[Prologue]
There was a girl.
She had long, dark hair that swayed behind her as she ran, her small hands clenching mine and dragging me forward. Her laughter was bright, sharp, impossible to ignore.
"Come on, You'll get left behind!"
She always ran ahead. Always faster, always louder, like standing still wasn't in her nature.
I was quieter back then. I didn't know how to keep up with her, but she never cared. She pulled me into games, races, pretend battles where she always won.
Once, she tripped and scraped her knee. She winced, but instead of crying, she wiped the dirt off and stood tall again.
"It doesn't hurt. Let's keep going."
That was the kind of girl she was. Unstoppable. Fiery.
I remember handing her my favorite toy firetruck once, just because she looked upset. Her eyes went wide, and then she smiled — a smile so bright it felt like it would burn itself into me forever.
That was the last summer I saw her.
[Chapter 1]
I woke up with a strange heaviness in my chest.
Not the kind of heaviness you get from staying up too late playing games or finishing student council reports — though, granted, I've had plenty of those mornings. This was different.
The dream I just had clung to me, stubborn and vivid. A summer sky, a grassy yard, the sound of cicadas, and the laughter of a little girl with long hair. She was just ahead of me, looking back, smiling, her tiny hands gripping the toy firetruck I always carried around back then.
But her face was blurry. Like someone had smudged it out with an eraser.
It was the laughter that lingered the most. Bright, full of life, the kind of sound that made you feel like the world was simple and good.
"…That was way too clear to just be a dream," I muttered, staring at the ceiling of my room. "Weird. It felt more like a memory."
My alarm clock screeched beside me, shattering whatever fragile nostalgia I had going.
I groaned and slapped it off. "Alright, alright, I get it. Reality calls."
I rolled out of bed, dragging myself through my morning routine. Uniform on, hair half-tamed into some semblance of order, toast stuffed in my mouth like some cliché anime protagonist. Not my proudest look, but hey, I make it work.
And just like that, another day as Tanaka Morisu, second year at Shinizawa High, Vice President of the student council, began.
Shinizawa High, teachers smiled too much, the student body was diligent enough, and the campus was modern enough to look like a brochure photo. Bulletin boards bloomed with club flyers, the courtyard maple stitched shade onto the benches, and the tile floors reflected a hundred stray footsteps.
And then there was me.
"Tanaka-Kun, good morning!"
I turned and grinned at a cluster of first-years by the gate. "Morning. Don't let the teachers catch you slacking." I said.
They laughed and scattered.
I slipped into the council room as the clock hit first period. Our president, Hanazawa Rika, was already there, glasses low on her nose, surrounded by a fortress of forms. Fresh printer ink hung in the air like a threat.
"You're late," she said flatly, still stamping.
"Correction," I said, dropping into my chair. "I arrived at the perfect dramatic moment. Any later, and you'd have died of loneliness. Any earlier, and I'd risk doing actual work."
Rika sighed — her favorite hobby, second only to scolding me. "Honestly, Tanaka…"
Kenta Fujioka, our treasurer, leaned back with a handheld console. "You're too easy on him, Prez. If he slacks, that means less work for me."
"You're supposed to be balancing the budget, Fujioka," Rika snapped.
"And I am. In my head," Kenta replied without looking up.
I smirked. "See, Rika? The council runs perfectly fine. Balance achieved."
She pinched the bridge of her nose. "If you two weren't so annoyingly competent when it mattered…"
"Then you'd fire us?" I asked.
"You're already giving me a headache" she muttered.
Ah, the sweet sound of reluctant acknowledgment. My day had officially begun.
At lunch, I wandered outside. The courtyard buzzed — students in circles, couples trading bites, the cafeteria window venting curry bread and heat. Trays clattered. A shout became laughter and unspooled into smaller strands all across the benches.
My gaze drifted toward the track field. The team clustered near the bleachers, water bottles in hand, sweat shining under the noon sun. At the center of it all was her.
Sanada Yumiko.
Even from a distance, she was impossible to ignore. Short dark hair framed a tanned face; amber eyes flashed as she teased a teammate and then outran her own joke. She had that rare kind of energy — loud, fiery, the type that made you notice her whether you wanted to or not. The sun seemed to stick to her shoulders and turn her into a signal flare.
"Sanada's amazing as always," someone murmured.
"Yeah, no wonder she's the star of the track team. She's like a rocket."
I didn't linger. I watched for a beat, then turned away. She was famous around here, sure, but not someone who had anything to do with me.
By the time I trudged home, the dream had faded behind after-school fatigue. I flopped onto the couch and let the cushions swallow me.
"Don't be out too late, you two~," I called as my parents tied their shoes.
Dad chuckled. Mom rolled her eyes. "You're hilarious, Morisu. Actually, you're coming with us."
I sat up. "…Come again?"
"Old friends of ours are hosting a barbecue tonight," Dad said, lacing his sneakers. "It's been years."
"Good for you," I said, lying back down. "Bring me leftovers."
Mom's voice sharpened. "No. You're coming too."
I groaned. "Why? So I can third-wheel at a middle-aged nostalgia fest?"
Dad crossed his arms. "You never leave the house unless it's school. It'll be good for you to socialize."
"I socialize all the time," I protested. "With the council—"
"Morisu," Mom said, final.
And that was that. Democracy had no place in the Tanaka household.
I dragged myself upstairs to change, muttering, "So much for my relaxing evening."
We arrived at the party, the smell hit me before we even entered the yard. Charcoal smoke, sizzling meat, the faint sweetness of grilled corn. A radio played something old and bright; someone fought a bag of ice and lost.
The scene was lively — tables sagging under skewers and noodles, lanterns swaying, kids with water guns shrieking as adults laughed and clinked glasses. Shoes off at the porch. Coolers sweating. A bowl of watermelon engineered to glisten.
"Chaos," I muttered.
"Don't sulk," Mom said, nudging me. "It's a party."
I sighed and followed.
That's when I saw her.
Short dark hair. Amber eyes. Tanned skin catching the lantern glow. She was mid-laugh, giving a friend a shove near the grill.
Sanada Yumiko.
We froze at the same time.
"Vice Prez?!" she blurted, voice cutting over the crowd.
"…Sanada-Chan?," I said automatically.
She planted her hands on her hips. "What are you doing here?"
"I could ask the same."
"This is my house!"
"…Touché."
Before we could say anything else, our parents converged like conspirators. Mrs. Sanada had the kind of smile that made you feel like you'd already eaten.
"Oh, you two recognize each other already!" Mom said cheerfully.
Yumiko and I traded a look.
"Recognize?" she repeated.
"Of course!" Dad clapped my back. "You used to play together when you were kids."
"…What?" I blinked.
"You don't remember?" Mom laughed. "You were inseparable."
The words hit like a bucket of ice water.
Yumiko laughed, shaky. "Me and the Vice Prez?"
"Back then you had such long hair," Mrs. Sanada said, already fishing her phone from her pocket. "And you were so pale I worried you'd sunburn in the shade. You wouldn't go anywhere without that little red firetruck."
"I have pictures," she added.
Pictures.
She swiped, then handed the screen to me. The world shrank to the rectangle in my hands.
A small boy with a cowlick grinned, holding up a toy firetruck like a medal. Beside him stood a girl in a white summer dress, hair long and dark, a narrow bandaid on one knee. She wasn't tanned then; her skin glowed milk-white under the sun. Her mouth was open in a laugh I could hear through the stillness of the image.
"Is that… us?" I asked.
Yumiko leaned in, shoulder warm against mine. "Whoa."
Another swipe. The girl knelt, face scrunched as she climbed a low fence, the boy cheering with both arms raised. Another: both sat on a step, sharing a popsicle that striped their fingers. Another: fireworks, the girl's long hair blurring as she spun to point at the sky.
Mom touched my arm. "You stopped seeing each other when her family moved. Second grade? It was a long time ago."
I stared at the pale, long-haired girl, then at the tanned, short-haired runner beside me. She'd stolen the sun and cut her hair short enough to outrun it.
We were shepherded to the grill. Chicken sizzled; smoke curled like it had somewhere important to be. Someone fanned it and hit me instead.
As plates appeared in our hands, the shock softened into a humming awareness. My morning dream hadn't been a dream. It had been a door I brushed in the dark. Now it stood open, and the other side smelled like charcoal and summer and something I couldn't name without sounding foolish.
We sat at the edge of the porch, our knees an accidental mirror of the photo where we shared a popsicle. I kept catching myself glancing at her profile, mapping the outline of the girl in the pictures onto the runner beside me.
"So," she said around a skewer, "My mind is officially blown..."
"You and me both..." I said.
She swallowed and laughed. "I remember that toy truck."
"My most loyal subordinate."
"Hey," she said. "You gave it to me once."
"I did?"
"Yeah. I cried because my kite got stuck in a tree. You gave me the firetruck because it had a painted ladder. You said it was 'good at reaching high places in emergencies.' Completely useless."
"I was a visionary."
"You were a dork."
We grinned, and for a moment the conversation slotted into a groove it must have worn years ago. The ease startled me.
The adults drifted into deeper nostalgia, dredging up names we only half-recognized. Lanterns thickened the air with warm amber. Kids ran by with glow sticks and almost took out an uncle. The radio surrendered to off-key singing that grew bolder with every drink.
She glanced at the phone again. The little girl in the white dress looked back, sunlit and sure. "I looked so different back then," she said, almost to herself. "I'm trying to remember more but nothing."
"It's cool it was a long time ago," I said.
"Yeah..." she added.
We ate more than we should have. Someone brought out shaved ice. Conversation softened, like the night put on slippers, she exhaled. "So," she said, not looking at me, "I'm not sure where we go from here, I mean we were strangers just this morning..."
"True..."
"Are we… still?"
I hold out my hand, "I'm Morisu Tanaka, I'd like to be friends." I smile.
For a second she's left speechless then a smile tugs on her face, "Yumiko Sanada, but Yumiko is fine, and yeah I'm cool with being friends."
We shake hands for a bit longer than a normal hand shake.
Later, when the guests drifted home and the lanterns dimmed, I stood by the gate and waved. Yumiko and I traded contact info "What is that profile picture?" She snorted, pocketed the phone, and jogged up the steps two at a time. I watched her go and felt like I just found the missing puzzle piece.