It started in a way Dylan didn’t notice at first.

He’d seen Hikari as part of the group for weeks. She was always gentle, always present, the kind of person who never raised her voice but somehow always made herself heard. She didn’t compete for attention. She didn’t need to.

But the moment he noticed her—that was different.

It was a cold, brittle day in the middle of winter. The group had gone to a local shrine after class, half for photos, half because Livi thought it would be “aesthetic.” They scattered naturally, as always. Dylan hung back, focusing his lens on the details: the way the wind moved through prayer ribbons, the flicker of low sun on snow-dusted stone.

Then he turned and saw Hikari.

She stood a few steps ahead of him, in front of the prayer wall, her hand lightly brushing the edge of a paper charm. Her scarf was wrapped too many times around her neck, and her bangs fluttered in the breeze like petals.

She didn’t know he was watching. She wasn’t performing. She was just... being.

He raised his camera.

But before he clicked the shutter, he hesitated.

There was something about the way she looked at that charm—like she was talking to it. Or maybe asking something she’d never say aloud. The moment felt too sacred. Too human.

He lowered the camera.

That was the first time he chose to remember a moment without capturing it.

Later that day, she walked beside him on the way back to the train station. Their breath formed clouds in the air as they talked about nothing—bunnies, café recommendations, bad exam scores. But it was the way she said his name when she laughed. Like it wasn’t just sound. Like it meant something.

“Sometimes,” she had said, brushing snow off her sleeve, “I wish we could keep certain moments just for ourselves—not even photos.”

He didn’t forget that line.

After that, the shift was slow. Subtle. He started looking for her without realizing it. Waiting for her to sit near him. Noticing the way her voice softened when she was nervous. How she chewed the inside of her cheek when thinking. How she always looked at the sky before answering something serious.

It wasn’t fireworks. It was winter rain—quiet, constant, impossible to ignore once it had begun.

That was when Dylan knew. He was in love.

Not with a fantasy. Not with a perfect moment. But with a real, breathing person.