Can a misanthrope have a harem?

The sky was the kind of bruised purple that made everything feel like it was in the middle of ending.

I walked slow. No music, no thoughts I could stick to. The bottle of tea Alya gave me had gone lukewarm in my hand. I hadn't touched it.

Every step felt disconnected. Like I was watching myself from far away. Like none of this was mine to carry, and yet it weighed me down anyway.

A gust of wind passed. Leaves danced across the sidewalk.

And then I saw her.

Komi.

Standing near the train crossing. Her schoolbag in both hands. Same uniform. Same silence. Like she'd been waiting, even if she hadn't planned to.

She didn't wave. She never did. Just bowed her head slightly as I approached.

"…Hey," I said.

She looked at me. Then down. Then back again. Her hands gripped her bag tightly.

I could almost feel the question on her lips, unsaid as always.Or maybe not a question. Maybe just the ache of recognition.

"…I don't remember the shrine," I muttered, the words surprising me even as I said them.

Her eyes widened just slightly. A flicker. Then she opened her bag and pulled out something.

A sketchbook.

She held it out. I didn't take it. But I looked.

The page she turned to-

Snowfall.

A torii gate.

Two figures. One barely drawn. One with more care. Holding a pinky. Just a pinky.

And the date, in pencil this time. Not pen. Not permanent.

December 28.

Komi's hands were trembling.

So were mine.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. I wasn't sure why.

She shook her head slowly. Then turned the page. Another sketch. Me again. But this time, eyes closed. As if asleep. Or worse.

She didn't say anything. Just bowed again. And walked past.

And I stood there for a long time, wondering what part of me she still saw, and why I was so afraid to find out.

...

The café was warm. Too warm.

Haruno stirred her coffee slowly, eyes half-lidded, watching the street from the window like it was a stage. She saw him pass. She always did. 

She sipped. Her phone buzzed once. A message from Yukino. She didn't check it.

Outside, Aiko turned the corner. Head down. Shoulders curled inward.

"Still pretending not to feel it," she murmured, smiling without humor.

She pulled a small notebook from her bag and opened to the last page.

A list of names.

Komi.Yui.Yukino.Mahiru.Utaha.Alya.Iroha.

And at the bottom, in a different pen-

Me.

She stared at it.

Then scribbled a single line underneath:

"Don't get involved too early this time. Let the others try first."

But her hand hovered. And then, below that line, she wrote anyway:

He never survives without someone breaking the pattern.

She closed the notebook. Stood. Left a tip.

Haruno Yukinoshita stepped into the fading light, eyes already on where Aiko would be tomorrow.

...

The train gates came down behind me.

Chimes rang out, low and mechanical. The kind of sound that felt like it should mean something more.

I watched Komi's figure grow smaller as she crossed the tracks, her steps even, steady, almost too calm.

I didn't call after her.

Didn't follow.

Just watched.

Like I was always watching, always too late, too far, too empty.

The sketchbook. The snow. That page with the pinkies touching.

Why that detail?

Why did it make my chest hurt?

The train thundered past between us.

When it was gone, she was already fading into the dusk.

I finally looked down at my hand. The tea Alya gave me. Still warm from my grip, but long since lost its comfort.

I tossed it into the recycling bin beside the sidewalk. It clattered too loudly in the quiet street.

Then I walked.

Not home. Not school.

I didn't know where I was going.

Only that my legs kept moving, and the sky kept darkening, and that date was now carved behind my eyes like a splinter.

...

Haruno Yukinoshita stood at the window, phone in hand, a glass of untouched wine on the table beside her.

The city blinked below her, cold and infinite.

She was watching.

Always watching.

The screen lit with a message. From Hiratsuka.

> [22:04] Hiratsuka: He's cracking. But not enough yet.

Haruno exhaled slowly through her nose. Then typed.

> [22:06] Haruno: Komi showed him the sketchbook. It's starting.

Another pause.

Then another message came through.

> [22:08] Hiratsuka: Do we push him harder? Or let it fracture on its own?

Haruno stared at that one for a while.

She tapped her nails against the glass.

Then typed:

> [22:09] Haruno: We let the cracks widen. When it breaks, we catch what falls.

She didn't hit send right away.

She thought of Aiko, his face when he was ten, clinging to her sleeves during storms. His silence when he stopped calling her one winter without warning. His eyes now, older and blanker and edged with too much knowing for someone who couldn't remember.

Finally, she sent the message.

Then picked up her wine.

Didn't drink it.

Just watched the city blink back.

...

I didn't remember the walk home.

Didn't remember locking the door, taking off my shoes, flipping the light switch.

But there I was, standing in the middle of my apartment, bag slipping from my shoulder, the silence too still to feel real.

The lights were off. I didn't turn them on.

The city glow bled in through the window, soft and blue. Quiet like a dream. Or a memory.

I stepped forward.

Stopped.

There, on my desk.

Something that hadn't been there this morning.

A sealed envelope. Cream paper, slightly yellowed. My name written in black ink across the front.

Aiko.

No last name. No stamp.

I didn't touch it right away.

It wasn't Mahiru's handwriting. Or Komi's. Or even Utaha's perfect, acidic cursive.

It was simple. Clean. Familiar in a way that made my stomach twist.

I sat down slowly.

My breath sounded loud in the room.

Then I opened the letter.

Handwritten, a little messy, ink blotted in one corner.

"You used to hold my hand like it meant something. But by the time the snow fell, you'd always forget who I was again."

"I'm not angry anymore. Just tired. Tired of waiting for someone who never remembers he promised not to leave."

"We made wishes once. You don't remember. But I do."

"The paper burned. The wind scattered the ashes. But I never let go of what I asked for."

"Please don't die again."

— K.M.

I stared at the letters.

My heartbeat was quiet. Too quiet.

K.M.

It could've been… Someone else. Someone I hadn't remembered yet.

I placed the letter down gently, like it might fall apart.

The clock ticked on the wall. Quiet. Absolute.

Outside, the city lights pulsed like fading memories.

Inside, I sat in the dark, the words replaying over and over again.

"Please don't die again."

I didn't know who she was.

But she remembered me.

And part of me, the part that never stopped dreaming of snow,

Remembered her, too.

...

The letter lay on the desk like a small, glowing wound.

I was still staring at it, at those two letters, K.M., when a sudden, soft knock broke the silence.

Three gentle taps.

Too polite to be Alya. Too hesitant to be Utaha. I knew before I checked the peephole.

I opened the door.

Mahiru stood there, hands clasped around a Tupper‑ware container, steam fogging the clear lid. She wore the same cardigan she'd had on earlier, sleeves pulled over her wrists the way she did when she was nervous.

"I… made dinner," she said, voice barely above the hallway hum. "You skipped lunch. And probably dinner."

I should have told her I wasn't hungry.

I didn't.

Instead, I stepped aside. She slipped her shoes off and padded in, setting the container on the low table. The room filled with the faint scent of miso and ginger, too gentle, too human for a place like mine.

"Tea?" she asked.

"I have water," I muttered.

She poured anyway, moving like she had always lived in this space, like she knew exactly where everything was, because, maybe, she once had. Different timeline. Different Aiko.

When she handed me the mug, her fingers brushed mine. A tiny spark. I pretended I didn't feel it. She pretended she didn't notice me pretending.

We ate in silence. Or rather, she ate, and I moved the chopsticks just enough to keep her from worrying. The food was warm and careful, the kind someone makes when they know how fragile a person can be.

Finally she spoke, eyes fixed on her bowl. "You saw Komi today."

I nodded. No point lying.

"And…" She hesitated. "How are you?"

"Still breathing," I said.

Her shoulders sagged with relief and disappointment all at once. "Breathing is good. Living would be better."

I set the chopsticks down. "What do you want from me, Mahiru?"

She met my gaze then, steady and bright and impossibly sad. "Nothing you can't give. Just… don't shut the door."

A quiet settled between us, a hush that felt like snowfall.

Then her eyes flicked past me, to the desk.

The envelope.

She didn't ask, but I saw the question bloom behind her calm expression.

I slid it toward her. "Not from you, I guess."

She shook her head slowly. Ran a thumb over the edge of the paper but didn't open it. "Do you know who?"

"No."

A lie. I had a suspicion. I just wasn't ready to say her name.

Mahiru breathed in, let it out. "Someone wants you to stay alive. That's good, right?"

"Or they want to remind me I'm supposed to die."

Her voice caught. "Please don't joke about that."

"It's not a joke."

She closed her eyes, fighting something behind her lashes. When she spoke again, her voice was scattered glass. "If you disappear this time, I won't remember how to start over."

The room felt smaller. My chest, tighter.

I reached for the envelope, slid it into the drawer, and shut it. "I'm not planning to die," I said. It sounded half‑hearted even to me.

Mahiru nodded, wiped at her eyes with a sleeve, and forced a thin smile. "Then I'll plan to keep cooking. Deal?"

I looked at her, this girl who'd followed me through more winters than I could recall, and managed the closest thing I had to a real answer.

"Deal."

And for the first time that day, the weight in my lungs eased, just enough to draw a full breath.

Outside, the city kept its secrets.

Inside, in the fragile yellow glow of a single lamp, we sat together, two people terrified of an ending neither of us could name, sharing the ordinary silence of a borrowed evening.

...

The dishes sat, half-cleared. The tea had gone cold. Mahiru hadn't moved from the couch.

Neither had I.

The silence stretched between us like a frayed thread, fragile and trembling. Not a heavy silence, not hostile, just thick with things unsaid. The kind of quiet that knows you too well.

Outside, dusk had faded into full dark. Inside, the room was cloaked in soft shadows and a low hum of regret.

"I should go," she said, barely above a whisper. Her voice carried the weight of every moment we didn't say what mattered.

She stood.

I didn't stop her.

Not at first.

Mahiru picked up her bag slowly, movements gentle, uncertain. She draped her cardigan over her shoulders like armor, paused at the door, but didn't reach for the handle.

"You always let me leave," she murmured, not looking back.

I swallowed hard. "You always come back."

That made her turn.

Her eyes shimmered, glassy but sharp, like they could cut through everything I was too afraid to admit. "But what if this time… you don't?"

The words lodged somewhere beneath my ribs.

I stood, slowly. Crossed the room without meaning to. No plan. No defense.

We stood close, so close the space between us was a breath, a heartbeat, a choice.

Mahiru looked up, chin trembling, like she was daring me to lie again. "Say something," she said.

"I'm tired," I whispered. My voice came out rough, cracked open. "Of pretending none of this touches me. Of lying to myself. Of not knowing who I used to be. Who we used to be."

Her hand twitched at her side, then she reached out, just barely grazing my wrist. A touch so gentle it ached.

"Then don't lie now," she said.

I didn't.

I stepped in, letting her warmth drown the chill I'd been carrying all my life.

Her fingers slid up my arm, tentative, then bolder. She reached for me like I was something sacred she didn't trust herself to hold, but had to.

When our lips met, it wasn't soft or shy. It was raw. Needy. Like we'd been drowning in separate oceans and finally found air.

She pressed herself against me, her breath catching, her skin fever-warm. It wasn't just desire, it was memory. Recognition. A body remembering another in a thousand quiet ways.

My hands roamed her body, reacquainting themselves with every curve and plane. I skimmed my fingers up her sides, feeling her shiver in response. She arched into my touch, her body seeking more.

I obliged, cupping her breasts in my hands. They fit perfectly, as if they were made for my touch. I brushed my thumbs over her nipples, watching as they pebbled under my ministrations. Mahiru gasped, her eyes fluttering closed.

I leaned down, replacing one of my hands with my mouth. I sucked her nipple between my lips, laving it with my tongue. Mahiru whimpered, her fingers tangling in my hair, holding me close.

"Please," she breathed, her hips rocking against mine. "I need..."

I knew what she needed. I needed it too.

I slipped my hand between her legs, my fingers sliding through her wetness. She was dripping, ready for me. I circled her clit with my thumb, feeling her jerk against me.

"Aiko, please," she begged, her eyes dark with lust.

I entered her slowly, pumping my fingers in and out. Her walls clenched around me, trying to suck me deeper. I worked a third finger into her, stretching her, preparing her.

Mahiru thrashed beneath me, her fingernails digging into my back. I hissed at the sting, but didn't stop. I couldn't. I was lost in her, in the feel of her around me, in the sounds she made.

I fucked her hard, my fingers slamming into her. The wet sound of our coupling filled the room, mixing with our panting breaths. Mahiru writhed, meeting me thrust for thrust.

"I'm close," she warned, her walls beginning to flutter around my fingers.

I rubbed her clit hard, pushing her over the edge. She came with a scream, her body clamping down on me like a vice. I worked her through it, only stopping when she collapsed back onto the bed, spent.

I withdrew my fingers, bringing them to my lips. I sucked them clean, savoring the taste of her.

We lay together in the aftermath, Mahiru's head pillowed on my chest. My fingers, still wet with her arousal, idly stroked her back.

"That was... Perfect..." Mahiru trailed off, at a loss for words.

We moved to the bed, our bodies intertwined. Mahiru lay back, pulling me down with her. I settled between her legs, my hardness pressing against her heat. She was warm and inviting, her body welcoming me like a long-lost lover.

"I want you," she whispered, her hands sliding down my back to cup my ass. "I've always wanted you." Her words were a confession, a vow, a promise that transcended lifetimes.

I kissed her deeply, pouring every ounce of my love for her into it. She returned it just as fiercely, her tongue dueling with mine. Our mouths moved together in a dance as old as time, communicating our feelings better than words ever could.

I reached between us, guiding myself to her entrance. She was slick with arousal, ready for me. I pushed in slowly, giving her time to adjust, savoring the feel of her tight heat enveloping me.

Mahiru gasped, her nails digging into my skin. "Aiko," she breathed, her eyes wide. "You're so big." Her words were like a drug, drowning me in desire.

I groaned at her words, at the feel of her tight heat clenching around me. I pushed in further, not stopping until I was fully seated inside her. We fit together like two pieces of a puzzle, made to be joined as one.

We stayed like that for a moment, our bodies joined in the most intimate way possible. I could feel her heartbeat through our connection, fast and strong, racing in time with mine. I could feel every inch of her, every curve and line, burned into my memory and soul.

I began to move, my hips rocking against hers. Mahiru met me thrust for thrust, her legs wrapping around my waist. We moved together, our bodies in perfect sync, like we'd done this a thousand times before. Because we had, in every lifetime, in every world.

Our breaths mingled, our moans filled the room. It was raw, it was passionate, it was love in its purest form. Every touch, every sound, every movement was a testament to our love, our connection, our destiny.

Mahiru's body tightened around me, her walls beginning to flutter. "I'm going to cum...," she warned, her voice breathy, her eyes dark with pleasure.

I increased my pace, my hips slamming into hers. "Cum for me..." I growled, reaching between us to rub her clit. I wanted to feel her fall apart around me, to know I'd brought her to the heights of ecstasy.

That was all it took. Mahiru came with a scream, her body clenching around mine. I followed her over the edge, my release filling her, branding her as mine as surely as she'd branded my soul as hers.

We collapsed together, our bodies spent, hearts racing, skin slick with sweat. I rolled to the side, taking her with me. She snuggled into my chest, her head resting over my heart, her body boneless with satisfaction.

Mahiru looked up at me, her eyes shining with tears, with love, with relief. "I love you," she said, her hand coming up to cup my cheek. "I always have. I always will."

Later, we lay tangled in silence. Her breath was steady against my shoulder. Her fingers traced aimless shapes on my skin, delicate and grounding.

"Will this time be different?" she asked, so quietly it almost didn't exist.

I held her tighter. Pressed my cheek to her hair.

"I don't know," I said, "but tonight… we fight to remember."

Outside, the stars spilled across the sky like broken glass.

Inside, we were two haunted hearts clinging to the only thing we had left: each other.

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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. From here on out, Aiko's personality will change.

So uh, I decided to change it. One more girl will be introduced. Maybe after the sports festival. That's it. No more.