The air was rich with the scent of grilled mochi, sweet soy, and something warm like roasted chestnuts. The lantern festival had returned to the town, sprawling across the lakeside like a field of stars that had descended from the sky, too delicate to stay above for one more night.
Tsubame was already waiting by the entrance gate, her usual fitted blazer replaced with a high-collared, dark blue yukata that made her look somehow taller, more princely, and impossibly serene. Her choppy black hair had been loosely tied at the nape, a single long bang still framing one side of her sharp, unreadable face.
She checked her watch—not out of impatience, but because her nerves couldn't stay still.
Then, from the crowd, she saw him.
Arata approached in a pale cream yukata patterned with silver swirls like falling feathers. His scarf—ever present—was replaced by a soft blue sash, and his lilac eyes widened slightly when he spotted her, his cheeks already tinted in pink.
Tsubame stood a little straighter, unsure what to do with her hands. She had spent half an hour trying to learn how to sign "You look beautiful" for this moment. And now? Her fingers refused to remember anything.
Arata stopped just in front of her, blinking up with a gaze full of softness. Then, shyly, he took out his phone and typed:
"You look like a prince from a poem."
She paused. Stared at the screen. Then at him.
The compliment, so poetic and unexpectedly honest, melted into her chest like warm rain.
She muttered under her breath, "Don't say things like that if you're going to look away after."
But he didn't look away.
He just smiled, his cheeks rosy, his gaze steady.
She scratched the back of her neck. "Let's go."
They entered the festival grounds together, shoulders brushing once and then keeping that distance—close enough to feel each other's presence, far enough to avoid touching too soon.
The festival was a whirl of lanterns, laughter, and music.
Paper lanterns in every color imaginable hung from tree branches, swaying slightly with each breeze like the rhythm of a heartbeat. Children ran with sparklers trailing fire behind them, and couples paused under bridges whispering their wishes into the night sky.
Arata's eyes darted from one stall to another like a child in a world painted by dreams. He stopped at a small stand with goldfish swimming in shallow bowls. The soft glow of a lantern caught in his silvery hair, giving him the look of a moon child.
Tsubame watched him with a gaze that said more than her silence ever could.
He turned and tugged at her sleeve gently, pointing at a sign.
"Paint your own lantern."
She raised a brow. "You want to?"
He nodded enthusiastically.
So they sat—side by side—at the painting booth, given round paper lanterns and a small palette of colors.
Arata dipped his brush into gentle hues of blue and lavender, his strokes slow, thoughtful. Tsubame, unsure of what to paint, glanced over at him. And then, without thinking, she copied his palette.
She didn't know what she was painting.
Only that each stroke felt like a reply to his own.
When they finished, Arata held his up.
His lantern was soft and dreamlike—two silhouettes standing beneath a plum blossom tree, one slightly taller, one holding a sketchbook.
She didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
"Is that… us?"
He nodded slowly, his smile shy but proud.
Tsubame swallowed. Her fingers clutched her lantern tighter. She hadn't even noticed she painted a field of stars, and in the center, two hands reaching toward one another.
She handed it to him without a word.
He stared for a long time. Then reached for his phone.
"It looks like how I feel when you smile."
Tsubame turned away quickly. Her face was burning.
"Stop saying things like that, idiot," she muttered.
But she was smiling.
They walked through the path lit with hundreds of floating lanterns. Couples gathered at the lakeside where volunteers helped lower the painted globes onto the water.
As they waited their turn, Tsubame caught Arata gazing at the sky.
She watched him—his eyelashes soft against his cheeks, his pale skin glowing in the lantern light.
"Is there something you want to wish for?" she asked, softly.
He turned to her and signed something.
She frowned. "What does that mean?"
He took her hand gently—so gently it almost didn't register—and traced the sign again, slower.
She still didn't understand.
So he picked up his phone and typed:
"I already got what I wished for."
Tsubame froze.
Her chest felt tight and warm all at once, and something in her throat refused to move.
She looked at him—really looked at him.
The delicate boy with soft eyes and stronger courage than most people she knew.
The one who couldn't speak with words but had somehow told her everything that mattered.
She stepped a little closer.
"Don't… make wishes like that," she said under her breath, leaning toward him. "What if I disappear one day?"
He shook his head. Then, slowly, deliberately, signed:
"I won't let you."
Their fingers brushed.
She didn't pull away.
They placed their lanterns on the water together, hands still lightly touching as they watched them drift—glowing like twin stars returning home.
The lake shimmered beneath the night, soft and endless.
And in that moment, under a sky that held its breath, neither of them needed words.
Not when their hearts spoke in light.