Can a misanthrope have a harem?

She hadn't expected him to come find her.

Not like this.

Not with eyes like glass about to shatter.

When she saw him step into her classroom after first period, quiet and unreadable, her heart stilled. He didn't say her name. He didn't even glance around the room. He only looked at her, and that alone told her more than words ever could.

Now, on the rooftop, with the wind brushing through his hair and his voice unsteady as he called her by the name she'd once given meaning to, everything tilted.

"Akkun…"

The name, spoken not with confusion or teasing, but with remembrance, her private name for him, born under a shared umbrella in another life, wrapped in laughter and rain.

Her breath caught.

He remembers.

He remembered.

Not just the nickname. The feeling. The memory she had poured into every chapter of her serialized story, written with trembling hands and a heart too full of longing. Every metaphor, every dying boy, every unnamed girl, she had written all of it for him. Hoping he would read between the lines.

But she never thought he'd see it.

And now he stood here, gaze steady despite the tremor in his voice, telling her about the memory.

The kiss. The nickname. The snow. The death.

Telling her he died.

That he saw it. Felt it. Remembered it.

Utaha's throat tightened, her chest rising and falling too fast. She wanted to step forward, to pull him close and say all the things she had written a hundred times but never dared to say aloud.

But the words tangled behind her ribs like barbed wire.

Because if he remembered…

Then that meant the curse was still alive.

It meant the clock was already ticking again.

Her hands clenched around the sleeves of her uniform blazer, knuckles white. She had sworn to herself she wouldn't push. Wouldn't force anything. Just write, and wait, and hope.

But now he stood here, cracks forming in his armor, and she didn't know whether to be overjoyed or devastated.

Because if he was remembering…

That meant he was getting closer.

Closer to dying again.

"Don't come closer to the end," she wanted to whisper. "Stay in the middle with me. Just a little longer."

But instead, she smiled, soft, pained, and achingly gentle.

Because if he was finally remembering her…

Then she wouldn't let it be for nothing.

She would write the ending again as many times as it took.

And maybe, just maybe, this time, she could rewrite it with him still alive.

...

[Fragmented Winter – Chapter 13: The Day the World Held Its Breath]

The snow was falling again. Soft. Relentless. Uninvited.

He sat on the station bench, his scarf pulled high, his coat buttoned wrong, as always. The world passed by. Students laughing. Workers rushing. Lovers whispering. And yet, for a moment, time paused.

Because she arrived.

Not like a miracle. Not like a storm.Just… her. Just the way she always had. With that silence full of meaning and hands that never quite stopped trembling when they reached for him.

"Late," he said, not lifting his head.

"I'm always late," she answered. "But not this time."

They sat in silence. Just a boy and a girl. Or maybe, just two echoes of what once was.

"I saw you yesterday," she said. "Bleeding into the snow."

He didn't answer.

"I've seen it more times than I can count," she added. "The same ending. The same cold."

Still, he said nothing.

"I wrote it all down once. Every version. Every December 28th. And I keep rewriting it. Hoping the words will save you this time."

Finally, he looked at her.

"Then write something different."

She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.

"I did."

The scene shifted.

He stood in the center of the school rooftop, wind slicing through his coat like a blade. The city stretched below, wide and unknowable. But he wasn't alone.

They were all there. Girls he didn't remember loving, but who loved him anyway. Girls who should've been strangers, but never were.

One stepped forward, the one who always saw too much.

She reached into her bag and handed him something folded. Lined paper. Torn at the edges.

"It ends here," she said. "But it doesn't have to."

He unfolded it.

The final line read:

December 28. The boy does not die. Not this time. Because this time, someone holds his hand when the snow begins to fall.

...

The rooftop wind stirred around them, but Utaha barely felt it anymore.

"Akkun…" she'd whispered, and there was no taking it back.

But then Aiko stepped forward, just slightly, enough to close the distance between truth and fear.

"I read it," he said softly.

Her eyes snapped up to his. "What?"

He didn't look away.

"Your serialized story. Chapter Thirteen." (A/N Chapter 14. If anybody forgot.)

Utaha's breath caught.

"You wrote about me."

The silence that followed wasn't uncertain. It was too certain, like something sacred being spoken aloud after years of denial.

"I read it last night," Aiko said. "I was half-asleep, heart racing, hands shaking. And every line felt like I was remembering something I shouldn't."

He glanced down at his hand. It was still trembling.

"There was a bench. A snowy day. A girl who arrived late. And a boy who always died."

He looked up again, eyes glassy but clear. "It was us, wasn't it?"

Utaha tried to speak. Nothing came.

He took a breath, one that almost broke in the middle. "The final line… it said 'The boy does not die. Not this time. Because this time, someone holds his hand when the snow begins to fall.'"

Her vision blurred. The wind stung more now.

"I didn't understand everything," he continued. "But that line… I clung to it. Like maybe it wasn't just fiction. Like maybe you weren't just writing a story. Maybe you were-"

"Begging you to remember," she whispered, voice cracking.

Aiko nodded, slowly. "And now I do. A little. Enough to know that your story… it wasn't just fiction. It was memory. And warning. And maybe… a promise."

He reached into his blazer pocket and pulled out the folded sheet, the same one she had left on the bench days ago. Creased at the corners. Worn.

"I didn't throw it away."

Utaha stared at it like it was a lifeline.

He stepped closer and offered it to her.

"I brought it back. Because I think… maybe we need to write the next line together."

Utaha didn't move for a long moment.

The page fluttered between them in the wind, his hand still outstretched, holding the thing she had written in secret, her confession, her scream, her last line of hope.

She was always composed. Always clever. Always the one who held the quill while others bled.

But not now.

Now, her fingers curled around the paper with a sudden, shaky breath. And then she stepped forward, one, two, until the distance between them dissolved like snow in sunlight.

"Aiko," she breathed.

And for once, he didn't flinch at his name.

She looked at him, really looked at him, and whatever strength she'd been holding onto, whatever mask she wore in classrooms and rooftop debates, it all slipped.

"I thought I had more time," she whispered.

Then she threw her arms around him.

Not graceful. Not measured. Just real, a girl clinging to a boy she had lost too many times.

Aiko stiffened for half a second, then slowly, his hands came up, hesitantly, unsure, and then they tightened, anchoring her there against him.

Her head pressed to his chest.

"I wrote all of it because I didn't know how else to scream," she choked. "Because I remembered everything and you remembered nothing and I was so scared that when it started again, you'd just die alone again-"

"You remember all of it," he murmured, not as a question.

She nodded against him, hard, and it made her shoulders shake.

"I remember every version of you," she said. "The brave ones. The scared ones. The angry ones. The ones who pushed me away. The ones who died with my name on their lips."

She pulled back, barely, just enough to meet his eyes. Her own were wet now. Honest. Unshielded.

"And I loved all of them."

Aiko stared at her. This girl who always seemed composed, untouchable, immortal in her sharpness, now unraveling, trembling, real.

He didn't know what to say. So he did the only thing that felt right.

He leaned in.

And kissed her.

Soft. Unhurried. No fireworks. Just warmth, and breath, and the press of two people remembering the shape of each other in a world that kept tearing them apart.

When they pulled apart, barely inches between them, Utaha was still breathing too fast.

"I can't lose you again," she whispered.

"You won't," Aiko said. "Not if we write the ending together."

And this time, she didn't argue.

She just nodded, pressed her forehead to his, and held on like the sky might fall if she let go.

...

Down the stairwell, just one floor below the rooftop, the door stood slightly ajar.

Mahiru hadn't meant to follow.

She hadn't.

But when she saw Aiko slip out of the classroom right after first period, eyes hollow, jaw set, and noticed Utaha was already gone… something in her chest twisted.

So she walked. Slowly. Quietly. And when the rooftop door came into view, barely cracked, she paused, told herself to turn back.

But didn't.

She heard the voices first, low, raw, real. Then silence. Then Utaha's voice broke. Then his name.

Then the sound of arms wrapping around someone.

Then-

Mahiru's breath hitched.

She didn't mean to spy. But the moment she saw them, locked in that fragile embrace, something deep inside her folded in on itself.

She pressed a hand to her chest.

Watched the way Aiko held Utaha, as if the world might rip her away again.

Watched the kiss.

And it was so tender. So different from the rooftop kiss she had witnessed with Alya. That had burned. This one ached.

And yet… she couldn't hate it.

Because he had looked broken, and now, for a moment, he didn't.

She backed away before they could see her, footsteps light and fast down the stairs, heart thudding in her ears.

By the time she reached the second floor, her expression was composed again.

But as she walked down the hallway toward her next class, her eyes stung just a little.

And somewhere deep inside her, a quiet voice whispered:

"Please… don't let that be your final kiss."

...

The sun had dipped just low enough to spill soft gold across the floorboards, wrapping the room in a gentle, fleeting warmth.

Utaha sat by the window, notebook open but untouched, pen resting limply between her fingers. Her thoughts were tangled, heavy, fragile, and the words she wanted to write felt just out of reach.

The door slid open quietly.

Footsteps.

Mahiru stepped inside, silent at first, letting the door close with a soft click, just like on the rooftop. Just like the last time they had met.

Utaha didn't turn to face her. Her voice was cool but fragile. "How long were you watching?"

Mahiru's reply was calm, measured. "Long enough."

A moment stretched between them, thick with unsaid things. Then Mahiru's voice broke the silence.

"Do you want me to apologize?"

Utaha still didn't move her eyes from the blank page. "Not if you mean it like that."

Mahiru moved slowly toward her, footsteps soft against the floor, stopping a few feet away. Her arms folded, eyes steady, searching. "I saw the way you held him."

Utaha flipped the page, though nothing had changed on the paper.

"He needed it."

"I know." Mahiru's tone was unreadable, neither blame nor bitterness, but something heavier, more raw.

The silence pulled tight again, like a stretched string ready to snap.

"You remembered everything," Mahiru said quietly, voice barely above a whisper. "From the start."

"Yes."

"You wrote it all out… and waited for him to catch up."

Utaha finally met her gaze. "And you didn't?"

Mahiru's lips parted, hesitated, then pressed shut. The words sat heavy, unspoken. "I didn't make it a performance," she said softly, edged with something like pain.

"I didn't make it a lie," Utaha replied just as quietly. "I just… couldn't bear the silence anymore."

Mahiru stepped forward, not with anger, but with aching sincerity.

"Do you think it's easier for the rest of us? To pretend we don't remember? That his name doesn't haunt us every time?"

Utaha's voice faltered. "Then why didn't you say anything?"

"Because I wanted him to choose me without the weight of all that." Her voice dropped, fragile. "I wanted to be enough for him now."

Utaha's eyes sharpened. "And I wanted to save his life." She stood, the brittle edge of her determination clear. "Even if it meant being hated. Even if it meant losing him again."

They stood face to face, two girls entwined by love and loss, by lifetimes of waiting and memories too heavy to carry alone.

"You saw the kiss," Utaha whispered.

Mahiru nodded, hands trembling just slightly. "I'm not angry about the kiss," she said firmly.

Utaha's breath caught. "Then why are you here?"

Mahiru's eyes flickered away for a moment, raw vulnerability beneath her steady voice. "Because I'm scared you'll make him remember too fast."

Utaha looked away, guilt and pain washing over her like a tide.

"I don't want him to die again either," Mahiru said softly, stepping closer. "So stop racing to the ending. He's still trying to learn how to live."

Utaha's voice was barely audible. "What if we don't have time?"

Mahiru reached out, not to accuse, but in desperate kindness. Her fingers gently closed Utaha's notebook.

"Then make every chapter slower," she urged. "Give him time to breathe. Give us time."

Utaha stared at her, eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Mahiru turned to leave, pausing at the door. She looked back once, full of warning and sorrow.

"I don't hate you," she said quietly. "But if you rush him to the end… I will never forgive you."

And with that, she was gone.

Utaha stood in the golden light, notebook pressed tight to her chest, heart pounding so loud it echoed in her ears.

For the first time in a long time, the author didn't know how to write the next scene.

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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.