Chapter Text
“Happy birthday!”
The twenty-first day of the third month arrives not with fanfare or fireworks, but with the simplest and most intimate of blessings: a baptism of kisses. They fall upon you like rain—soft, unrelenting, inevitable. With every brush of her cheek against yours, you inhale an unintentional sweetness, a fragrance that lingers as though the very air wishes to remember her. A laugh, small and helpless, slips from your lips. It is accompanied by the playful cries of the girl before you, whose lips will not relent, whose affection spills over as though love itself has no boundaries.
The cascade of kisses ceases, replaced by her hands cupping your face. Their warmth seeps into your skin, burrowing into your chest where the heart struggles to steady itself.
How easy it is to lose yourself here—to drown in sweetness, to abandon reason, to rest in the hush of love’s embrace. And when you meet her gaze, sea-green eyes brimming with a gentleness that no language could name, you find spring itself mirrored there. Her cheeks glow with a pink flush, the shy blossom of a season newly awakened.
To held you in her arms is not an option but a duty. A duty each time the two of you meet.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming to Tokyo? When do you leave?” The words leave you not as demands, but with all the gentleness you can muster, your voice flowing like satin against skin.
Lillian tightens her embrace with a little whimper. “I missed you so much that my hands decided on their own to buy the ticket.” As if to say: I didn’t mean to, but I couldn’t let the chance slip by.
But you know the truth. You know Lillian Weinberg too well. Every motion of hers is deliberate, every step a choice shaped by the certainty of her heart.
“Are we blaming body parts again this time?” you murmur, half-teasing, half-surrendering. Your arms encircle her, accepting even the flimsiest of excuses of her—if it means she can linger longer by your side.
Her cheeks puff like a squirrel’s, a childlike rebellion playing on her lips. “I’ll blame everything!”
Her words tickle at the quiet ache you’ve tried to swallow down.
You know this longing. It is your own.
Ah, if only Lillian knew—you would happily betray your own body, your own breath, your very bones, if it meant keeping her within arm’s reach, if it meant walking the same path beside her.
“I’m glad you’re here,” you whisper, the confession heavy and light all at once. More than glad. Her presence feels like a talisman, a fragile charm against the world’s cruelty, a promise that no storm could ever truly undo you so long as she is near.
As though, if the world were to end in that very moment, you would not crumble with it.
“I love you. You know that, don’t you?” Her voice carries the softness of a scolding, the kind that leaves no sting. You are certain she smiles even as she says it.
You know more than just that. “I love you bigger than the earth.”
“No fair! My love is supposed to be bigger.” She whines, not out of complaint, but because the battle has always been a ritual, a game of devotion. “Then I love you bigger than Jupiter.” Lillian continues.
This battle—of whose love is greater—has raged for nearly ten years, since the first time you understood what it meant to be loved. “I love you bigger than the sun,” you answer.
Lillian leans back, lips pushing forward in a pout, sulky and utterly endearing.
The sight tugs your own mouth into a smile.
She lingers in that expression for several seconds, stubborn and radiant. “No! Only I’m allowed to love you that much!”
And there it is again.
The argument you long stopped counting once the numbers crossed into double digits. It has no victor, no truce. You have always known—this is a war destined to last a lifetime.
So you change your tactics.
“Thank you,” you say, your voice steady, reverent. “Thank you for loving me so much. I love you too—until every star turns to dust, until the galaxies collapse into silence.”
Lillian exhales, her lips curving into a faint smile. “You can’t just ambush me like that.”
You laugh softly. Unguarded. How could it be that someone so dazzling, so radiant, so irrepressibly tender as Lillian Weinberg is your sister?
You search for the answer, but it has never come. Perhaps it never will. It feels instead as though you had gambled every fragment of luck life granted you, and somehow won. Won the chance to live, in your brief and fleeting human span, with her at your side—sister, beloved, blessing.
That same Lillian Weinberg—the one who had been sulking only moments ago—now had her sea-green eyes brimming with tears.
“You’re growing up too fast!” she scolded, her voice trembling between affection and disbelief, as though unwilling to accept that time itself was moving ahead of her, robbing her of the chance to watch you grow slowly, tenderly, as she wished.
And yet, without her, you felt like time always dragged unbearably slow. Days lengthened into eternities when she was gone. If it were within your power, you would have fast-forwarded the empty hours, rushing toward the day of reunion—only to freeze the world still once she was finally by your side.
“How dare you already be sixteen! That’s outrageous, disrespectful even!” she declared with mock severity, her words laced with tears.
You could only laugh, helpless. As if you had any counterargument to offer her.
When she had exhausted her grievances against both time and your inevitable growth—growth that, to her, felt like a cruel theft—her voice softened into a hush. Her fingers brushed away the tears that had been clinging to her lashes. Sixteen years ago, you had been Lilian’s tiny baby sister. Now that baby was standing before her, holding in her hands the gleam of recognition that comes with fame: a young actress on the rise, celebrated for her performances in two recent works—a drama series and a movie—that had lifted your name until it trailed right behind the shining stardom of singer Lillian Weinberg herself.
“I watched all of them,” Lillian said at last, her voice steadying, though pride trembled beneath it. “Tomorrow’s Kids and that—Twilight Serenade.”
Her words settled between you like offerings. You could almost hear the echoes of applause, the roaring approval of fans that had filled theaters and television screens across Tokyo and beyond. Billboards, magazine spreads, gossip columns—they had all plastered your image everywhere, until the city itself seemed unable to look away from you.
Tomorrow’s Kids — An adventure drama that tells the story of childrens who survive in a post-apocalyptic world.
And Twilight Serenade, the popular fantasy one, had unveiled another side of you: a japanese royal princess cursed to survive endless dangers, caught in a loop of peril at every turn of her life.
It was because of that role—because of your luminous presence as the princess—that your name had spread like wildfire. People whispered it, printed it, carried it as though it were a melody. You couldn’t hold back your smile, wide and bright until your teeth showed, until you looked like the very embodiment of your own success. “So? What did you think?”
At first, Lillian’s pout returned. “Was it because of that action drama that you got so many injuries?”
You grimaced. Most of those wounds had been carefully crafted with makeup, illusions for the camera. But not all. You remembered the bruises, the aching muscles, the moments of stumbling through fight choreography after hours of training. Your first action role had demanded more than your body thought it could give.
“Don’t worry,” you reassured.
But reassurance never worked on Lillian.
Her hands reached out, tugging at your cheeks until you whined.
Her scolding burst out like thunder disguised as rain. “How can I not worry? Do you know how I held my breath every time I saw you being struck down on screen? It was like watching my innocent baby being hurt right before my eyes!”
“But … it was all just acting—”
“Still!” she yelled, pulling harder at your cheeks as if she could anchor you back into childhood, into safety.
And then, just as swiftly, her voice shifted into a squeaky tease. “But you were so sweet in your second film! My, my, who knew the Weinberg family would have its own Hime-sama?”
“Stop teasing me!” you protested, pouting now in your turn, the sulk passing back and forth like a cherished ritual.
“Hime-sama,” she repeated, sing-song and merciless.
“Lily!” you whined, your voice cracking under the weight of her mischief.
She pressed another kiss to your cheek, sealing your helplessness, before replying with a grin sharp as sunlight. “Yes, Hime-sama?”
It was true—thanks to that role, the title had clung to you like perfume. Princess. Hime. It echoed not only from fans but also from reporters, magazines, headlines, late-night hosts. Your face, crowned with the nickname, had filled Tokyo’s billboards and seeped across international screens. And now your own sister, your anchor, your first mirror, had taken it up as well.
You knew, with a certainty that made you groan inwardly, that Lilian had devoured every article, every embarrassing headline, savoring each one like a leisurely breakfast—teasing you without mercy.
The news was still warm, even now. Though the film had been released since the beginning of the year, countless media outlets still spoke of it. Yet that did not mean you were ungrateful—on the contrary, those very stories had brought one project after another to your door. Photoshoots. Commercials. Collaborations. Invitations as a candidate actress for upcoming films.
Your phone lit up briefly with a ping.
The most hunted number by everyone—Lillian Weinberg’s contact—called you “Hime-sama” whenever she pleased in the messages.
The hum of the hair dryer filled your room, blending with the steady whisper of the air conditioner in your private residence in Tokyo. Another photo arrived, once again from the very same person who had been teasing you for the past two months. Those sea-green eyes of yours—the same shade as Lillian’s—peeked toward the phone while your hand busied itself combing through long golden waves cascading like tides down to your hips. You set the comb aside, switched off the dryer, and with one hand typed a reply, a small smile tugging at your lips: “Looking radiant today too, come back fast!”
The end of May had been marked by Lillian’s departure with her fellow astronauts into space.
To you, she had always seemed as though she belonged among the stars.
The photo was simple: Lillian alongside her Japanese friend, Ishigami Byakuya.
That famous singer had been utterly thrilled upon hearing the news and could not resist showing you their pictures together. You only hoped Lillian hadn’t forgotten the fact that her little sister was not truly Japanese either—merely working here, fluent only by chance, thanks to that royal drama filmed in Japanese.
Looking at her face made you recall the song collaboration promised between you both—a melody still waiting to be born. The people’s beloved singer had been overjoyed when you agreed to her request: to write and sing together once she returned from the outer space. Her joy had been so great that she spoke of weaving not just one song, but an entire album of them—an album filled with nothing but the voices of two sisters entwined.
And you could already imagine it:
Her voice, bright and soaring, the sunlit treble that carried hope in every syllable. If she was a star, then you would be her echoing constellation.
But you had never truly liked your own voice in song. Not that it was bad—it was not.
Just too high, you often thought. Or perhaps it was simply bias, born of being too accustomed to hearing yourself. To your own ears, your notes always seemed too sharp, too crystalline, lacking the gravity of resonance you admired in others.
Lillian, however, disagreed.
She always disagreed.
She once told you that when she heard your voice, she could hear the delicate chimes of summer wind-bells ringing. Music that shimmered as though sunlight itself had been caught in glass. Every time she said this, you shook your head, refusing to meet her gaze, brushing it off as one of her hyperbolic praises—try to ignore the shiver that raced down your spine.
And with that full and unyielding voice too, Lillian often spoke of Byakuya as a delightful companion in conversation, and she told you he wished to meet you as well. He even had a son, she said, who was about your age.
You sighed softly, though with a smile. It would be a lie to say you weren’t curious about who Byakuya’s son might be.
But that was for later.
Your phone vibrated again. An incoming call.
“Driver? No, today I’d rather walk.” You shake your head as if the caller could see you.
“I just feel like it!” you insisted, when your manager asked if you truly meant it.
After all, the day had only just begun, and there was still plenty of time to breathe in Tokyo’s air before arriving at the television station.
Lillian should have been high above, somewhere in the stretch of blue sky. You wished you could catch even the faintest glimpse of her spacecraft from where you stood—a tiny speck against the heavens, a fragile proof that she was still there, still moving farther yet never out of reach.
To imagine her floating beyond the atmosphere was to imagine her bathed in a light the earth could never replicate—a light too pure for mortals, yet made for someone like Lillian. Somewhere far above, she might be pressing her forehead to a porthole window, green eyes softened with the same warmth that once met yours. You could almost hear her voice carried down through the silence, teasing you in that gentle way only she could: “Hime-sama, are you looking up at me right now?”
Turning the doorknob, you stepped out of the apartment, your shoes striking polished marble before descending into the elevator. Hat and mask in hand, you paused before putting them on, lifting your gaze toward the blue sky.
But there was no blue to be found above. Nor the spacecraft.
You turned.
Your pale golden hair lifted in the wind. Your heart thudded violently.
Green light spilled across the horizon, endless, as though trying to gaslight you into believing the sky had always been that color.
Strange.
The next sight stole your breath away.
A swallow plummeted from above, striking the asphalt before you, its body shattered into stone fragments.
Moments later, your own fingers, your arms, your legs, even your breath—
The world, in that instant, was nothing like the stage of entertainment. There was no laughter, and nothing left to laugh at. No script you could read, no ending you could peek at in advance.
You could no longer feel the pulse of your heart or the rise of your lungs.
It was as if your life had just been torn, violently, from your body.
Terrifying. Unbearably terrifying.
And beneath the fear for your own life, another fear crept in.
Your sister.
What is happening?
All your nerves seemed to collapse into silence, as if the very wires that connected you to the world had been severed. Or perhaps not silence—perhaps absence. A hollowness where once there had been sensation. You waited for the brush of air against your skin, the tug of gravity anchoring you, the whisper of fabric shifting as you breathed—yet nothing came. It was as though your body no longer remembered what it meant to feel.
Even the wind, which should have caressed you, seemed stolen away.
Time itself had unraveled. The rhythm of seconds—gone. The heartbeat of the world—muted.
You had always wished for this.
To stop time. To suspend the hourglass before the last grain could fall. Like the princess in Twilight Serenade.
You had always wished to hold the world still, if only to keep your sister beside you a little longer. To stretch every minute into infinity, because minutes with her were never enough.
But the last sight before you was not her.
It was a swallow. Or perhaps only the ghost of one. Falling, collapsing mid-flight as though its wings had betrayed it, scattering in fragments. Was it truly a bird? Or a corpse?
You could not tell.
All you knew was that the image pierced you with an ache you could not name.
The swallow had haunted you. Appearing again and again in the most mundane places—on your glowing screen, in stray photographs, in fleeting articles you had not meant to read. Always there, as if mocking you with a secret.
Was it coincidence? Or omen? A reminder of fragility?
And now, you wondered: was this, too, your fate? Were you also crumbling into stillness, petrified like that fragile bird?
What is happening?
What will become of you after this?
Are you dying?
Or are you already dead?
You did not want to die like this.
You wanted death to feel like a cradle. Gentle, warm, with hands threading through your hair, soothing you the way one soothes a child who has cried too long. You wanted death to sound like Lillian’s lullaby, tender and soft, guiding you into a dream so light you would never know when you had crossed the boundary. You wanted death to smell like the familiar sweetness on your sister each time she kissed your cheek—a fragrance that meant home.
Not like this.
No one wishes to die like this.
Now, only endless darkness stretches around you, and darkness is what you fear most. You could almost feel the blackness thickening, pressing closer, until it became the only sensation left to you—heavier and heavier, crowding every corner of your being.
The world had narrowed to a single sensation, the last one left to you.
It pulsed in your chest, raw and unyielding.
Fear.
If the swallow could fall and scatter, wings snapping like fragile glass against the pavement, then what fate awaited the starship suspended hundreds of kilometers above the earth?
Would they too fall?
Would they too scatter?
Would their bodies, their dreams, their voices, break apart in the silence between worlds?
Would Lillian—
The thought stopped there, jagged and unfinished, as if spoken aloud it might summon the very catastrophe you dreaded. Yet it echoed inside you, the only question your dimming consciousness could still hold, circling like a prayer gone astray.
And above all, you prayed she would return.
You prayed that the sky, and the sea beneath it, would still be merciful enough to receive your Lillian with gentleness. The way you had always promised yourself you would receive her whenever she came home to you.
“Happy birthday!”
“I missed you so much that my hands decided on their own to buy the ticket.”
“I love you. You know that, don’t you?”
“Then I love you bigger than Jupiter.”
“Looking radiant today too, come back fast!”