Can a misanthrope have a harem?

The icy ground pressed cold against my cheek.

Snow, thick and heavy, blanketed everything , but it wasn't pure white. Dark crimson bled through the flakes, pooling beneath me like spilled ink.

I lay there, breath shallow, every inhale tasting like metal and cold regret.

Above me, the sky was a shattered mirror, fractured into jagged shards reflecting back my fading vision.

Mahiru knelt beside me, her face pale, almost translucent under the weak winter light.

Her eyes, those familiar eyes, were wide, swimming with unshed tears and something else.

Fear.

Desperation.

She reached out a trembling hand.

"Don't leave me," her voice cracked, fragile as ice.

Her fingers brushed my blood-streaked cheek, cold and trembling.

In the snow around us, shadows twisted, fleeting shapes of people I once knew, faces blurred like old photographs left out in the rain.

The snowflakes fell slower now, heavier, as if the air itself was suffocating under the weight of this moment.

Mahiru's mouth moved, silent words lost in the frozen wind.

Then her face blurred and doubled, two Mahirus, one fading, one glowing faintly like a candle flickering against the dark.

Her eyes met mine again, pleading.

And I reached for her, but my arm felt like it was made of glass, fragile and breaking apart.

Blood and snow mixed on my skin, freezing in place like a cruel reminder.

Everything dissolved into white noise.

A distant bell rang out, muffled and slow, like the toll of a funeral.

The cold seeped into my bones.

And in that endless, silent winter, I knew:

This was the last time.

...

I knelt beside him, helpless and breaking.

His eyes fluttered beneath closed lids, fragile as glass ready to shatter.

His breath came in ragged, shallow waves.

I traced the bloodied frost on his cheek with trembling fingers, desperate to thaw the cold that claimed him.

The world around us was silent except for the distant, mournful toll of bells.

Time was stretched thin, each second heavier than the last.

I wanted to scream, to fight the inevitable, but my voice caught in the icy air.

"Please," I whispered, voice breaking.

"I can't lose you again."

His hand twitched faintly.

A fragile spark.

A promise in the white.

I leaned closer, pressing my forehead to his.

The snow melted into tears, and in that fleeting moment, I held onto the hope that maybe, just maybe, this time would be different.

But the winter wind whispered otherwise.

...

I jolted awake, breath ragged, chest heaving like I'd run through a storm.

The cold in my room was nothing compared to the winter I left behind in that dream.

I pressed my palm to my forehead, trying to steady the spinning ache.

Mahiru's face, so close, so fragile, haunted my vision, soaked in blood and snow.

Her whispered "Don't leave me" wasn't just a dream.

It was a plea.

A warning.

A promise I wasn't sure I could keep.

The weight of it settled over me, heavy and suffocating.

I wanted to reach out, to call her name, but the room swallowed my voice.

Was it the echo of a memory, or a premonition?

The line between past and present, between life and death, had never felt thinner.

And for the first time, I was terrified that the next December 28th wasn't just a date-

But a deadline.

...

The room was quiet, save for the slow, steady rhythm of our breathing.

The pale morning light sifted through the curtains, painting soft lines across the bed.

I blinked against the haze, heart still racing from the remnants of that dream, Mahiru's face, the bloodied snow, her desperate plea echoing in my mind.

And then I felt her.

Warmth, close beside me.

Mahiru's hand found mine beneath the blanket, fingers curling around like a lifeline.

She stirred, eyelids fluttering open.

Her eyes, still heavy with sleep, met mine, wide and searching, as if she saw the storm raging just beneath my skin.

"Did you… have another nightmare?" she whispered, voice thick with sleep and worry.

I didn't answer right away.

Instead, I squeezed her hand, grounding myself in the tangible.

"I had a dream," she whispered. "About the snow. About you."

Her breath was a soft promise against my neck, and for a moment, the cold from the dream thawed.

"I'm here," she said, voice steady despite the fragility.

"I'm not going anywhere."

Her forehead rested against mine, and the world outside, the snow, the blood, the endless cycle, faded into the quiet warmth of this fragile moment.

Mahiru's hair brushed against my chin. She was warm. Real.

And that terrified me more than the dream.

I didn't know what I was supposed to feel, guilt? Shame? Gratitude?

What I did know was this:

I was still here.

And somehow, so was she.

Her breath was soft against my skin. Her hand in mine, steady. Familiar.

"I need to do something today," I said, my voice hoarse from sleep and memory. "Something real. I can't keep… drifting."

"I'll walk with you," she said simply.

And I wanted to say no, to protect her from whatever came next.

But I didn't.

Because maybe I couldn't face it alone anymore.

...

[School, Rooftop]

The rooftop was already crowded with tension by the time the door creaked open a second time.

This time, two more girls stepped out.

"Wow," Iroha said, flipping her hair back with a practiced flick, "did someone die up here or what?"

Yui trailed behind her, more hesitant, her eyes flicking nervously between Alya, Yukino, and Utaha before finally landing on Aiko. Her face softened.

"Iroha-chan," she murmured, tugging at her friend's sleeve. "Maybe we shouldn't…"

"No, it's fine," Aiko said quietly. "You're here already."

That made Yui flinch a little, not from the words, but the tired, hollow tone in which he said them.

Utaha folded her arms. "Perfect. The whole cast, more or less."

"Don't call it that," Yukino snapped.

Alya stepped forward slightly. "He's not a character in your story."

"No," Utaha replied, looking directly at Aiko. "He's the one writing it. He just doesn't remember."

Iroha laughed, but it didn't ring true. "Seriously, what is with you people? Is this some secret club I didn't get an invite to? Or maybe I did, just in a different timeline?"

Aiko's head turned slowly. His gaze landed on her.

She froze, just for a second.

Then he looked to Yui.

"Do you… remember everything?" he asked, his voice barely above the wind.

Yui's lips parted, then closed again. Her hands clenched at her sides. "Sometimes. In dreams. In music. In feelings that don't make sense."

Iroha's voice was small now. "When it's quiet, sometimes I feel like I'm waiting for someone who already said goodbye."

Alya looked down at her shoes.

Yukino stared hard at the horizon, as if daring it to change.

Utaha didn't speak, just watched him, silently writing every word into her memory.

No one said it aloud.

December 28 was coming.

And they were all holding their breath.

Aiko finally broke the silence. "All of you… are waiting for me to become someone I don't remember how to be."

"We're waiting," Yui said softly, "for you to come back to yourself."

"And if I don't?" he asked. "If I'm not him anymore? If I never was?"

"You are," Utaha said, simply.

"Then help me," he said, his voice cracking for the first time. "Because I feel like I'm breaking."

Iroha stepped forward. Slowly. Not teasing now.

She reached out and lightly touched his sleeve.

"You're allowed to," she whispered. "We'll catch what falls."

Behind her, Yui nodded. "We all promised. You just don't remember yet."

Aiko looked around, five girls, five timelines, five faces of the same grief, the same hope.

"I need to see Mahiru," he said again, voice firmer this time.

No one stopped him.

As he turned to go, Utaha called after him, not unkindly.

"Write something new, Aiko."

He didn't look back.

But the rooftop door closed behind him with a soft, final click.

And above them, the clouds gathered again.

...

Iroha sat halfway down the steps, hugging her knees to her chest. Yui sat beside her, quiet, her hands folded in her lap.

Neither of them had said anything since the door closed behind Aiko.

"I thought I'd be okay with it," Iroha finally muttered, voice muffled by her arms.

Yui didn't answer immediately.

Then: "You're not?"

Iroha laughed bitterly. "Of course I'm not. Who would be okay with watching the person you loved in a hundred lives look through you like a stranger?"

Yui's lips pressed into a line. "He's trying."

"I know." Iroha lifted her head, eyes red but dry. "That's the worst part. He's trying, and I still want to scream every time he smiles at someone else like they matter more."

Yui looked down at her hands. "We all remember different parts."

"I remember that day," Iroha whispered. "The one where he never came back."

Yui's voice was barely a whisper. "I remember the winter. When he held my hand under the kotatsu and promised we'd make it through the new year."

They sat in silence again. Just long enough for their hearts to feel exposed.

Yui reached out and gently rested her hand on Iroha's.

"He's not gone yet."

"No," Iroha said, voice steadier now. "But he will be. If we can't help him remember."

They didn't say it, but both knew it in their bones:

It wasn't just a date. It was a fracture point.

And they only had so many days left.

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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. Also, I'm being honest, I'm not sure how to naturally introduce the Student Council girls, but I'll try.

Chapter 042 is 5000+ words long and a very emotional one.