Love.
A grand, sacred word, exhaustively explored by poets and scholars through the ages. It's the heartbreak under a crimson rose, a fervent kiss beneath shimmering auroras, the sacrifice of chance encounters, the vigil by boundless tides.
Love captivates all—retired grandpas in sandals fanning themselves, self-assured business elites. At work breaks or post-dinner chats, it's an evergreen topic.
Long-lost relatives or quiet friends, meeting after years, break the ice with, "Got a girlfriend yet?"
Traditional elders treat it as an epic quest, keenly tracking their kids' romantic progress.
Lonely souls, deeming life unworthy, find solace in novels or dramas, yearning for a true, soulful bond, posting wistful musings like, "Sun shines, breeze cools—where is she?"
No human escapes love.
Maybe you're iron-hearted, seeing through worldly desires, your mind as still as a saint's, as detached as a monk's.
But come holidays, mortals unite in a frenzy—clasped hands in close-ups, couple selfies, tooth-achingly sappy posts flooding your social feeds, worthless yet viral.
Takizawa once sighed over this, wracking his brain.
He'd splurged on dates, chewed through plastic forks pre-confession. Life's weathering had since blown those naive worries away.
Today, he still believed in love…
Just not that it'd happen to him.
But miracles and magic are unpredictable.
A sudden encounter, unheralded, caught him off-guard. Just washing his hair led to this fated meeting.
His heart hadn't skipped like this in ages. It was like being a clumsy, pure teen again—wanting to be her deskmate, stealing glances at her focused profile in class, leaning close over homework, catching her shampoo's faint scent.
The wedding could be traditional or Western. White kimono or gown—she'd dazzle in either.
A house in Shizuoka, Fuji in view. Evenings spent arm-in-arm, watching the sunset paint the sacred peak orange and white.
Boy or girl, no pressure for talents or classes. Monthly visits to her parents—playing shogi with her dad, chopping veggies with her mom.
A spacious car, of course, for cherry-blossom picnics. A white Labrador as a pet.
In his mind, their family lived joyfully for twenty years.
Then, a cataclysm—family shattered, dreams dust.
"Sakura-chan's… mom?" Takizawa's lips quivered.
"Yup," Shinobu said.
"But, Sakura-san, you look so young."
"I married in college," She chuckled, reminiscing fondly.
"W-Well, congrats, happy marriage."
"Fourteen years late, but I'll take it," She smiled warmly.
"You look nice today, too," Takizawa said to Sakura, voice flat, polite.
Hours of prep for that? Sakura wanted to argue but, with her mom present, just glared and muttered, "You look fine, too."
"Your taste is… meh," Takizawa shook his head. "So un-stylish. Bet Sakura-san picked that elegant outfit."
Sakura forced a smile, grinding her teeth.
"Takizawa-kun, right?" Shinobu eyed him curiously.
"You know me?"
"Your name pops up a lot at home," Shinobu said, smiling. "Ayane mentions working on scripts, eating at colleagues' places, shopping together."
"Just friends," Takizawa shrugged.
"Repeating a name's rare, though," Shinobu paused, poised. "You're a college student?"
"Yup."
"Don't most college guys avoid high school freshmen? No gap?"
"Nah, we get along great. Sakura-chan's got a vibrant soul, unique views on life and society, well-mannered, clearly well-raised, kind, forgiving, facing the world with a brave smile," Takizawa praised generously—her kid, after all.
"That deep already?" Shinobu grinned. "What do you talk about?"
"Usual stuff—good TV shows, tasty restaurants, griping about rain on commutes, new brand price hikes."
"Sounds normal."
"Some weird bits, too. Like shouting chuuni attack names at crows, getting chased. Waving at a charging dog, only for it to ignore her and leap to its real owner—she crouched, pretending to tie her shoe. Or claiming she's a gaming pro, then getting crushed in arcade battles."
"You promised not to tell!" Sakura, silent till now, snapped.
"Sakura-san's not 'others.' Besides, that's not the one I swore to keep—when you sneezed mid-meal, spraying my leg with rice and soup…"
"You're no saint! Acting serious, but hiding swimsuit mags in your bag!" Sakura fired back, exposing him.
"I'm open about it," Takizawa puffed his chest proudly.
Sakura bared her teeth, ready to brawl.
"Closer than I thought," Shinobu said, surprised by her daughter's fire.
"Say, Sakura-san, any sisters?" Takizawa asked, suddenly shy.
"Like Ayane, I'm an only child."
"Oh…" Takizawa deflated.
"Why the curiosity?" Sakura frowned, sensing something off.
"I'm worried about Japan's low birth rates," Takizawa said gravely. "Society's low-desire vibe drags the economy, happiness plummets, laughter fades—I'm concerned."
"Mature for your dreaming age," Shinobu nodded approvingly. "Future goals?"
"Haven't thought that far. Stabilize life first."
"No grand visions? A pragmatist. Ayane's different—she wanted to be an illustrator."
"She had dreams?" Takizawa blinked.
"Hmph!" Sakura glared, radiating menace.
"I mean, such an artsy dream. Why 'wanted'? Changed?" Takizawa coughed.
"She said the field's packed with unimaginable talent and bailed," Shinobu teased.
"I didn't bail… I just saw the truth," Sakura mumbled.
"With your personality, running's rare. But fear's normal in a genius-packed field," Takizawa mused.
"Tch, acting all high and mighty," Sakura scoffed.
"I'm no slouch—back-to-back crayon art champ, Pictionary encouragement award, OOCA art contest participation medal. They call me the semi-realist Leonardo," Takizawa flicked his bangs.
"Ugh," Sakura gagged.
"Surprisingly witty. I thought you'd be more earnest," Shinobu laughed. "Shine on stage—I'll be cheering below!"
"Can't let you down," Takizawa said, tapping mental archives of comedy routines. "Sakura-chan, you're nervous?"
"Who said that? I'm chill and confident," She smirked.
Ten minutes later, on standby for the stage, Takizawa glanced at the trembling, stiff-faced girl beside him.
Best not to poke the bear.
***
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