A/N: I wanted to go ahead and get this chapter out there so that you all can get a feel of Eiji and Kaori! I promise that other characters from the show will slowly be introduced as the story goes on. Also, this story is a bit of a slowburn. Definitely a friends-to-lovers, if you will. :) Hope to hear your thoughts!

P.S. For the sake of the story, I have aged everyone up about 3 years. For example: Eiji, Oishi, Tezuka, Fuji, and Inui are all 17. Momo and Kaidou are 16. And Ryoma is 14.


"It turns out, your heart is made of gold, even if it's a bit tarnished."
-Mia Sheridan


Here's the funny thing about depression: I'm tired constantly, but most of the time, I can't sleep. For whatever reason, I almost never fall asleep once it's lights out. Usually, I toss and turn myself into a big blanket-tangled ball of misery. But whenever I can sleep, I have a go-big-or-go-home mentality. Basically, I don't believe in alarm clocks, and I'll sleep in for as long as humanly possible or socially acceptable.

On Saturday, I wake up a little after ten-thirty, roll out of bed, and slide onto the bench seat at the kitchen table. In a sleepy haze, I alternate bites of fried egg and gulps of coffee. My phone, resting between the bagel basket and pitcher of orange juice, buzzes halfway through my breakfast.

I swipe to check the notification. Then groan. "Fuuuuck."

"Jar," my little sister, Sora, snaps, arranging her pots of paint in a neat row. Sora is seven-years-old and Mom put her in this after-school art camp for the year. Now we all have to act like her blob-like paintings are super awesome and precocious. They're really not.

"Seriously?" I glare at her. "Mom didn't even hear me." Our mom is bathing a dog in the laundry room off our kitchen; she runs a pet grooming business offering both mobile services and "salon" services out of our home.

Music thumps into the kitchen from behind the shut laundry room door. I love my mother, but she is one of those self-made businesswomen who unironically uses the phrase "girl boss" and will pet a stranger's dog without permission.

Sora glances up. Her white-blonde hair is so unlike my black locks, and she has the face of an angel, even if she might be a demon. "It's the rule, Kaori."

I get up, grab a yen note from my wallet and make a performance out of shoving it into the bedazzled Swear Jar on the hallway table. Then I slump back into my seat at the kitchen table and reread the message.

The email is from Mayuko, the super effusive and excited volunteer coordinator! She ends every sentence with an exclamation point! She's so excited I'm volunteering at LifeCare! And can I come by today for my orientation?!

Yeah. This was a huge mistake.

After playing Realm of the Ravager until two in the morning and passing out, I kind of forgot about volunteering, Mayuko's impending email, and LifeCare. I've only been awake for fifteen minutes and I have to reread the email a few times until my brain catches up with the eyes.

What are my odds of a scholarship if I bail?

According to Mrs. Hanako, not good. Probably...really, really bad.

Sighing, I lock my phone and finish my eggs. Sora hums to herself as she begins painting a gray blob that I think is supposed to be a dolphin. But I don't want to ask for clarification and crush her fragile artistic ego. Not because I would feel bad, but because Sora would tattle on me in under five seconds.

"Gonna get dressed," I yell over my shoulder as I slide off the bench, then head downstairs. "Don't set anything on fire." I'm not even joking. Over the summer, she started a small fire when she lit one of Mom's candles unsupervised. My little sister mumbles something in response but I'm already halfway to the basement, regretting coffee. My stomach hurts.

In the solace of my bedroom, I flop onto my bed and open the email again.

Mayuko wants me to come in today, but the procrastinator in me is whispering to postpone. To tell Mayuko I can come in tomorrow. Anything to delay the impending awkwardness. Because I can already feel it; the anxiety slowly rising. My psychiatrist, Dr. Shimizu, who I see once a month, says I have social anxiety, but honestly, I have everything anxiety. I have anxiety over just existing.

Dr. Shimizu thinks I need a therapist, but after a few failed sessions after my diagnosis, I tapped out. Sure, I like to talk about myself, but I don't need therapy. I'm fine.

I hit reply and stare at the blank email, considering my options. But then my gaze wanders around my room. The University of Tokyo banner over my desk. A stuffed Ichiko, the UT mascot dog, on my bed. The mirror that used to be framed with photos, which is now plain except for my old Tokyo Comic Con wristbands from the past six years. I rub my fist over my eyes, then drag my fingers through my sleep-tangled hair.

I type out a response to Mayuko, agreeing to come in today. Then I shower, blow-dry my hair, and spend thirty minutes braiding a few pieces of my chin-length hair into a headband. The braiding is methodical, almost mathematical, and has become a hallmark of my personal style.

Once my hair is done, I choose my Schrodinger's cat button-down (the pattern is a bunch of cats and boxes with question marks) and roll up the sleeves to my elbows, and pair it with a jeans and my Doc Martens. After I take my morning antidepressant and antianxiety medications, I run out of reasons to procrastinate. Time to sign away my free time for the foreseeable future.

Mom's playlist has made a depressing shift, and I go upstairs and knock on the closed laundry room door. "Safe to come in?" I holler out.

Sometimes, if a dog client is skittish, they bolt for the hallway when the door is opened. Once, I had to chase a Jack Russell Terrier around our house, following a sudsy trail he left along the hardwood.

"Safe!" Mom calls back, and I step inside.

The laundry room is cramped, with a massive industrial sink currently housing a Shiba Inu, who I know from past appointments is named Ryu. "Hey, buddy," I say in my doggo voice, scrubbing his wet ear. Then to my mom, "I'm heading out."

Mom swipes her hair back with her wrist, her face flushed. She's wearing a t-shirt dress and a gingham apron on top. Her blonde hair, similar to Sora's, is tied back with a bandana that doesn't hold her flyaway bangs. "Where to?"

"My lack of volunteer hours has come back to haunt me," I say as if it physically pains me. And given my stomachache, it kind of does. "Mrs. Hanako told me I needed to volunteer if I wanted a fair shot at the UT scholarship."

Mom brightens, and she returns to shampooing Ryu, massaging soap behind his ears. "Really? Where at?"

I lean against the counter. "Some place called LifeCare. It's a retirement home, or something. I honestly don't care."

My mom ignores my ambivalence. "You want to take my car?"

"Nah, it's fine. I'll just take the bus," I decline, not too keen on the idea of having to deal with finding parking in the city.

She begins spraying down Ryu, and I jump back to avoid the splash zone. "Alrighty. Well, have fun!"

Doubtful, I think, but I smile and nod. "Thanks." I lean in and kiss her cheek. "Best of luck with Ryu."

My mom wants me to be happy—and it isn't like I'm unhappy—but I don't want to give her any ammunition to worry about me again. For the last nine months, my depression has stayed steady and manageable; I don't want her to think otherwise.

I shut the laundry room door behind me and head for the front door. "I'm leaving, Sora!" I call out.

"I don't care!" she yells back.

I lock the door behind me, taking in the sky above. It's thick with white-gray clouds, and the thought of rain makes me smile.

I connect my earbuds and pop them in, crank up one of my playlists, then walk down the street to the nearest bus stop.


When Mrs. Hanako mentioned LifeCare, I assumed it would be some dumpy retirement home. I mean, that pamphlet screamed "My grandchildren don't visit me anymore!" in bold font. But I seriously doubt a retirement home would be above a coffee shop/computer cafe.

I smooth my palm over my braids for flyways, grab my bag, and hop off the bus. In Mayuko's email, she gave me the building's door code, which I punch into the keypad mounted beside the street-level entrance. The door beeps as it unlocks, and I use my shoulder to nudge it open. The vestibule is small—just a wall of mailboxes and a narrow staircase. A wall placard reads LifeCare with an arrow pointing up the stairs, and I grudgingly begin my climb.

The staircase ends at the second-floor landing, right in front of LifeCare's frosted-glass door; on either side of the door are fake potted plants layered in dust. After stalling for as long as possible, I take a deep, anxious breath and push the door open.

Unlike it's dusty exterior, the inside of LifeCare is large and airy, with exposed brick walls and large windows overlooking the street below. The office is open concept, with a half-dozen empty workstations, and a hallway curves around the corner and out of sight. A front desk faces the entrance.

This place is nice. But it also kind of looks like a call center.

I deeply regret not doing Google recon last night.

Since there's no one around, I sit in one of the armchairs flanking the entrance. Ten minutes, I tell myself. I'll give them ten minutes, and if Mayuko doesn't show, I can leave, go home, and play RotR. I can leave knowing I tried. That's reasonable, right?

While I wait, I reread Mayuko's email, confirming that she'd be around all day and that I could show up whenever was most convenient.

"Are you Kaori Soma?"

A boy my age exits the hallway and strolls in my direction. Both hands are tucked into the front pockets of his skinny jeans, and an oversized sweater engulfs his lanky, but lean frame, sliding off his left shoulder. His hair is a deep auburn—with more red undertones than brown—that flips out at the ends, has dark-blue eyes, and a plaster on his right cheek.

I lock my phone, slip it into my bag, and then frown. "You're not Mayuko," I say obviously.

The boy grins. "Nope. But consider me Mayuko's stand-in. I'm Eiji. Eiji Kikumaru. I help Mayuko train new volunteers."

Why does that name sound familiar...?

My anxiety is not enjoying this change in plans, and I manage a flat, "Hi."

Eiji grabs a clipboard from behind the front desk and walks over. He plops into the armchair beside me, crosses one ankle over his knee, and then hands me the clipboard. "Mayuko stepped out for lunch, but she asked me to show you around until she got back."

"How fun for you." Clipboard and pen in hand, I begin filling out the form. It's long and detailed, asking for availability, a copy of my ID, my criminal history, etc.

I scowl at the sheer number of questions.

"Cheer up." Eiji hops to his feet and spreads his arms wide. "LifeCare is a happy place."

I lift my gaze from the clipboard and wrinkle my nose. "Is this a cult or something?"

"Not to my knowledge," he says with an easygoing laugh. "Why would you think that?"

"You're…" I hesitate, choosing my words carefully. "Very upbeat."

Eiji leans against the front desk with his hands tucked back into his pockets. "Wait. Are people in cults happy?"

"Historically speaking." I return my attention to the form. "At least, you know, before the funny juice."

"Huh. Interesting," he says contemplatively. As if I didn't inadvertently insult him.

Even when I'm not looking at him, I can sense his energy. It's hard to ignore. Eiji exudes positivity, and he hasn't stopped smiling since he walked into the room. It's unnatural for anyone to be this happy, and despite what he said, I'm not buying that this place isn't a cult.

When I'm done filling out the form, I pull my wallet from my bag and slide my ID out, setting it on the clipboard. I get up and hold the materials out to Eiji, who has been standing by the front desk like with a dopey smile plastered on his face.

"Wonderful! Thank you, Kaori!" He rounds the desk and opens the lid of the scanner on the counter. After turning the machine on, he places my ID against the glass. "Hey, is it cool if I call you Kaori-chan?"

"Nope."

"Aw, really?" he mock pouts.

I narrow my eyes. "Really."

"Then just Kaori it is," Eiji says pliably, hitting the button on the scanner. He grins, as if I'm enjoying this conversation—as if his golden retriever energy is cute.

I take my ID back from him once he's finished and return it to my wallet. LifeCare might be a cult. Or Eiji might be the most unfailingly positive person I've ever had the misfortune of coming across.

Has this boy ever had a bad day in his life? He's like a walking, talking sunshine emoji.

Since Eiji seems impervious to my snark, I change tactics and plaster on my biggest, fakest smile. The one I've used daily at school for the last year. "So, what will I be doing here exactly?"

He shuffles my paperwork and the photocopy of my ID into a folder before tucking it into a filing cabinet beneath the desk. "Mayuko didn't explain?"

"Obviously not."

"Oh, right," Eiji chuckles easily. "Well, volunteers usually call our clients and talk to them. Some even do house calls."

So not Jell-O or bingo, then. "Is that it?"

Eiji tilts his head to one side, blinking at me. "'Is that it?'" he repeats with an incredulous laugh. "Our clients have lost their loved ones, their families. We talk to them! Keep them company! We foster the power of human communication." He smacks the counter for emphasis. "They're lonely, Kaori! And it's our job to cheer them up."

Yeah, I've definitely made a huge mistake.