KEIO UNIVERSITY – SPRING FESTIVAL

The sound of laughter. Music echoing from cheap speakers.
Students carrying lanterns, cotton candy, and too many dreams.

And there she was.

Sakura.
Standing beneath the cherry blossoms in her favorite beige cardigan, holding a notepad and a plastic cup of lemonade.

I remember every detail—
The way she pushed her hair behind her ear.
The way she wrote with her left hand but drew hearts with her right.
And the way I pretended I was just “passing by” when I always knew exactly where she’d be.

She was my senior by two years.
Bright. Confident. Always a little out of reach—
But never cold.

People liked her.
Professors respected her.
And me?
I just watched from a distance… 
Just the guy sitting in the back row of Comparative Lit.
The guy who doodled in margins and scribbled poems I’d never show anyone.

That day—
The Spring Festival at KEIO University—
Something amazing happened.

She stepped up to the tiny makeshift stage near the food stalls.
Someone handed her a mic. I didn’t even know she signed up.

And then—
She started singing.
Soft at first. A little shy. But steady.

Her voice didn’t try to be perfect.
It didn’t have to be.
It was honest—like soft rain on warm pavement.

"Kimi to natsu no owari shourai no yume
Ookina kibou wasurenai…”

I stopped walking.
I couldn’t even breathe.

“Juu nen go no hachigatsu mata deaeru no o shinjite…”

It was the first time I ever heard her sing.
No fanfare. No stage lights. Just her voice in the middle of the crowd.

And I swear—
Everyone else disappeared.

“Saikou no omoide o…”

Sakura.
My senior.
My spring.

She stood under the cherry blossoms, eyes closed,
as if she was singing not just to us—but to the past, and to someone she missed.

“Is it me?”
“Do I matter that much?”
“No… I’m just another guy in the crowd.”

But still…

That was the moment I fell in love with her.

And that love never left.

I couldn’t tell her.
Not back then. Not with words, not face to face.

So…
I wrote a letter.

NIGHT AFTER THE FESTIVAL

Yuki's room at the dorm. A tiny desk lamp comes on. The floor is covered in crumpled pages. There is a crack in the glass. Sakura petals float in the wind.

YUKI (monologue, writing):
"To Sakura-senpai...
You probably don’t even remember me, but I wanted to say something before it fades.
Your voice today—was beautiful.
I don’t know if you’ll sing again. I don’t know if that was just a one-time thing.
But I hope it wasn’t.
Because you don’t just sing songs, you remind people how to feel.

And if I may... I wrote something too. Just for you:

Some flowers bloom in gardens bright,
But you—you bloomed beneath soft light.
Not needing sun or perfect stage,
Just wind, and heart, and open page.

If I could be a single sound,
I’d be the echo that you found.
Not loud or proud, just always near,
The quiet voice you didn’t hear.

A fan, they’d say—and maybe true,
But more than that... I sang for you.

So here’s something small… stupid maybe. But it’s yours.
Your first fan.
—Yuki”

He folds the letter carefully.

Takes out a tiny karaoke audition plushie keychain—a cheap but cute little thing that says “Sing your heart out!” on a felt tag stitched to its hand.

He ties the letter around the doll’s arm with string.
Looks at it. Smiles faintly.

Cheesy? Yeah. But it felt right.

I waited for the sky to lighten.
Didn’t sleep. Just sat there, watching the clock.

She always came early.
Earlier than anyone else.
Always liked the quiet before the bustle of the class.

I knew that.
Because I always came early too.
Pretending to study.
Pretending not to wait.

So just as the birds started chirping,
I slipped out of my dorm with the letter in hand.
Down the old concrete path to Building B—
Second floor, last classroom on the left.

Her desk.
Third row from the front.
Next to the window, where the morning light always landed first.

I placed the doll gently on the wooden surface.
Didn’t linger. Didn’t think.

Just turned and left, heart pounding like hell.

I didn’t sign my name.
Didn’t want credit.
Didn’t want anything back.

Just… wanted her to know
that somewhere in the crowd that day—

Someone believed in her.

Her first fan.

KEIO UNIVERSITY, MORNING

Second floor corridor. Empty. Soft golden light spills through the windows.

I waited behind the stairwell railings, just out of sight.
My heart was hammering in my chest like I’d committed a crime.

And then—
She appeared.

Sakura.

Her hair was pulled up into a loose bun.
She was wearing that same beige cardigan.
A thermos in one hand. A sketchbook tucked under her arm.

Just like always.

She stepped into the classroom, slid the door open, and walked to her seat.

I held my breath.

She paused.

Then—

Her eyes landed on it.
The tiny plushie, perched perfectly on her desk.
Its stitched tag glinting in the sunlight: “Sing your heart out!”

She tilted her head, then noticed the string.
Unwrapped it carefully.

Unfolded the letter.

And then… she smiled.

Not a big smile.
Not one of her “club leader” smiles.
Just a small, private one. Like a secret only she was allowed to have.

She read the note slowly. Twice.

And for a moment—just a second—
She looked up.

Not directly at me.

Just… toward the hallway.

Toward the light.

Toward where I was hiding, breath caught in my throat.

I ducked instinctively, heart racing.

And I knew then—
I didn’t need her to know it was me.

That smile?

That was enough.

I never told her how I felt.

People think it’s fear that keeps you silent.

But sometimes—it’s hope.
The kind that whispers,
"Not yet… just a little longer. Let me become someone worth her time."

So I stayed hidden.
Watched from afar.
Wrote poems I never shared.

Clapped the loudest during her club performances.
Took the long route home—just to pass her studio window.

I thought if I worked harder, leveled up, got cooler,
then maybe, just maybe, I could stand beside her someday.

That was my plan.
To become someone I wouldn’t hate
if she ever looked at me that way.

One year passed like that.

And then—
Just when I’d finally decided to say something—

My father got sick.

The real kind. The kind that doesn’t wait for your plans to work out.

So I vanished. Took a leave.
Packed up and moved back home.

For a month, it was just me and him.
Feeding schedules. Hospital visits. Medicines.
His quiet coughing at 3AM.

They said there wasn’t much they could do.

Stage four.
Terminal.
Just enough time to say goodbye, if we were lucky.

But my dad…
He didn’t want to go out in a hospital bed.

He looked me dead in the eyes and said,
"Yuki, if this is it—I’m not dying between white walls and beeping machines."
"I want air. I want ramen. I want to see the coast again."
"Take me somewhere, son. Anywhere."

So we left.

No plans.
Just a map, an old van, and the little bit of savings he had tucked away.

We drove from Minato to Kanazawa.
Stopped in tiny mountain towns.
Ate hot soba under falling snow.
He made me pull over on country roads just to take photos of scarecrows.

One night, we sat on a beach in Niigata, wrapped in blankets.
It was freezing, but the stars were so damn clear.
He handed me a can of warm coffee and said,
"You know, I wasn’t the best dad."
"But watching you drive like an old man today, I think I did alright."

We laughed until we cried.
Or maybe we cried until we laughed.
I’m still not sure.

His breath got weaker after that.

And one morning, somewhere near Lake Biwa—
he didn’t wake up.

Just like he wanted.
No tubes. No beeping.
Just open sky and my hand in his.

I didn’t regret giving up everything to be with him.
But when I got back…

Sakura was gone.

Graduated.
Moved on.
Like spring always does.

[PRESENT]

Yuki blinked against the sunlight. Then staring at Masaru.
His body ached. His head spun. The hangover clung to him like fog.
And then—

A hand reached out.

Soft.
Steady.
Familiar.

He looked up.

Sakura.
Older. Tired. But still her.

Hair pulled back, lips chapped—but her eyes, they were exactly the same.

She looked down at him, confused but kind.

SAKURA:
“You okay? Can you stand?”

He stared. Just for a second too long.
Then, slowly, he took her hand.

Her grip was firm. Warm.

SAKURA (gently):
“What’s your name?”

His breath caught.

Not even a flicker of recognition.

He swallowed the ache and forced a smile.

YUKI:
“…Yamada.”

SAKURA (nodding):
“I’m Sakura.”

“I know,” he thought.

But he didn’t say it.

He just stood up slowly, brushing dust off his jeans.
Didn’t correct her. Didn’t say Yamada Yuki.
Didn’t say I’m the one who left the doll on your desk.
Didn’t say You were my first love.

Not yet.

Sakura smiled faintly, offering a quiet nod, but Kaito was already watching him closely. There was something in Yamada’s movements—slow, unsure. Sweaty palms. Shallow breathing. Nothing unusual after a long night, maybe… but something wasn’t right.

And then Kaito saw it.

The mark.

A deep bite, half-healed, half-fresh—just under Yamada’s sleeve.

“…Wait.” Kaito stepped forward. “What’s that on your wrist?”

Yamada stiffened. His eyes flicked toward his arm before he quickly pulled the sleeve down.

Sakura blinked. “Did something happen?”

“It’s nothing,” Yamada said, too fast. “Just a scratch. Last night. Some drunk guy outside the bar. It’s not—”

“That’s not a damn scratch,” Kaito snapped. “Show us.”

Masaru, who had been scanning the street for danger, turned sharply at the sound of Kaito’s voice. His gaze followed Kaito’s line of sight—to Yamada’s sleeve.

“Show me your arm,” Masaru said, voice low and serious.

Yamada didn’t move at first.

Then, slowly, as if time itself had thickened, he rolled his sleeve back up.

Silence.

The bite mark was clear. Raw. Ragged. No normal wound.

Masaru took a step back. “Yamada…?”

Yamada didn't look at him.
His eyes were lowered, lips slightly parted, breathing uneven.
He was thinking. Remembering.

“…I don’t remember much,” he began softly.

Sakura, tense beside Masaru, said nothing.

Yamada slowly leaned against the glass wall of the ruined shop. His sleeve hung loose now—he made no attempt to hide the wound.

“It was last night. I was drinking—way too much, obviously.”
A dry chuckle escaped him, bitter and tired.

"Maybe… maybe a guy just fell over me and bit me—"he paused.

"—and then I just ran away," he finished in a whisper.

Masaru was silent. Watching. Measuring.

Yamada continued, “I freaked out, but I… I was already so wasted, I barely knew what was happening. Went back inside, locked myslef in a room. Found a bottle—some wine someone left behind. Drank it. A lot of it.”

He laughed again, softer now. Not happy. Not sane.
“Next thing I knew, I passed out inside. Woke up to all this crap.”

He finally looked up—directly at Masaru, then Sakura, then Kaito.

“Listen… what if—what if people like me… who’re already half-dead from alcohol—don’t turn?”

No one answered.

Sakura's expression was frozen in confusion. Kaito looked horrified. Masaru… remained unreadable.

Yamada gave a crooked, tired grin.

“…Maybe being drunk’s the antidote.”