When our class rep announced that we'd be organizing a food stall for the cultural festival, I felt two things:
Dread.
More dread, seasoned with existential panic.
You see, class events meant teamwork.
Teamwork meant talking to people.
And talking to people—especially those outside my safe, sarcastic Mei bubble—was not my specialty.
Naturally, everyone started throwing out ideas for what we'd sell.
"Crepes!"
"No, yakisoba's the classic!"
"Let's do bubble tea! Everyone loves bubble tea!"
It was chaos. Absolute chaos.
And right in the middle of the maelstrom, Mei raised her hand.
Calm. Regal. Unbothered by the screaming.
"I propose we do matcha parfaits with optional mochi and black sugar syrup."
Silence.
Then someone whispered, "That's... kinda genius."
Within minutes, the idea was approved by unanimous vote.
Of course it was.
And then, for the first time in recorded history, someone said the unthinkable:
"Mei-chan should be the poster girl!"
Cue gasps.
"No way, she's perfect for it!"
"Imagine her in a yukata, handing out parfaits..."
"Can someone draw that? For science?"
Mei didn't protest. She simply tilted her head and said, "If it helps increase foot traffic, I'll do it."
And just like that, the fantasy became law.
Now, this alone would've been fine. Great, even. Watching Mei conquer the school festival in a yukata? Peak entertainment.
The problem was that they roped me in too.
"Kurosawa-kun, if Mei-chan is the poster girl, you can be the shop assistant!"
"He's her boyfriend, right? It fits the theme!"
"I bet they'll be adorable together!"
I tried to protest. I really did.
But Mei glanced at me and said, "It'll be fine. I'll handle the designs. Just show up and don't burn anything."
That… felt manageable.
Until she handed me the uniform.
"A happi coat?" I squinted. "Do I look like a walking billboard?"
"You look like someone who needs to roll with the theme."
And so began my descent into the maddening world of cultural festival preparation.
Three Days Until the Festival
Things were somehow both ahead of schedule and wildly chaotic.
The props team had built a makeshift counter from old desks, draped with fabric patterned with little green tea leaves. Hand-painted banners read "Matcha Lovers Unite!" in a font that definitely wasn't school-approved.
Meanwhile, Mei was organizing everything like a tiny, benevolent dictator.
"You're over-boiling the mochi," she told one team.
"Don't stack the cups too high; we're not running a Jenga tournament," she told another.
Then she pointed at me. "You. Practice smiling. People will be scared of you."
"I am scared of me," I muttered.
By lunch break, I was sweaty, sticky with syrup, and pretty sure I'd offended at least three members of the cooking club.
Mei, on the other hand, was glowing. Not metaphorically. She had an actual sunbeam shining on her like the universe knew who the main character was.
And yet, beneath all the poise, I noticed it again—that moment where her shoulders slumped when no one was looking. Just for a second.
It was like watching a statue breathe.
She saw me staring.
"What?"
"Nothing," I said. "Just impressed."
"By what?"
"You. Somehow managing to run a festival stall and still have better hair than everyone here."
She blinked. "That… wasn't sarcasm?"
"Nope."
Her mouth twitched again—that tiny, elusive smile.
It made my heart do things I wasn't emotionally prepared to confront.
Day of the Festival
I'd never seen the school so alive.
Lanterns hung from windows. Every classroom doorway was transformed—into haunted houses, game booths, fortune-telling dens. Laughter bounced through the halls like an invisible parade.
And at the center of it all was our stall.
Mei wore a white yukata with green maple leaves drifting across the fabric. Her hair was pulled up with a jade pin, soft curls brushing her neck. A sprig of baby's breath was tucked behind one ear.
I, on the other hand, wore my dark green happi coat and tried not to look like a failed samurai.
"You look good," she said as I arrived.
I blinked. "I… do?"
"You look like someone who might accidentally sell out the entire parfait stock."
"That sounds like sabotage."
"It's strategy," she replied.
And just like that, we started.
Customers came in droves. Girls gushed over Mei's "serene energy." Boys awkwardly tried to flirt and failed spectacularly. More than a few couples giggled at our matching uniforms.
"What's your secret?" one girl whispered to Mei. "How do you and Kurosawa-kun make it look so real?"
Mei looked over at me, then leaned in conspiratorially. "He makes it easy."
I nearly dropped a cup.
The girl squealed. "You're both too cute!!"
Later, when we were alone behind the stall, I asked, "Do you always lie so convincingly?"
She looked at me, deadpan. "Who said I was lying?"
My brain promptly blue-screened.
That Evening — Fireworks Time
We'd cleaned up, closed the stall, and Mei had changed into her usual uniform—but the scent of roasted sweet potatoes and grilled squid still lingered in the air.
Everyone gathered in the school courtyard, sitting on blankets, eating festival snacks, and waiting for the fireworks.
I found us a spot under a cherry blossom tree that had stubbornly bloomed out of season, as if it too wanted to be dramatic.
Mei sat beside me, her hands folded neatly in her lap.
The first firework launched.
BOOM.
A shower of gold lit up the sky.
Everyone around us oohed and ahhed.
Mei simply watched, her face illuminated by bursts of color.
"They're pretty," I said.
"They're fleeting," she replied.
"Like parfaits?"
She gave a soft laugh. "Exactly."
Another boom. This time, red spirals danced through the night.
"Do you think people really believe us?" I asked.
"About dating?"
"Yeah."
"Yes. Most do."
"And if they don't?"
"Then we're doing something wrong."
I turned to her.
The light of the fireworks reflected in her eyes. For a second, I forgot to breathe.
"I don't want to do it wrong," I said.
She looked at me. "Then don't."
I leaned in a little. Just a little. Not enough to cross any lines, but enough to test one.
Her voice was quiet.
"You're not supposed to fall for your fake girlfriend, Kurosawa."
"I know."
More fireworks. Brighter this time. Louder.
She didn't look away.
Neither did I.
Then, just as the finale lit up the night in a thousand colors, she whispered—
"Neither am I."