[Chapter 9: Just the Two of Us]
The festival had started to wind down.
The once-bustling street was now scattered with tired visitors and flickering lanterns. The music had faded into a soft hum, and the scent of grilled food hung faintly in the air.
Takumi and Yuri walked slowly, away from the noise, side by side under the dim glow of the streetlamps.
It felt... peaceful.
For a while, they didn't speak. The silence between them wasn't awkward—it was warm. Comfortable, even.
They turned onto a quiet residential street that curved toward a small park. The same one from their childhood. Neither of them mentioned it, but both felt the pull.
Takumi stopped first, his gaze drifting to the old swing set. The metal frame had rusted slightly, but the shape was unmistakable.
Yuri followed his eyes, her fingers tightening slightly around the small bear he'd won for her earlier.
"Been a while," Takumi murmured, stepping forward, his voice low with something like awe—or maybe nostalgia.
Yuri's voice was even quieter, nearly lost to the wind. "I used to wonder if you remembered it at all."
"I didn't," he said honestly. "Not until I saw that photo at home. Then everything came back."
He moved toward the swing, lowering himself onto it slowly. One hand gripped the chain absently while the other rested loosely on his knee. His posture was casual, but his eyes were far away. "I thought maybe I imagined it. Just a rainy afternoon with a stranger. But the way you looked at that photo…"
"I remembered all of it," Yuri said softly, sitting down on the swing beside him. "The rain. The tissues. You just sat with me like it was nothing. But to me, it meant everything."
Takumi looked over at her. Her yukata shimmered gently in the light, her expression calm—but her eyes, as always, said more than her words ever could.
"I didn't think anyone remembered me from back then," he said.
"I never forgot you."
The silence that followed was different this time. It pressed around them, heavier, filled with meaning that neither could bring themselves to put into words. Like the space between breaths just before something important.
Takumi nudged the ground with the tip of his shoe, setting his swing into a faint sway. The chain creaked softly.
Yuri nodded. "The moment I saw you."
"And you didn't say anything."
"I was scared it wouldn't matter to you."
He turned toward her, sincerity etched into the lines of his face. "It does."
That made her pause. Her fingers curled slightly into the bear's fur, her gaze dropping for a moment before returning to him.
Takumi looked up at the night sky, His voice was low, as though speaking to the sky itself. "You were the first person who didn't expect anything from me. Just sat there. Quietly. And now you're here again, still doing the same thing."
Yuri gave a small smile, touched with something wistful. "Guess I never changed."
He looked at her again, something tender in his expression. "No... you did. You became someone beautiful, inside and out."
Yuri blinked. The words caught her off guard. They weren't said lightly—and he wasn't the type to speak them without meaning every syllable. She didn't reply. She didn't need to. Her silence said enough.
Takumi stood, brushing his hands against his pants. "Come on. Let's walk you home before your parents start imagining things."
She rose as well, hugging the stuffed bear close to her chest.As they walked back under the streetlights, not holding hands, not speaking too much—their footsteps matched, just like before.
And somehow, that was enough.
For now.