Mamoru doesn't know which he finds more frustrating: the fact that he knows he's getting close to remembering something about his past or the fact that every time he seems to get near it, it slips through his fingers line the finest grains of sand, simply incapable of being held. Like now, as their hands brush, there's the feeling of his legs burning as he runs as fast as they'll carry him, desperate to place himself between a girl in a white dress and another that's brandishing a sword— But it's gone, like every single thing he starts to recall, before he has time to process it, leaving him staring wide-eyed and dazed at Usagi, barely catching her apologetic words.

"It's fine," he says, dismissing her attempt at making this her fault. "You were in a hurry. I would've done the same."

No he wouldn't, because he was incapable of being late. He was a perfectionist, worse than her friend Ami in many ways, but Usagi had no way of knowing that. The girl barely knew him, and it was shocking at times to realize how little they knew about one another when it felt like he's known her for a thousand years~ ♫ forever.