They stood at the precipice of a new world. The "war" they had waged—the psychological traps, the elaborate schemes to force a confession—felt like toys left behind in childhood. If he moved an inch closer, the barrier they had built over months would dissolve.
Kaguya felt her face flush a crimson that would have put a beet to shame. The "Love Detective" Chika Fujiwara was nowhere to be found, and Ishigami was likely buried in a dark corner of the student council room, yet the pressure was higher than any formal debate. They stood at the precipice of a new world
"It is," he said, his voice steady yet thick with unsaid things. "But I'm not looking at the moon, Shinomiya." Kaguya felt her face flush a crimson that
"If I go to Stanford," Shirogane began, his hand twitching near hers on the cold metal rail, "the distance won't just be measured in miles." "But I'm not looking at the moon, Shinomiya
"The moon is beautiful, isn't it?" Kaguya whispered. It was a cliché, a literary trap, but in this moment, it felt like the only truth she could manage.