Their lives have been a series of missed chances. She never told him, never confessed to him before she died. The next time she sees him, he's not him, but that's okay because she's not her either. It makes it easy to pretend. Well, easier, anyway.
But then in some sideways twisted painful timeline (by now she is aware there are more than one) he remembers, and he turns to her and gasps in pain— in horror— "Takane?"
And that's it for that chance too.
But everything's over, and the memories slot into place in her head one morning while she ties the laces on her red sneakers, ready for her morning run with her healthy, living body. Her hands shake, the texture of the white string between them suddenly too much, too harsh.
And she's running for real this time. (Again.)
She's breathing hard when she reaches the hospital, but there's plenty of time, so she doesn't know why she was running so hard. Takane throws open the door to his room, and he's hunched over his sketch pad, all ash-hair and constellation-freckles. He looked up, startled. And then tears well up in his eyes.
"God damn it," she grits between her teeth, taking one-two-three big steps to his bedside because she almost didn't remember, almost missed this chance too. The sketchpad gets crushed between their bodies when she hugs him, but neither of them care. He sobs her name— Takane— and she wonders vaguely why she is healthy now and he is not. It doesn't seem fair, somehow.
He kisses her to make sure she's there (she is), and it's their twenty-fifty-thousandth chance and they will not mess up this time, they will not lose each other.