Kitahara Himari was often misunderstood at first glance.
Quiet. Calm. Forgettable.
That was the impression she gave — and the one most people accepted without question.
But Himari was observant.
She always had been.
She noticed things others overlooked, patterns others dismissed. When her classmates realised something was wrong, she usually already knew. In middle school, she noticed the class monitor forcing herself through a sports event despite being unwell. She had informed the teacher before anyone else realised — and when the girl collapsed, Himari was already at her side.
There was another time, at a playground, when she sensed something off about a couple lingering too close to a child. She hadn’t hesitated to alert nearby adults.
Himari paid attention.
She liked fitting pieces together — people, situations, behaviours — and questioning whether they belonged where they were.
Fujita Yuma caught her attention the same way.
At first, he was ordinary. Quietly standing beside his family, polite during introductions, unremarkable in the way many people were.
But the longer she watched, the more she felt something was… misplaced.
He was always there, yet never quite with anyone.
She noticed how conversations flowed around him. How attention shifted past him. How his presence was acknowledged only briefly before being forgotten.
At the picnic, she saw him alone by the grill.
Only then did she realise — she had never heard his voice before.
She had approached him with intention, bracing herself — and been rejected.
But she wasn’t discouraged.
Yuma had built a door. A tall wall. And when someone does that, forcing entry only makes them retreat further.
So she waited by the door.
During the meal, when he spoke again, it felt like a hinge loosening.
Over time, she sensed his ease around her — subtle, fragile, but real. So she adjusted, careful not to step too close, not to rush. One step at a time.
At the shop, she hadn’t meant to watch him for so long.
But she saw how carefully he chose things — how he examined each item as if weighing something invisible. She noticed the blue first. Then the snow globes.
He wanted to look. He didn’t allow himself to.
So she gave him a reason.
The way his eyes lit up — briefly, quietly — told her everything.
When he was called away, she knew what she wanted to do.
She bought the snow globes. Both of them.
When she handed him the bag, she saw his confusion — and hoped, silently, that when he opened it, he would smile.
Not because of her.
But because someone had seen him.
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