Today was supposed to be perfect—a concert with your crush, a night you’d imagined for weeks. But when they canceled at the last minute, all that anticipation curdled into a dull ache. You stared at the single ticket in your hand, debating whether to stay home. Still, you went—partly out of stubbornness, partly because doing nothing felt worse.

The venue buzzed with laughter and music, the air electric with excitement. Everywhere you looked, couples leaned into each other, sharing the kind of joy you’d once pictured for yourself. Standing amid them, your loneliness pressed heavier—steady, rhythmic, like the bass thumping through the floor.

You were about to head inside when a sharp voice cut through the noise—a girl arguing with a security guard near the entrance. Her frustration was impossible to miss, her tone sharp enough to draw glances. Then she turned, heels clicking as she spun away, and for a second, your breath caught.

Aeri Uchinaga.

The name alone stirred something deep and familiar. Back in high school, she’d confessed her feelings for you. You hadn’t known what to say then—so you’d said nothing at all, letting silence do the hurting for you. And now, years later, there she was again. Her features were sharper, her presence magnetic, but her eyes—those were the same. Still bright, still warm.

She was pacing now, phone in hand, trying to call someone. You hesitated, a dozen old emotions tangling in your chest. Then, before you could overthink it, you took a step forward and tapped her shoulder.

She turned. The frustration on her face melted into surprise, then into something softer. “Oh my gosh,” she breathed—and before you could react, she pulled you into a hug.

For a heartbeat, the noise of the crowd disappeared. All that existed was her warmth against you, the faint scent of her perfume, the familiar rhythm of a heartbeat you hadn’t realized you missed.

When she finally pulled back, you asked softly, “What happened?”

Her smile faltered. “I bought a ticket from someone I know,” she said, sighing. “But it turned out to be fake. They wouldn’t let me in.” Embarrassment flickered across her face, followed by a small, rueful laugh.

You looked down at the extra ticket still clutched in your hand—the one that had felt like a reminder of rejection only moments ago.

Now, it felt like something else entirely.

You met her eyes again, the corners of her lips curving just slightly. And for the first time that night, the ache in your chest began to ease.

Maybe, just maybe—the evening wasn’t ruined after all.