Four years was a long time.
Long enough for first love to settle into memory, no longer sharp at the edges. Long enough for Hiyori to look back without pain, only a quiet fondness—like revisiting a place she once lived in, grateful for what it had been.
Asahi and Hinako had been together for four years now.
And nothing had changed.
Asahi was still Asahi—her best friend, her constant. He still sent her ridiculous messages at odd hours, still remembered her coffee order, still walked beside her instead of ahead. Sometimes it was just the two of them, laughing over old memories, comfortable in the silence they shared.
Hinako remained her precious twin. The one she had shared space with before either of them had ever known the world. They argued, laughed, supported each other without question. Love between them was effortless, unquestioned.
Sometimes, Hiyori even became the third wheel on Asahi and Hinako’s dates.
They never lasted long—fifteen minutes at most—just enough time for Hiyori to tease them mercilessly until Hinako chased her away, flustered and laughing, while Asahi looked on in helpless amusement.
She liked it that way.
Life, she realised, didn’t always need to change dramatically to be good.
Her internship dinner was meant to be uneventful. A formal restaurant, polite conversation, and the mild exhaustion that came from socialising after a long workday. She was halfway through dessert when she noticed the disturbance nearby—a sharp intake of breath, a hand fumbling along the table’s edge.
A man stood there, tense and disoriented.
“I’m so sorry,” someone muttered nearby. “I didn’t see—”
Hiyori saw it immediately. His glasses lay on the floor, one lens shattered, frame bent beyond use.
She stood without thinking. “Are you alright?”
He turned towards her voice, blinking slightly. His eyes were calm, but uncertain.
“I can’t see very well without them,” he admitted, tone embarrassed but honest.
“I’ll help you,” she said gently.
She guided him outside, her hand hovering just close enough for reassurance without intrusion. The evening air was cool, quiet compared to the restaurant’s hum. They waited together near the entrance as he called for his driver.
“Thank you,” he said after a moment. “I didn’t expect this sort of rescue tonight.”
She smiled. “Neither did I.”
Conversation came easily—unexpectedly so. They spoke about work, about daily routines, about how he preferred structure while she thrived in flexibility. They disagreed on small things—morning habits, city life, favourite foods—but it never felt uncomfortable. Just… interesting.
It had been a long time since Hiyori felt this at ease with someone new.
Too long.
When the car finally arrived, he hesitated before leaving.
“I hope this doesn’t sound strange,” he said, “but I enjoyed talking to you.”
“So did I,” she replied honestly.
He smiled, committing her voice to memory. “Perhaps… we’ll meet again.”
“Perhaps,” she echoed.
She watched the car disappear into the street, heart light, not racing—just open.
As Hiyori returned inside, she realised something important.
Her first love was no longer something she was waiting to move on from. It had already become part of her past, a chapter she could close without regret.
And ahead of her—quietly, patiently—was the possibility of something new.
Not a promise.
But a beginning.
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