Because of the partnership between the two companies, the Fujita and Kitahara families continued to meet — sometimes formally, sometimes not.
There were corporate events, such as product launches and anniversary preparations. There were dinners arranged for convenience that gradually became familiar. Occasionally, there were private outings that had nothing to do with work at all.
Yuma did not attend all of them.
His job lay outside the family business, and more often than not, his absence went unnoticed. When he did appear, he remained what he had always been — present, yet unobtrusive.
Himari, on the other hand, blended in easily.
She spoke with Haruma often, never allowing Raito to monopolise him. It wasn’t deliberate; she simply adjusted to people naturally. Haruma responded well to her — relaxed, animated, existing in a world that felt entirely different from Yuma’s.
Yuma noticed the difference without resentment.
Haruma was surrounded. Yuma hovered at the edges.
When the weekend arrived, the younger members of both families made plans to meet. The company’s anniversary party was approaching, and a gift exchange had been organised. They were given a fixed budget — not to exceed it, not to fall short — and tasked with choosing appropriate presents.
This time, Yuma joined them.
He would be attending the anniversary party as well, and for once, there was a reason for him to be there.
They started at a souvenir shop.
Yuma drifted towards the household goods section without thinking — mugs, plates, bowls, decorative frames. He picked one up, turned it over in his hands, examined it carefully, then set it down and reached for another. When he seemed satisfied, he placed it in his basket.
Himari noticed him from a distance.
She hadn’t meant to watch him for long, but the longer she did, the more obvious it became.
Eventually, she walked over.
“You must really like blue.”
Yuma startled slightly, though he no longer felt the need to retreat. They had spoken enough times now for her to be… familiar. A friend, perhaps — or something close to it.
“How did you—”
She laughed softly and gestured towards his basket with her chin.
Only then did Yuma realise.
Mugs. Plates. Bowls. A photo frame.
All blue.
He glanced at her basket in return.
“You must like a lot of colours,” he said.
Her laugh this time was quieter — the kind that didn’t draw attention, but somehow invited it. His lips curved upwards before he noticed himself smiling.
Inside her basket lay an assortment of colours: a blue hat, an orange water bottle, a floral bookmark, a yellow notebook, a purple scented sachet.
“I like black,” she said lightly. “But for gifts like these… variety feels better.”
They continued browsing together while the others were still deciding, occasionally checking prices, mentally calculating the total. When they reached the decorative section, Yuma’s gaze drifted repeatedly towards the glass shelves lined with snow globes.
He didn’t move closer.
Himari noticed.
She tugged gently at the hem of his sleeve. “I want to see the snow globes. Let’s go there.”
Yuma followed without comment.
As Himari pretended to examine them casually, Yuma leaned in. He picked one up, turning it slowly, watching the artificial snow settle. Then he chose another — different, yet equally captivating.
He was absorbed, lost in the small, frozen worlds behind the glass.
“Yuma!”
Haruma’s voice cut through the moment, Raito beside him. It was time to check out.
Yuma returned the globes carefully to their places and hurried after them.
Dinner followed, and by the time they parted ways, the sky had darkened.
“Yuma.”
He turned.
Himari stood a short distance away, holding out a blue paper bag.
“A present.”
Before he could respond, she walked away.
Yuma stood there for a moment, confused, then accepted it, fingers tightening around the handle.
Later that night, sitting on his bed, he reached for the bag.
Inside were two neatly wrapped boxes, both in blue paper.
He opened the first.
For a brief moment, his breath caught.
It was the snow globe — the one he had held the longest.
With trembling fingers, he unwrapped the second.
The other globe.
The one that had captured his heart.
For the first time in a long while, someone had noticed him — not the version he presented to others, but the quiet, unguarded part he rarely allowed to surface.
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