The cherry blossoms danced like pink snowflakes in the wind, coating the stone paths of the Tokyo Metropolitan College of Software Engineering. Hiro Tanaka walked with his hands in his pockets, barely acknowledging the beauty that surrounded him. The world called him gifted — the top coder of his year, sharp and disciplined, and perhaps too handsome for his own peace of mind. Girls often lingered longer near his desk. Professors praised his projects like treasures. And yet, Hiro remained distant — as though waiting for something no one could offer.
He used to wait for her.
Ayaka Yukimura.
The memory was always vivid — her bright crimson eyes, the high laughter echoing across their childhood garden, the feel of her hand clutching his after she scraped her knee. She had always been a little too intense, a little too perfect. She belonged to a world of wealth and silk and private drivers, and he to a modest house behind the market street. Yet somehow, their lives had entangled like red threads, knotted by innocent promises and shared secrets.
She left six years ago.
"Wait for me, Hiro. Just a little while."
He had tried.
But days turned into seasons, and letters became silence. He locked that part of himself away, letting time bury her beneath college life and ambition.
Until today.
He entered the AI Systems lecture, late, only to stop mid-step. A girl sat in the second row, alone — posture regal, hair cascading like raven silk, and eyes...
Crimson.
His heart skipped. The floor seemed to tilt beneath his feet. Time stretched and warped, dragging him back into that garden, into warm spring afternoons and whispers under the trees.
She turned and smiled slowly, as if she'd expected him.
"Long time no see, Hiro," she said. Her voice hadn't changed. Calm. Sweet. Possessive.
His legs moved on instinct, carrying him toward her while his brain screamed questions. Could it really be her? Was she real? Her voice was more than memory — it vibrated in his ribs, lit up the dark corners of himself he had tried so hard to seal away.
She wore the uniform like it was tailored, but added her own flair: a red ribbon on her wrist, black lace stockings beneath her skirt, and a perfume that clung to memory — jasmine and something darker.
"You transferred here?" he asked, stunned.
"I followed my dream," she said softly. "And my dream... is you."
The air around them thickened. His palms felt clammy. It was too much. Too sudden. Too perfect.
They sat through the lecture. She said nothing else. Just leaned slightly too close, her pen gliding as she copied notes she didn't seem to need. When class ended, she waited until everyone had left before turning to him.
"Let's catch up. I want to know everything."
He hesitated, torn between the warmth of nostalgia and the unease curling in his stomach. But she smiled again — that same childhood smile.
They ended up at the quiet rooftop garden above the East Wing, where few students ever went. Ayaka spread a cloth and pulled out a perfectly arranged bento. "I made this for you."
He blinked. "How did you know I'd—"
"I know you," she interrupted gently. "Still drink jasmine tea with lemon? Still hate mushrooms?"
He stared. The familiarity of her words and actions struck him like a stone in a still pond. A part of him warmed with comfort — the kind only someone who truly knew you could offer. But another part felt hollow, like the first tremble before an avalanche.
She opened her bottle and poured tea for both. Her hands were delicate but precise, every movement elegant. It was like watching someone act out a romantic drama — but every line was rehearsed, every breath placed for effect.
"Do you have someone?" she asked suddenly.
"What?"
"A girlfriend. A crush. Anyone flirting with you lately?"
He shifted. "Why?"
She tilted her head again, like a curious doll. "Because I missed six years. I'm greedy. I want to reclaim every second."
He laughed nervously. "People change."
"Not me," she said.
That night, Hiro couldn't sleep. He stared at the red ribbon she tied around his wrist before leaving. "For protection," she'd whispered. It was soft. Silken. His name was embroidered on it.
He turned the events of the day over and over in his head. The way she smiled, never blinking. The strange timing of her appearance — just when his life had begun to feel predictable. He thought about the way she'd known where to find him, the way she had already prepared food he liked, things he'd never mentioned since they were children. It was sweet. It was terrifying.
In class the next morning, Professor Sato was absent.
A rumor passed that she'd left campus for personal reasons. Another girl who often chatted with Hiro also didn't show up.
Coincidences, he told himself. But his gut tightened.
After lectures, Ayaka waited for him outside. Always smiling. Always prepared. The scent of jasmine followed her like a shadow.
She spoke of childhood — of their first treehouse, the frog she made him keep as a pet, the way she once pushed a bully into a fountain for mocking his shoes.
"Do you remember what you promised?" she asked, eyes glowing.
He searched his memory.
"You said if we weren't married by twenty-five, we'd elope and live in a big house by the sea."
He chuckled. "I was nine."
She didn't laugh. "You were mine. You still are."
A breeze rustled the cherry blossoms again. Petals landed on her shoulder, and she didn't brush them off. She stood perfectly still, watching him, waiting for something — acknowledgment, fear, surrender?
Hiro left early that day.
Back in his dorm, he opened a box of childhood mementos. At the very bottom, wrapped in tissue paper, was a small notebook Ayaka once gave him. Inside were clumsy drawings of their wedding, their home, even their children.
At the last page, a more recent note — in newer ink:
"One day, I'll come back for you. If you try to run, I'll still find you."
He stared at the writing. His heart thundered.
Then he looked at the red ribbon around his wrist.
He hadn't taken it off.