sequel to "No Map, Still Yours", weaving in:

🌌 A flickering memory from a past life under the stars

📓 A shared journal titled "Maybe This Is How We Remember"

💙 A continuation of Taki × Yuma's quiet, soulmate bond — built on choice, not fate

*****Even if there are no flashbacks or strings or proof—I still think I'd choose you.*****

The dream felt real.

Not in the way dreams sometimes do — exaggerated and fuzzy around the edges — but in the way that made Taki sit up in bed, heart pounding like he'd actually been there.

It had started with stars.

A night sky stretching endlessly overhead, flecked with light. But not city stars. Not the diluted ones you had to squint for. These were sharp, bright, ancient — and he was standing in the middle of a wide field, barefoot on damp grass, wind tugging at his sleeves.

He wasn't alone.

There was someone beside him. A voice he couldn't place, but somehow knew.

"I think we'll find each other again," the voice had said.

Taki turned — and saw a silhouette. Dark hair. Familiar shoulders.

His own voice replied, quiet:

"Even if we forget?"

And the other boy — older, but unmistakably Yuma — smiled.

"Especially then."

Taki woke up with the image burned into the back of his mind. His chest ached in that strange, almost-sweet way, like remembering something you hadn't realized you lost.

He sat at the edge of his bed, fingers curled loosely in the blanket.

"Especially then."

Later that morning, as the rest of the group shuffled into the kitchen half-awake, Yuma nudged a small notebook across the table toward Taki without a word.

Black cover. Clean corners.
On the front, in Yuma's handwriting:

"Maybe This Is How We Remember."

Taki blinked, eyes still a little heavy from sleep. "What's this?"

Yuma shrugged, sipping his coffee. "We don't have dreams. Or marks. Or stories to go on. But I thought... maybe we start writing our own."

Taki flipped it open.

The first page was dated.

And written in neat, careful lines:

April 8.
You leaned your head on my shoulder while we were waiting for soundcheck. Said nothing. Stayed there for fifteen minutes. I don't think I breathed the whole time.

Taki's throat tightened.

He looked up.

Yuma was already looking back.

"You okay?" Yuma asked, quietly.

Taki nodded once. "I had a dream."

Yuma raised an eyebrow.

Taki reached across the table, pulled the notebook closer, and started writing on the next page.

Last night.
I saw stars. Real stars. Not city ones.
You were there. You said we'd find each other again.
I think I believed you then, too.
— T

They took turns after that.

One would leave the notebook on the other's bed.
Or pass it silently during practice breaks.
Or slide it across the table like it was a secret.

Sometimes the entries were long.
Sometimes they were single lines.

You fell asleep with your head on my lap during movie night. It felt like a memory.
— Y

I saw a stranger smile today and thought it was you.
— T

There was a song playing in the café today. I didn't know it, but it felt familiar. I think maybe we used to dance to it.
— Y

If we've done this before, I hope I said it out loud last time.
Because I'm falling now, and I want to get it right.
— T

The dream returned. Twice. Then again.

But this time, Yuma saw it too.

He told Taki over ramen at 1AM, bowl steaming between them.

"It wasn't clear," Yuma said. "But I think we were on a train. You were holding my hand like you didn't want to forget how it felt."

Taki, quietly: "I've never even been on a train like that."

Yuma gave a half-smile. "Maybe you have."

Neither said what they were thinking: that maybe love didn't need to be remembered through images — maybe feeling it again was enough.

Maybe now was enough.

One night, they brought the journal onto the dorm rooftop — just like they had during their early talks, when the feelings were still unspoken and half-formed.

The sky was clearer than usual.

Taki opened the notebook to a blank page and passed it to Yuma.

Yuma hesitated.

Then wrote:

Even if we never remember everything...
Even if there are no flashbacks or strings or proof—
I still think I'd choose you.

Every lifetime.
Even if I have to go in blind.
— Y

Taki read it twice.

Then wrote beneath it:

You did.
And I did.
That's how we're here now.

They didn't kiss.

They didn't need to.

But their fingers stayed laced together as they passed the pen back and forth, writing into the night like every word had always been waiting for them to remember.

Sometime Later
The journal grew heavier.

Not physically. But with meaning.

Inside were memories, moments, maybe past lives hidden in metaphors.
Maybe just today's love, wearing a coat of poetry.

Harua found it by accident one afternoon while moving bags before a shoot.

He opened it. Read one page.

Then gently closed it.

Later, he handed it back to Yuma and simply said, "I hope you keep filling it."

Yuma smiled.

"We will."

Some days, the dreams were vivid.
Some days, they didn't come at all.

But on every day that mattered — Taki and Yuma chose each other.

With no map.

No guarantees.

Just a journal full of soft truths.

And hearts that remembered, even when their minds didn't.

The End.
(Because maybe memory isn't the start of love. Maybe love is how we remember.)