The cherry blossoms were late this year.
Haruto Tanaka stood under the bare branches of the row of sakura trees lining the path to Seika University's Film Studies building, staring at the club recruitment poster flapping in the April breeze like it personally owed him money. The paper was bright pink—someone's idea of "eye-catching"—with bold black letters screaming:
SEIKA UNIVERSITY FILM CIRCLE PRESENTS
ANNUAL SHORT DRAMA PROJECT
"FAKE DATING FOR REAL FEELINGS"
Auditions Today! 3:00 PM – Clubroom 302
Roles: Lead Male & Lead Female + Supporting Cast
No Experience Needed! (But It Helps)
Come Make Magic… or at Least Memorable Mistakes!
Haruto adjusted his glasses and sighed. Magic. Right. The last time he'd tried anything resembling "magic" in front of people was middle school talent show, when his card trick ended with the deck scattering across the stage because his palms were sweating bullets. He still remembered the laughter.
He wasn't here because he wanted to act. He was here because Professor Yamada—his film directing advisor—had cornered him after class yesterday with that terrifyingly cheerful smile professors reserve for students they plan to exploit.
"Haruto-kun," she'd said, clapping him on the shoulder hard enough to make him wince. "You're technically gifted. Camera work, lighting, editing—you're a natural. But directors need to understand performance. You can't hide behind the lens forever. Join the drama project this year. Be in it. Feel it."
Feel it. As if emotions were something you could focus and white-balance like a shot.
So here he was, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his navy hoodie, debating whether turning around and pretending he'd never seen the poster was a viable life choice.
The clubroom door burst open before he could decide.
"Next! Haruto Tanaka!"
A girl with short, messy brown hair and an energy level that could power a small city waved a clipboard like a battle flag. She wore oversized round glasses that kept sliding down her nose, and her Seika Film Circle hoodie was tied around her waist, revealing a band T-shirt underneath. Director Mode: Activated.
Haruto blinked. "How do you know my name?"
"Professor Yamada sent the list of 'highly recommended reluctant talents.' You're at the top." She grinned, showing dimples. "I'm Mio Nakamura, third-year, director for this year's project. Get in here before I drag you."
Haruto considered bolting. Mio looked like she could—and would—chase him down the hallway.
With a resigned breath, he stepped inside.
Clubroom 302 smelled like instant coffee, old paper, and faint desperation. Folding tables were pushed against the walls, covered in storyboards, empty soda cans, and a half-eaten box of Pocky. A cheap projector hummed on the ceiling, casting a rectangle of light on the far wall where someone had taped up a hand-drawn poster of two stick figures kissing under a heart made of film reels.
About a dozen students milled around—some chatting excitedly, others scrolling phones with practiced nonchalance. A guy in a backwards cap fiddled with a tripod in the corner, muttering about lens flares. A girl with long black hair and an intimidatingly perfect posture sat on a desk, legs crossed, reading the script like it was a final exam.
And then there was her.
Aoi Sakurai.
Haruto had seen her around campus before—hard not to. She was the kind of girl who turned heads without seeming to try: shoulder-length wavy hair the color of dark honey, bright hazel eyes that looked like they were always laughing at a private joke, and a smile that made people forget what they were saying mid-sentence. She was currently standing in the center of the room, script in hand, doing an exaggerated dramatic reading of the female lead's lines.
"—and that's when I realized… this fake date might actually be the most real thing I've ever felt!" Aoi pressed a hand to her chest, eyes sparkling with mock sincerity. Then she dropped the pose and laughed. "Okay, that line is so cheesy I'm going to need industrial-strength deodorant after saying it."
The room erupted in laughter. Even the backwards-cap guy snorted.
Mio clapped her hands. "Alright, people! Lead auditions first. We need chemistry between our fake couple, so we're doing paired readings. Haruto, you're up. Aoi, you're already here, so you're reading opposite him. No pressure."
Haruto felt his stomach drop to his sneakers.
Aoi turned, spotted him, and her face lit up like she'd just found free concert tickets. "Tanaka-kun! The camera genius Yamada-sensei keeps bragging about. Nice to finally meet you properly."
Haruto managed a nod. His mouth had suddenly gone dry. "Uh… hi."
Mio shoved two stapled script pages into his hands. "Scene three. The awkward first 'date' at the café. Read it naturally. Pretend you're actually on a date. Action!"
Haruto stared at the page. The lines swam.
Yuu (male lead): So… this is weird, right? Pretending to date for the school festival photos.
Mika (female lead): Weird? It's mortifying. But hey, at least you're cute when you're nervous.
Aoi cleared her throat theatrically and stepped closer—too close. Haruto could smell something light and citrusy. Her shampoo, probably.
She looked up at him through her lashes, lips curving into a teasing smile. "Ready when you are, co-star."
Haruto swallowed. "Right. Um… action, I guess."
He started reading, voice flat as week-old soda.
"So… this is weird, right? Pretending to date for the school festival photos."
Aoi tilted her head, eyes narrowing playfully. "Weird? It's mortifying. But hey, at least you're cute when you're nervous."
She delivered the line with perfect timing—light, flirty, just the right amount of sarcasm. Haruto felt heat crawl up his neck.
He glanced at the next line. His character was supposed to blush and stammer. Haruto didn't need to act for that part.
"Uh… I-I mean, you're not so bad yourself," he mumbled, eyes glued to the paper.
Aoi stepped even closer, close enough that their script pages almost touched. "Oh? Careful, Yuu. If you keep saying things like that, I might start believing this fake thing."
She reached out and—very gently—tucked an imaginary strand of hair behind his ear. Except there was no hair to tuck, so her fingers brushed his actual ear.
Haruto jerked back like he'd been electrocuted.
The room exploded.
Someone wolf-whistled. Backwards-cap guy nearly dropped his tripod. Mio was grinning like a Cheshire cat.
Aoi burst out laughing, covering her mouth. "Sorry! Sorry! Your reaction was too perfect. I couldn't resist."
Haruto's face felt like it was on fire. "That… wasn't in the script."
"Exactly!" Mio crowed, scribbling furiously on her clipboard. "That's the chemistry we need! Natural awkwardness! It's gold!"
Aoi wiped a tear from her eye, still giggling. "Tanaka-kun, you're adorable when you panic. Seriously, that little jump was Oscar-worthy."
Haruto wanted the floor to swallow him. "I think I'm done here."
"No, no, no!" Mio blocked the door with surprising speed for someone so short. "You two are perfect. The reluctant tech guy and the bubbly theater girl—it's classic rom-com material. And off-screen tension? Chef's kiss."
Aoi tilted her head, studying him with genuine curiosity now. The laughter faded into something softer. "Hey… sorry if I went overboard. I get carried away in character sometimes."
Haruto exhaled slowly. "It's… fine. Just not used to people being that close."
She smiled—smaller this time, warmer. "Noted. Next time I'll warn you before I invade your personal space."
Mio clapped again. "Decision made! Haruto Tanaka as Yuu, Aoi Sakurai as Mika. Congratulations, leads!"
The room cheered. Someone threw confetti—actual confetti—from who knows where.
Haruto stared at Aoi. She stared back.
For a second, the noise faded.
Then she leaned in—just a little—and whispered, "Looks like we're stuck together for the next two months, co-star. Try not to hate me too much."
Haruto adjusted his glasses again, a nervous habit. "I don't hate you."
Aoi's eyes sparkled. "Good. Because I think this is going to be fun."
As the club descended into excited chaos—people arguing over shooting locations, costume ideas, and whether they could afford real café props—Haruto found himself watching Aoi from across the room.
She was already joking with the scriptwriter, gesturing wildly, laughing at something. Every movement seemed effortless, magnetic.
He told himself it was just professional interest. He needed to study her acting style if they were going to pull this off.
But deep down, a tiny, traitorous part of him wondered:
What would it feel like if that "fake date" line wasn't just acting?
He shook his head. Ridiculous.
This was a project. A short film. A school activity.
Nothing more.
Still…
As Aoi glanced back at him and gave a small, conspiratorial wave, Haruto felt something shift—just a fraction.
Like the first frame of a scene that hadn't been scripted yet.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, a quiet voice whispered:
Cut. Print. That's a keeper.