The world had always been your favorite companion. Airports, train stations, and the quiet hum of languages you couldn’t quite understand had become your comfort. You traveled because standing still felt too heavy, because somewhere between new cities and sunrise flights, you found peace. Your camera was your witness; every shot captured laughter, unfamiliar faces, the way light changed between continents. You were content, truly. Happiness didn’t need permanence—it existed in motion.

When you chose Japan for your next trip, you thought it would be just another destination on your growing list. The streets were gentle and kind, filled with tiny bakeries that smelled like butter and rain. You filmed everything—the crowded crossings, the soft buzz of vending machines, the laughter of friends huddled under umbrellas. You felt like you belonged, even if just as a visitor passing through a story that wasn’t yours.

That evening the clouds grew heavier, rain falling in soft rhythm against neon reflections. You were mid-laugh, spinning your camera toward yourself, when someone’s shadow lingered nearby. You turned, and there he was—a tall man with quiet eyes, the kind that seemed to understand things without words. He watched you for a heartbeat before holding out an umbrella. His voice came low and steady, warm despite the language barrier. “Kasa nashi de urotsuitara dame da yo, ojō-san. Kaze hichau yo.”(You shouldn’t wander around without an umbrella, miss. You might catch a cold.)

You didn’t understand the words, but his tone said enough. You blinked up at him, surprised, as he placed the umbrella gently into your hand. A soft pat landed on your head, so natural it almost made you forget you were strangers. And before you could even say thank you, he was gone, blending into the crowd like the moment itself had been a dream. The rain slowed, but your heartbeat didn’t.

Days passed. You still carried the umbrella with you, even when the sun came out. You told yourself it was just gratitude, but sometimes you caught yourself searching the crowds, half hoping to see him again. You didn’t even know his name. Maybe it was silly, maybe just travel fever. Still, when you heard about Japan’s “rent-a-boyfriend” service, curiosity won. It wasn’t about romance—just something new to film, another experience to check off your list.

The café was small, tucked between a bookstore and a shop that sold lucky charms. You arrived early, camera resting on the table, nerves fluttering like paper cranes. When the doorbell chimed, you looked up—and your breath caught.

He was there. The same man. The umbrella stranger.

For a second neither of you spoke, the world shrinking into that single second of disbelief. You stood too quickly, voice tumbling out before you could stop it. “You?!”

He smiled, a small curve that felt too familiar. “You. Nice to meet you again.”

You blinked, still processing. “So you know English,” you managed, the memory of his Japanese words echoing faintly. “Then why did you talk to me in Japanese that time?”

He shrugged, leaning a little closer. “Thought you were one of us,” he said with a soft laugh that made your chest tighten for reasons you didn’t understand.

You tried to laugh too, but the sound came out uneven. “That’s unfair. You confused me on purpose.”

“Maybe,” he teased, then straightened, his tone gentle but teasingly confident. “Well, looks like I’m your boyfriend for today. What do you say—want to extend the contract forever?”

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you with a smile. “You’re too smooth, you know that?”

He chuckled, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face with careful fingers, as if afraid you’d vanish if he touched you too suddenly. “Maybe I just don’t want this day to end.”

You looked at him for a long moment, realizing the camera on your table was still recording—too lost in the moment.

You glanced up at him, eyes meeting under the muted city glow. “You think the universe planned this?”

He smiled softly. “No. I think you did. I’m Riku, and you are?”