The summer festival was alive.
Not just loud or bright, but alive in a way only nights like this could be. Paper lanterns hung overhead in uneven rows, glowing warmly against the dark sky, their light flickering as if they were breathing. The narrow street was packed with people moving slowly, laughing, calling out to each other, their voices blending with the distant rhythm of taiko drums.
The smell of food clung to the air. Sweet cotton candy. Savory grilled corn. The faint smoke of yakisoba rising lazily above the stalls.
And in the middle of it all—
Saki stood beside me.
She wore a light-colored yukata with small blue patterns scattered across it, simple and unmistakably her. Her hair was tied back loosely, a few strands slipping free near her face, swaying whenever she moved. Every time she turned her head, the lantern light caught her eyes, making them shine softly.
We had been walking together for a while now. Not holding hands. Not talking much either. Just close enough that I could feel her presence without needing to look.
It felt… fragile. Like if I said the wrong thing, the night might crack.
She stopped suddenly.
I nearly walked into her.
"Haruto," she said.
Her voice was calm, but there was something careful about it.
I turned to face her. "Yeah?"
She didn't answer right away. Instead, she glanced around at the festival, at the people passing by, at the lights overhead.
"Do you ever think," she said slowly, "that some moments don't feel special while they're happening… but later you realize they were everything?"
My chest tightened.
"Why?" I asked. "Are you about to say something dangerous?"
She smiled faintly. "Maybe."
The space between us felt smaller now.
"Saki," I said, choosing my words carefully, "what are you thinking about?"
She looked up at me then. Really looked at me.
"I was thinking," she said, "that we've been together for so long… and yet there are still things we've never said properly."
The festival noise seemed to fade. Not disappear. Just soften.
I swallowed. "Is this one of those things?"
"Yes."
My heart began to pound.
She hesitated, then took a small step forward. Close enough that I could smell the faint soap scent on her yukata.
"Haruto," she said, her voice barely louder than the music behind us, "do you remember the first day we met?"
The question hit me harder than I expected.
Before I could answer, she reached out, fingers brushing lightly against my sleeve, like she was testing whether this moment was real.
"I remember," she continued softly, "because that day… changed my life."
Something warm spread through my chest.
"I didn't understand it back then," she said. "But now I do."
I took a breath.
"Saki," I said, "there's something I should tell you too."
She looked nervous. "What?"
"I think," I said, forcing myself not to look away, "that I've liked you for longer than I've ever realized."
Her eyes widened just slightly.
Then she smiled.
Not teasing. Not playful.
Just honest.
"Good," she whispered.
The space between us vanished.
She leaned in first.
I met her halfway.
Our lips touched—softly, almost hesitantly. It wasn't rushed. It wasn't clumsy either. Just warm. Careful. Like both of us were afraid of breaking something precious.
The festival continued around us, completely unaware.
The lanterns glowed.
The drums beat.
And somewhere deep inside me, a door I'd never known existed finally opened.
As we pulled back, our foreheads resting together, I exhaled slowly.
"Saki," I murmured.
"Yes?"
"…Do you remember the vending machine?"
She laughed quietly. "Of course I do."
That was when the memories truly surfaced.
---
Midway through my summer vacation, I was heading back home after spending the entire day playing in the park with my friends.
I was in kindergarten back then.
My entire world revolved around just one thing.
Playing.
We ran until our legs hurt. We laughed until our stomachs ached. We argued over nothing and made up five minutes later. Back then, time felt endless. Summer felt infinite.
But even in that perfect world, there was one rule we all followed.
When the sky started to darken, it was time to go home.
After saying goodbye, I began walking back alone, quietly humming an anime song I liked. I didn't know the lyrics. I barely understood what it was about. I just liked the melody.
The road home was familiar. Every step felt safe.
On the way, I passed a vending machine I always stopped by.
I never bought anything from it. I didn't have money, and even if I did, I didn't know how to use it. Still, I loved watching people press the buttons and wait for the drink to fall with a loud clunk.
I wondered what it would feel like.
Lost in that thought, I noticed someone standing near the machine.
A girl.
She looked about my age.
She was crouched near the ground, shoulders shaking slightly. Every now and then, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
She was crying.
I slowed down without realizing it.
I wasn't brave back then. I didn't usually talk to strangers. But something about her made my feet move on their own.
I walked closer.
"Hey," I said quietly. "Are you looking for something?"
She looked up.
Her eyes were red. Her lips trembled.
"I… yeah."
For some reason, my face felt warm.
I ignored it.
"What did you lose?" I asked.
"My hairpin," she said. "My mom gave it to me for my birthday. I think it fell somewhere here…"
Her hands clenched as she spoke, like she was afraid it might already be gone forever.
"I'll help you," I said.
She blinked. "You will?"
"Yeah," I replied. "We can find it."
Her shoulders relaxed just a little. "Thank you…"
We searched everywhere.
Under the vending machine. Near the bushes. Along the sidewalk.
The sky kept growing darker.
Her sniffles turned into quiet sobs.
Then—
"I got it!" I shouted.
She spun around.
I held up a small hairpin I'd pulled from beneath a bush.
She took it carefully, gripping it tight.
"…Thank you," she whispered. "I was really scared."
"It's okay," I said, even though I didn't really know why.
Later, we walked home together.
That was the first time I heard her name.
The first time she said mine.
The first time tomorrow meant something.
Back then, I didn't know it.
But that was the day my world quietly shifted.
And it all started—
With a vending machine button I never pressed.
Back then, I didn't have words for what I felt.
I was too young to understand why my chest felt lighter after she smiled, or why walking home beside her felt different from walking alone. I didn't question it. I didn't analyze it. I just accepted it the way children accept everything.
But now, looking back, I realize something.
That moment wasn't important because I helped her find a hairpin.
It was important because I stopped.
I could've walked past her. I could've gone home like always. Nothing would've been wrong. My day would've ended the same way it always did.
But for some reason, I slowed down.
Even now, I can't fully explain why.
Maybe it was the way her shoulders shook when she cried.
Maybe it was the loneliness in her eyes.
Or maybe… it was simply fate wearing an ordinary face.
At that age, the world felt huge and simple at the same time. People entered and left your life without warning. Friends moved away. New faces appeared. Everything changed, and yet you never questioned it.
Saki was one of those changes.
A quiet one.
The kind that didn't announce itself loudly, but slowly settled in.
Walking her home that evening felt natural. Like something that was always meant to happen. I remember how she clutched the hairpin the entire way, as if it were proof that the day hadn't been a bad dream.
I didn't know it then, but that walk was the beginning of many others.
Walks to school.
Walks back home.
Walks where we argued, laughed, stayed silent, or shared secrets too small to matter and too big to forget.
That vending machine stayed there for years.
I passed it thousands of times.
Eventually, I did press its buttons. I learned how the coins sounded when they fell. I learned which drinks were worth buying and which weren't.
But no matter how many times I used it, it never felt the same as that first day.
Because that day, the machine wasn't just a machine.
It was the place where a stranger became a neighbor.
Where a girl who was crying became someone important.
Where my world quietly expanded without me realizing it.
Children don't understand beginnings.
They only understand now.
But some beginnings are so gentle, so ordinary, that they don't feel like beginnings at all.
They feel like accidents.
And only much later do you realize—
Some accidents are the reason your life turns the way it does.
The next day, I waited.
I didn't know why.
I finished breakfast faster than usual and sat near the front door, pretending to tie my shoes again and again. Every few seconds, I glanced at the clock, then at the door next to ours.
When it finally opened, I stood up too quickly and nearly tripped.
Saki stepped out, wearing a simple T-shirt and shorts, her hair tied the same way as yesterday. For a moment, she just stood there, like she wasn't sure if she should come over.
Then she noticed me.
Her face lit up.
"Good morning," she said, a little shy.
"Morning," I replied, trying to sound normal.
That was it.
No grand plan. No promise.
We just… started playing together.
At first, it was only outside our houses. Drawing shapes on the ground with chalk. Catching bugs near the bushes. Sitting on the curb and watching cars pass like they were something fascinating.
She talked more than I expected.
About her old school. About the friends she missed. About how her room still felt strange because the boxes weren't unpacked yet.
I listened.
Sometimes I didn't reply at all. But she never seemed to mind.
After a few days, walking together became normal.
To the park.
Back home.
To the small convenience store where we stared at snacks we couldn't buy.
Adults probably thought nothing of it. Just two kids passing time.
But even then, I noticed something.
Whenever she wasn't around, the day felt quieter.
Whenever she laughed, everything felt lighter.
I didn't think, I like her.
That thought was too big for someone my age.
Instead, I thought things like—
It's more fun when Saki is here.
I hope she comes out today.
I'll wait a little longer.
Looking back, that was probably enough.
One evening, we sat near the vending machine again.
She pointed at one of the buttons. "Which one do you think tastes best?"
"I don't know," I said. "I've never tried any."
She stared at me like I'd just said something unbelievable. "Not even once?"
I shook my head.
She nodded seriously. "Then someday, we'll try one together."
"Someday?"
"Yeah," she said confidently. "Someday."
At the time, someday felt infinite.
Days piled up quietly after that.
Summer burned bright. Cicadas screamed from the trees. Our knees got scraped. Our hands got dirty. We fought once over a broken toy and made up ten minutes later like it never happened.
I started to recognize her footsteps.
I could tell when it was her knocking on my door versus anyone else.
I didn't question why.
I just opened the door.
Only much later did I understand what was happening.
Friendship doesn't arrive loudly.
It grows in small moments. In waiting. In walking together without needing a reason.
And by the time you realize it matters—
It already does.