I stared at my phone for the third time in ten minutes.
Me: Hey. Are you okay?
Simple message. Four words. But I'd been typing and deleting variations for twenty minutes. How do you ask someone why they ran from your glowing bracelet without sounding completely insane?
The morning sun streamed through my dorm window, and campus was already buzzing with Friday energy. Festival prep officially started today. Our centerpiece installation. Everything we'd worked for.
And Airi had fled like I was carrying some kind of curse.
My bracelet sat innocent and metallic on my wrist. No glow. No pulse. Just normal jewelry that definitely wasn't normal.
Screw it.
I hit send.
Three dots appeared immediately. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Airi: I'm sorry about yesterday. Can we meet? For the project.
For the project. Like we needed an excuse.
Airi: Art building, 9 AM?
Me: I'll be there.
I grabbed my jacket and headed out, ignoring the way my bracelet felt warm against my skin.
The art building smelled like paint and possibility.
I found Airi in the main workspace, surrounded by sketches and supply lists, wearing an oversized cream sweater that made her look smaller than usual. Vulnerable Airi. The version that made my chest ache.
"Hey," I said softly.
She looked up, and relief flooded her expression. "You came."
"Of course I came." I sat across from her, careful not to crowd her space. "Are you okay?"
"I..." She fidgeted with her pencil. "I overreacted yesterday. The bracelet thing just reminded me of something. It's not important."
Everything about her body language said it was very important. But I'd learned not to push Airi when she wasn't ready.
"Okay," I said simply. "What do you need help with?"
The grateful smile she gave me was worth every unanswered question.
"Station layouts," she said, spreading out her sketches. "I have the concepts, but the flow between spaces isn't working."
I leaned forward to study her drawings, and my breath caught. They weren't just festival plans. They were architectural poetry. Each station designed to guide visitors through an emotional journey—from hesitation to participation to connection to reflection.
"Airi, this is incredible."
"It's too complicated," she said quickly. "We should simplify—"
"No." I looked up at her. "This is exactly what people need. Don't you dare make it smaller."
Something shifted in her expression. Surprise, maybe. Or recognition.
"You really think it'll work?"
"I think you're brilliant. And I think anyone who experiences this is going to remember it for the rest of their lives."
Her cheeks flushed pink, and she looked back at the sketches. "The Memory Wall needs to flow into the Poetry Corner, but the space constraints—"
"What if we curved it?" I grabbed a pencil and started sketching over her design. "Like this, so people naturally drift from writing to speaking?"
"Yes," she breathed, her eyes lighting up. "And if we angle the Photo Booth here..."
We fell into the zone. That perfect collaborative space where ideas built on ideas, where her creativity sparked mine and mine clarified hers. We redesigned the entire layout in thirty minutes, both of us reaching for pencils, pointing at sketches, finishing each other's thoughts.
"The Playlist Station could have headphones and speakers," I said, adding notes to her margins.
"Split experience," she agreed. "Private listening or shared discovery."
"And the Art Collaboration wall faces the center, so—"
"So participants become part of the installation," she finished. "People watching people create."
Perfect.
I looked up to find her staring at me with an expression I couldn't read. Intense. Almost overwhelmed.
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing," she said quickly, but her voice sounded different. Softer. "I just... you get it. You get what I'm trying to create."
"Of course I do. We're creating it together."
She blinked, and for a second I thought she might cry. "Together."
My bracelet pulsed warm against my wrist. Not urgent this time. Content.
"Always," I said.
By noon, the main workspace looked like a creative explosion.
Ren had arrived with a military-precision timeline. Rika brought fabric samples and color palettes. Saya showed up with a clipboard and the kind of skeptical expression that meant she was about to make everything better through sheer force of will.
"The city needs permits for the sound equipment," she announced, dropping a stack of forms on our table. "Also, fire department clearance for the Art Wall, and apparently we need insurance waivers because someone might get 'emotionally overwhelmed.'"
"Bureaucracy is the death of art," Taichi declared, looking up from where he was testing microphone equipment with Kouta.
"Bureaucracy is what keeps us from getting shut down," Ren replied mildly, already filling out permit applications.
I watched Airi move between conversations—consulting with Rika about emotional safety protocols, helping Miyu organize art supplies, checking Kei's sound system calculations. She was in her element. Project Manager Airi, Creative Vision Airi, Supportive Friend Airi all blending together into someone confident and radiant.
Someone I was falling for harder every minute.
The thought stopped me cold.
Falling for.
When had that happened? When had "caring about" become "can't imagine my life without"?
I watched her laugh at something Kouta said while simultaneously solving a logistics problem with Ren, and the answer hit me like lightning:
It had been happening all along. Every conversation. Every smile. Every moment she let me see who she really was.
"Earth to Yuuma," Taichi's voice cut through my revelation. "You're staring."
"What?"
"At Airi. You're staring at Airi with what my sister would call 'heart eyes.'"
I felt my face flush. "I'm not—"
"Dude," Kouta appeared beside us, grinning. "You're so gone for her it's not even funny."
"Keep your voice down," I hissed, glancing toward where Airi was discussing paint choices with the girls.
"Why? It's obvious to everyone except maybe her," Taichi said. "And honestly, I'm not even sure about that."
My heart jumped. "You think she knows?"
"I think she's just as gone for you," Kouta said matter-of-factly. "The way she looks at you when you're not paying attention? Man."
"You're imagining things."
"Am I?" Taichi nodded toward the supply table. "Look at her right now."
I turned, and my breath caught. Airi was holding a brush, talking to Miyu about paint techniques, but her eyes kept drifting to me. When our gazes met, she smiled—not one of her careful, calculated expressions, but something private and warm and just for me.
My bracelet pulsed.
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
I was in love with her.
Completely, desperately, terrifyingly in love.
The afternoon passed in a blur of focused activity, but I couldn't shake the new awareness humming under my skin. Every time Airi handed me something, our fingers brushed. Every time she leaned close to point out a detail, I caught her scent—cherry blossoms and something uniquely her. Every time she laughed, my heart did something acrobatic.
How had I not noticed I was this far gone?
"Yuuma," her voice pulled me back to reality. "Can you help me with something?"
The workspace had mostly cleared out—people heading to dinner or back to dorms. Just us and a few scattered supplies.
"Of course."
She led me to the back corner where she'd set up a smaller easel. A canvas covered with a paint-stained cloth sat waiting.
"I wanted to show you something," she said, suddenly nervous. "It's not finished, but..."
She pulled away the cloth.
I stopped breathing.
It was the Memory Garden. But not the architectural plans we'd been working from. This was the emotional experience—swirls of color representing conversation and connection, figures painted in soft, impressionistic strokes moving through spaces that felt more like dreams than buildings.
And in the center, barely visible unless you knew to look for it, were two figures. A boy and a girl, hands almost touching, surrounded by light that seemed to pulse with life.
"Airi," I whispered.
"I started it weeks ago," she said quietly. "Before we even had the idea. Before the proposal. I kept dreaming about this place, and I had to paint it."
"It's beautiful."
"It's us," she said, so softly I almost missed it.
I looked up at her, and the expression on her face took my breath away. Vulnerable and hopeful and terrified all at once.
"The figures in the center," I said.
She nodded. "I didn't plan it. I just... when I paint, sometimes my hands know things my mind doesn't."
We stood there in the golden afternoon light, her painting between us like a confession, and I felt the moment crystallize. One of those perfect, fragile seconds where everything could change.
"Airi," I started.
But she was already stepping back, already covering the painting.
"We should go," she said quickly. "The others will be waiting for dinner."
"Wait." I caught her hand. "You don't have to hide from me."
She looked down at our joined hands, and I saw her walls crumble for just a second. "I'm not hiding. I'm... protecting."
"Protecting what?"
"This," she whispered. "Us. Whatever this is."
My bracelet pulsed warm against my wrist, and this time she didn't look away. This time she stared at it like she was seeing something I couldn't.
"Your bracelet," she said slowly. "How long have you had it?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "I can't remember getting it. Can't remember not having it."
"And it glows when you're emotional."
"Apparently."
She was quiet for a long moment, studying my face like she was memorizing it.
"I need to tell you something," she said finally. "But not here. Not yet."
"When?"
"Soon." She squeezed my hand once, then let go. "After the festival. When we have time to... when I can explain properly."
I wanted to push. Wanted to demand answers. But something in her expression stopped me.
"Okay," I said. "I'll wait."
The relief that flooded her face was worth the frustration.
"Thank you," she breathed.
As we packed up the art supplies, I caught her watching me again. This time, when our eyes met, she didn't look away. She just smiled—soft and sad and full of something that looked a lot like love.
And I realized with stunning clarity that whatever she was protecting, whatever she was afraid of, it was already too late.
We were already in love.
Both of us.
The only question was what happened when we finally admitted it.
My bracelet pulsed once more, and this time it felt less like a heartbeat and more like a countdown.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.