---
We find a hill just behind the festival grounds.
No crowds.
No noise, except cicadas and distant speaker static.
The fireworks will start any minute.
Hikari drops onto the grass with zero grace and immediately regrets it.
"There's a rock directly under my spine," she groans.
I sit next to her. "Karma for bullying the ring toss kid."
"His aim was pathetic. I was providing motivation."
She plucks a blade of grass and spins it between her fingers.
The sky above us darkens — navy fading into ink.
And for a while… nothing happens.
Not in the sky.
Not between us.
Which, frankly, is worse than any firework misfire.
---
I sneak a glance.
Her yukata still has that stain from earlier, but she doesn't seem to care anymore.
Instead, she's watching the treetops sway in the wind like they're whispering secrets she can't quite hear.
She looks calm.
But her fingers won't stop fidgeting.
"Why'd you really invite me?" I ask suddenly.
She pauses.
Then shrugs.
"Because you're available and semi-decent at walking in a straight line."
"Liar."
She smirks. "Yeah. That's a lie."
Another pause.
Then, quietly:
"Because I wanted to know what it would be like."
"What what would be like?"
"This," she says, gesturing vaguely at me.
"You. Me. A night. Something... real."
The word "real" hits harder than expected.
I don't know what to do with it.
---
Before I can respond, the first firework launches.
A low, chest-deep whump.
Then —
Boom.
Gold cracks across the sky.
Hikari blinks once.
Then looks straight ahead.
She doesn't smile.
Doesn't gasp.
Just watches.
Like she's waiting for the sky to answer a question she hasn't asked yet.
---
"They look different from here," she says eventually.
"Too loud?"
"No. Just… farther away. Like they're performing for someone else."
"You invited me, remember? I'm the 'someone else.'"
She nudges my knee with hers.
"I didn't expect you to actually come."
"Why?"
"Because I'm messy and weird and sometimes I talk too much about things that don't matter."
I glance at her.
She's not looking at me.
"Also," she adds, "because I thought maybe you liked the version of me on the train better. The one that's half-asleep and half-funny. Not the one who… screws everything up when things get real."
And just like that, the air shifts.
The firework sounds fade into background static.
There's only her voice.
And the stupid loud beating of my heart.
---
"I do like train-you," I say finally.
She stiffens.
"But not because she's quiet or convenient."
Then I look at her. Really look.
"You're still you. Same voice. Same chaos. Just… different lighting."
Her mouth opens. Closes.
Then she laughs — soft, breathless.
"You're really bad at compliments."
"I try to keep the bar low."
She exhales through her nose.
Then says — as if she's whispering to the grass:
> "Sometimes I think I like you too much."
Silence.
---
Firework.
Boom.
I stare at her.
She still won't look at me.
"What?"
She flinches. "Forget it."
"No."
"I didn't mean to—"
"Say it again."
"Minato—"
"Say it."
Finally — slowly — she turns.
Her eyes shine from the light in the sky.
But it's not the fireworks that hit me.
It's her.
Her face.
That terrified, reckless look.
Like she just leapt off a cliff and realized mid-air she doesn't know how to land.
---
"I like you," she says.
Plain. Flat.
Like ripping off a bandage.
Then, quieter:
> "Not the playlist version. Not the train version. Just… you."
---
The air is filled with bursting lights, but I can't look away from her.
She fiddles with her sleeve.
Waits for me to laugh. Or look confused. Or run screaming.
I do none of those things.
Instead, I reach into my bag.
Pull out my sketchbook.
Open it to a page I swore I'd never show anyone.
It's a drawing of her asleep on the train — head on my shoulder.
A real one.
The first one I ever did.
I hand it to her without a word.
She takes it. Blinks.
Then laughs — this time, soft and shaky.
"You're an idiot," she whispers.
"You confessed first," I counter.
She rolls her eyes. "Whatever. It was the fireworks. They make people say stupid things."
"Right."
"Like…" she hesitates.
Then leans in.
Face close.
Breath soft.
"…Like maybe I want to kiss you now, but also maybe I'll die of embarrassment if I do."
"Statistically," I say, "death by kiss is low."
She laughs again — nose-wrinkled and brilliant.
Then whispers, "Not helping."
---
But she doesn't kiss me.
And I don't kiss her.
We just sit there.
Not touching.
Not rushing.
Watching the sky burn in color above us, hearts thudding in rhythm.
And somehow… it's enough.
For now.
---
> Because some fireworks are too bright to look at directly.
And some feelings are better slow — like a song you never want to end.
---