. "Me neither. Not really. Just feelings. Just dread."

They stood like that, side by side in the snowfall, watching the shrine lanterns flicker in the distance. The air smelled like firewood and endings.

"I wish I could save you," she whispered.

"You can't."

"You don't know that."

"I do," he said. "Because I already tried. So did you. So did all of them. And I die anyway."

He turned to her then, and she saw it - the sadness too old for his face, the pain that never healed between timelines.

Mahiru reached up and touched his cheek. Cold.

"I'll still try," she said. "Even if I can't stop it."

The shrine bell rang far away.

His pinky slipped from hers.

And he was gone.

...

[Present ]

Mahiru blinked, eyes stinging.

Snow was months away.

But she still felt the cold.

Still remembered how it felt when her hand lost his for the first time… and every time after.

This time, this timeline, she wouldn't let go first.

...

I hated that they were all here

Not because I didn't like them. That would've been easier.

No, I hated it because every time one of them looked at me, Utaha, Mahiru, Iroha - it felt like I was standing at the center of some giant, invisible funeral. My own.

And they were the mourners who never left.

I stared down at the can in my hands, condensation pooling in my palm. I hadn't taken a sip in minutes. It didn't taste like anything anymore.

Mahiru's gaze still lingered on me, soft and unreadable. Iroha was pretending not to watch me while twirling her lollipop like a blade between her fingers. Utaha was silent now, her arms crossed, waiting.

Waiting for what?

Me to crack?

I shook my head slowly.

"Okay," I muttered. "Let's say I believe you."

Mahiru blinked. Utaha's expression didn't change.

I continued, voice quiet, deliberate. "Let's say this… timeline theory. The dreams. The songs. The snow. Let's say it's all real."

I looked at Utaha first. "You say I die every time."

Then at Mahiru. "You say I disappear."

Then at Iroha. "You say you're… obsessed with me."

She smirked. But her eyes softened.

I leaned back against the bench, resting my head against the wall behind me. "Why does it matter? If I don't remember any of it, if I'm just gonna die anyway, why the hell does it matter?"

No one answered at first.

Utaha was the first to speak, and of course, her voice was sharp. "Because this time isn't over yet."

Mahiru added, "Because we've all lost you before. And we're trying to hold on, even if we're bleeding for it."

Iroha leaned in, whispering like a secret: "Because you're not just some guy we loved once. You're still him. Even now. Even if you're broken."

I laughed. Hollow. "That's the thing. You all keep saying I'm the same person, but I'm not. I don't remember any of you. Your heartbreaks, your promises, your deaths… they don't live in me. You're grieving someone who isn't here."

Utaha's jaw tightened. "He is here. He just buried himself too deep."

"No." I stood up, shaking my head. "I'm not your savior. I'm not your lost lover. I'm not your tragic hero. I'm just Aizawa Aiko. And I didn't ask for this."

Silence again.

I started to walk past them, toward the door.

Then I stopped.

"…You say December 28th is the day I die?"

No one answered.

I looked over my shoulder. Mahiru's hands were shaking. Iroha looked away. Utaha stared at me like she wanted to tell me something awful, but had already written it down instead.

I nodded slowly.

"Then maybe it's better if I just stay away from all of you."

The door clicked behind me.

But even as I stepped back into the noise of the school hallway, I knew I was lying to myself.

Because deep down, I didn't want to walk away.

I wanted to know the truth.

I just wasn't sure I could survive it.

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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.