---
It starts, like most disasters in my life, with a question I don't understand until it's too late.
Hikari plops down beside me on the train — bag held together with another layer of tape and blind optimism — and says:
"Wanna go somewhere weird this Saturday?"
I blink.
Her hair's half-frizzed from humidity. She's eating ice cream at 7:43 a.m. Her voice is casual. Too casual.
So naturally, I do the only thing I'm good at.
"What kind of weird?" I ask suspiciously. "Like, socially weird? Emotionally weird? Cult gathering weird?"
She snorts. "Wow, okay, relax, Minato-kun. Not everything's a personality test. It's a summer festival."
"...That's not weird."
She shrugs. "Have you seen Japanese festivals? They have goldfish scooping, cucumber sticks, and three-year-olds wielding sparklers like war criminals. It's chaos with fireworks."
I stare. "Still sounds like a normal event."
"Fine," she grins. "Want to go somewhere normal that involves sugar, noise, and possible explosions?"
I hesitate.
She squints at me.
"Don't say no. I already bought us matching masks."
"Wait, what?"
"I said nothing."
---
I spend the next four days overthinking everything.
Is it a date?
Probably not.
Right?
She didn't say date.
She said "somewhere weird." That's the opposite of romantic. That's… objectively cursed.
But then again, she also said "us."
And that she bought masks.
Plurally.
My brain spirals so hard it needs a seatbelt.
I Google "what to wear to summer festivals if you're not sure it's a date but don't want to look like a sweaty idiot," and the internet fails me like it always does.
Eventually I settle for casual-but-clean. A white shirt. Black jeans. Newer sneakers.
And deodorant.
Lots of deodorant.
Just in case I end up standing near her during fireworks.
Not that I'm planning that.
Obviously.
---
The festival's at a neighborhood I've never been to — across town, tucked into narrow alleys and old shrines.
I text her:
"At the main gate?"
She replies:
"Under the red lantern. You'll know it when you see it."
Helpful as always.
---
I arrive five minutes early.
Because I'm either a gentleman or a coward. Possibly both.
I spot the lantern immediately — it's hanging crookedly from a bamboo pole, swaying with the breeze, glowing like a lost memory.
Underneath it—
She stands.
Wearing a yukata.
Light blue. Cherry blossom pattern. Hair tied up in a low bun with loose strands falling around her face.
And somehow…
She still has a melon pan in one hand.
---
"...You're dressed," I say, because my brain forgets how to function.
She squints. "Wow. Way to compliment a girl. Should I tell you you're breathing too?"
"No, I meant— you look…"
"Like I'm not usually a girl?"
"I didn't say that."
"You kind of implied it."
"...You look really nice," I say finally, because honestly, I give up.
She pauses. Looks away. Then mutters, "You don't look awful either."
Which from Hikari is basically marriage.
---
She tosses me a bag.
Inside: a festival mask.
Tanuki face. Shocked expression.
I hold it up. "Why does mine look like it witnessed a murder?"
She puts hers on.
It's a fox. Smirking.
"Because mine's the criminal," she grins.
I sigh.
"You're making me wear this, aren't you."
She hums. "Part of the experience. No mask, no soul bonding."
"Is this how cults start?"
"Put it on, Minato-kun."
---
The festival is packed.
Lights strung between trees. Music playing from old speakers. The smell of grilled things on sticks permeating the air like temptation.
She walks ahead slightly, spinning her bag like a lazy compass needle.
I follow.
Somehow, it feels natural.
Like she's the sun and I'm just… orbiting.
And hating every second of how much I like it.
---
We go stall to stall.
Goldfish scooping: failure. (She blames the net. I blame physics.)
Ring toss: she wins. Brags endlessly.
Yakisoba: she adds mayonnaise. I gag. She tries to feed me anyway.
I dodge.
She shoves the fork in my mouth while I'm distracted by fireworks.
I choke.
She laughs.
People stare.
I wish I was dead.
---
Somewhere between the shaved ice and the candied strawberries, we slow down.
The noise fades.
We end up at a bench overlooking a small koi pond.
Fireflies buzz lazily overhead. A kid trips in the distance. Somewhere, a taiko drum echoes through the air.
She leans back, arms spread behind her, face tilted up.
Then, without looking at me, she says:
> "You ever think... if this was a date, would you want it to end?"
My heart stutters.
I glance sideways.
Her expression is unreadable.
And for a second, I wonder if she's serious.
Then I see it.
A tiny blush creeping up her neck.
Just enough to make my breath catch.
---
I want to answer. Say something cool. Something honest.
But then:
BOOM.
The first firework explodes above us, scattering sparks across the sky like messy thoughts.
She jumps slightly.
Then covers it up with a cough.
"Loud," she mutters. "Why do people enjoy being startled?"
"It's tradition," I say. "Humans love bright things."
She snorts. "You're so dramatic."
"You invited me."
"I didn't say I wasn't dramatic too."
---
We watch in silence for a while.
Not the awkward kind.
Not the Hikari-is-missing kind.
A different silence.
Warm.
Like a shared hoodie. Or soft static.
She inches closer at one point.
Our arms brush.
She doesn't move.
Neither do I.
And then—
She leans.
Not all the way.
Just enough.
Enough that her head almost rests on my shoulder.
Then she stops.
Freezes.
Sits up.
Too fast.
"I said nothing," she blurts. "Forget it. Stupid. I'm gonna get another snack."
She walks off.
Too quickly.
Her candy apple drops to the dirt.
She doesn't notice.
I do.
But I don't pick it up.
---
I sit there.
Alone.
Wondering if she meant it.
Wondering if I did.
---