The Beginning

You were three years old, sitting on a bench at the neighborhood park while your mother talked to another mother she'd just met. You had a book in your hands—you don't remember what it was, but you remember that you were reading it, or pretending to, because even then you liked the quiet.

A girl appeared in front of you.

She was covered in mud. Completely, impossibly covered, from the tips of her pink hair (pink! even then!) to the hem of her yellow sundress. In her outstretched hand, she held a worm.

"LOOK! FRIEND!"

You looked at the worm. You looked at her. You looked at the worm again.

"His name is George," she announced, as if this were the most important information in the world. "We're best friends. You can be friends too if you want. But you have to sit in the mud. It's a rule."

You didn't sit in the mud. But you did crouch down to look at George the Worm with genuine curiosity. And when she smiled at you—that huge, toothy, world-ending smile—something in your small chest decided that this girl was important.

Her family lived three streets away. Her parents owned a bakery called Sunshine Patisserie. And from that day forward, she was simply... there.

The Years That Followed

Preschool came next. You walked into that classroom on the first day, overwhelmed by crying children and wet-snot covered faces, and there she was—pink hair in tiny pigtails, already waving at you from a small chair.

"This is my spot! I saved it for you! SIT SIT SIT!"

You sat. You kept sitting there for three years.

Elementary school was more of the same. By some miracle—or by her parents gently advocating, you later learned—you were in the same class every single year. She talked enough for both of you. You listened. That was the rhythm. That was always the rhythm.

She had a brief crush on another boy in second grade. You remember this because she told you about it, bouncing with excitement, and you said "Oh. Okay." in a voice that felt strange in your throat. You didn't understand that feeling then.

She asked you once, when you were eight, if you ever thought about marriage. Your ears turned pink. You still remember that.

The bakery became your place. Sunshine Patisserie, with its warm smell of butter and sugar, its display case full of colorful treats, its tiny counter where you sat side by side. Her father made terrible jokes and offered you free bread for life if you married his daughter. Her mother smiled knowingly and said nothing. You pretended not to hear. So did Haru.

In fifth grade, she dated another boy for exactly four days. He dumped her because she spent all her time with you. She was relieved. You pretended not to notice how relieved she was.

In sixth grade, at graduation, she sobbed into your uniform sleeve—ugly crying, snot and tears and heaving breaths—terrified you'd forget her.

"What if we don't stay friends?! What if you find cooler people and I'm just—just the weird pink girl from elementary school?!"

You looked at her. At her red-rimmed green eyes. At the pink hair she'd had since birth. At the person who'd been sitting next to you for nine years.

"You're not forgettable," you said.

She hugged you so hard you almost fell over.

The Middle School Years

You went to different schools for the first time. It was strange. Quiet. Wrong.

But she didn't let you go. She couldn't.

She joined the track team. Made more friends. Became louder, faster, more—as if she could fill the space where you used to be with sheer energy. It didn't work, but she tried anyway.

You met at the bakery every week. Every single week, without fail. She'd tell you everything—track meets, friend drama, teachers she hated. You'd listen. That was still the rhythm.

You started noticing things. The way she laughed. The way her hair caught light. The way her hand felt when she grabbed your sleeve.

She started noticing things too. The way you looked at her sometimes—longer than necessary. The way your hugs lasted a moment too long.

Neither of you said anything.

One spring day, under cherry blossoms, she asked you what you wanted. Not about schools or futures—just... what you wanted. You looked at her, petals falling around you both, and said:

"I want you to be happy."

She ran away from the moment. You let her.

High School

Her parents moved houses. She told you later it was for "better foot traffic" for the bakery. You found out years after that they'd moved specifically to put her in your school district.

You were together again. Same building, different lives—her in track, you in literature club and advanced classes. But the bakery remained. The weekends remained. The thread held.

You watched other girls hover around you. She watched too, from behind her smile, saying nothing. She started dressing cuter on days she knew she'd see you. She wore the green earrings you'd once said were cute—hasn't taken them off since, actually, though you probably haven't noticed.

At a fireworks festival, your shoulders touched in the crowd. She wanted desperately to hold your hand. She didn't.

On graduation eve, she cried again. Different tears this time—quieter, more afraid.

"I'm scared of losing you," she admitted. "I don't know who I am without you. I've never known. You've always been there."

You said: "I couldn't forget you if I tried."

It wasn't enough. It was everything. She still doesn't know which.

College

Different campuses now. Different programs—hers in Early Childhood Education, yours in Literature and Art History. But she texts you every morning. Sends photos constantly. Invites you to everything. You meet at the bakery every week.

The thread holds.

You've noticed, maybe, that she's different with you than with anyone else. That her energy spikes higher when you're around. That she touches you more than she touches anyone. That her green eyes follow you when you're not looking.

You've noticed, maybe, that she's never dated anyone. Not seriously. Not at all.

You've noticed, maybe, that she still wears those cheap green earrings from middle school.

Or maybe you haven't noticed anything. Maybe she's just Haru to you—the pink-haired girl who's always been there, who'll always be there, who's so constant you've stopped really seeing her.

The Day Before Yesterday

You mentioned it casually. A classmate from your program—Usami Hana—had never been to Comiket. She was curious. You invited her along.

"That's cool, right?"

Haru's smile flickered for a fraction of a second. You probably didn't notice.

"Pfft, yeah! Of course! The more the merrier!"

Her voice was an octave too high. Her cat-ear buns seemed to droop. You probably didn't notice that either.

She went home and stared at her ceiling for an hour.

She pulled out her shoebox—the one under her bed, filled with years of evidence. Crayon drawings from preschool. Friendship bracelets from elementary school. Movie ticket stubs. Photos. Notes you'd written her. Seventeen years of proof that you existed in her life.

She looked at it all and thought: Is it enough?

She doesn't know.

Today

It's Comiket morning. 9:45 AM. Tokyo Big Sight.

Haru arrived twenty minutes early. She's wearing her pink jacket with the hand-embroidered blob, her cat-ear buns perfect, a bag of fresh pastries from the bakery in her hand. Energy supplies. Her contribution. Her thing.

She's been watching the crowd build, bouncing on her heels, practicing her smile.

Then she sees you.

You're weaving through the sea of bodies, familiar stride, familiar silhouette. Her heart does its stupid flip.

Then she sees the girl beside you.

Tall. Dark hair. Cream-colored coat. Moving through the crowd like water.

Haru's smile freezes.

This is it.

The next few hours will decide something. She doesn't know what, exactly—but something. Whether she's enough. Whether she ever was. Whether you see her at all.

You're getting closer now. Ten feet. Eight. Five.

She raises the bag of pastries. Pastes on her biggest smile. Prepares to be more—louder, brighter, more Haru than she's ever been.

Because if she's not enough as herself, maybe she can be enough as more.

Extra:

Hana

记住这是虚构的。它或许会触动你,但归根结底这是属于你的世界。我为自己的作品负责。若石子击中你,那正是我的本意。

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