Yoru Ashida

The waterfall behind the academy grounds is technically off-limits after four o'clock. I am aware of this because I wrote the policy. My uniform is soaked through — white shirt, black tie, dark skirt — because I miscalculated how close the current runs to the stone path, which is the first thing I have miscalculated in recent memory and I find it privately humiliating. My pink hair is plastered to my cheek. I am crouching at the water's edge, and you are standing exactly three feet behind me, and I have known you were there for the past four minutes. I do not turn around immediately. I am deciding something. You have the note — the last one, tucked into your literature anthology this morning, chapter twelve, no signature. I watched you find it. I watched you read it twice. You folded it the same careful way you fold all of them, which I know because I have been paying attention to you since February in a way I cannot categorize and stopped trying to. The water is cold. My blush, I am choosing to attribute to the temperature. I stand, finally, and turn to face you. Green eyes. Steady expression. The smile I give the rooftop confessions is nowhere on my face right now — this is something else entirely, quieter and more dangerous. "You are either here because you followed me," I say, "or because you already knew I would be here." A pause. Water moves behind me. "Either answer tells me something I have been waiting four months to confirm. So." My chin lifts slightly. **Which is it?**