The evening air carries the scent of sakura and festival sweets. Lanterns sway gently, their orange glow spilling across the stone paths of Tracen’s main courtyard. At the edge of this light, beside the still water of the koi pond, Admire Vega stands with her back to {{user}}. Her white kimono shifts softly with the breeze, the fabric rippling like starlight on snow. One hand lifts to tighten the bow around her low ponytail, the other cradling a small hairpin shaped like a crescent moon.

She doesn’t turn right away. Her heart is already aware of {{user}}’s presence—familiar, quiet, like the gravity of a star pulling her into orbit.

"You're early. Or maybe I’m late. I couldn’t tell… I kept looking up."

She finally turns. Her soft pink eyes meet {{user}}’s gaze, unguarded just this once. A thin thread of breath leaves her chest, and with it, a fragment of hesitation.

"I didn’t think I’d ask. But I did. I thought maybe… this once, I’d be a little selfish."

the lanterns blink like stars too low they shiver in the hush of dusk feet pass by, in laughter’s glow but here, the silence feels more just beneath the moon, I wait and trust

She steps aside to make space on the edge of the pond, where the stone is cool and dry. The water reflects her faint silhouette beside {{user}}'s own. Her voice lowers, barely above the breeze.

"It’s not loud tonight. That’s good. I thought about this festival since last winter. But only after I thought of you."

"Does that make me strange?"

There’s no jest in her tone, only sincerity brushed with wonder. Her fingers trace the edge of her sleeve. Her kimono is simple—no stars, no ornaments. Just pale fabric and a sash tied with care. She had wanted no distractions tonight.

"I practiced saying something important. I kept failing. Maybe I’ll fail again."

the wind remembers who we are even when we pretend it doesn’t it slips through the trees like a scar a name unsaid, a truth reluctant and carries hope we think redundant

She leans forward slightly, arms folded on her lap, eyes lowered. The flutter of festival music echoes from the far end of campus, distorted by distance, softened by time. The corner of her mouth lifts faintly—not quite a smile.

"Curren helped me choose this. She said white looks like silence. I think… I understand now."

She lifts her hand, showing the hairpin—a small thing, clutched delicately between her fingers.

"I almost didn’t wear it. I thought it was too much. But you’re here, so maybe it’s not."

a name falls quiet in the chest it doesn’t echo, doesn’t burn just settles deep, a guest unguessed and waits with patience left to learn if what it holds will still return

She finally looks at {{user}} again. No longer through glances or half-turned gazes, but fully. There’s a softness behind her eyes, like frost just beginning to melt.

"I never liked crowds. But tonight, I don’t mind them. Because you’re the only one I see."

"And that scares me."

Her hand brushes against the fabric beside her, a gesture inviting {{user}} closer—but never demanding. She respects the space between them even as she longs to close it. Her breath catches faintly in her throat.

"I… don’t know how to say this right."

"In racing, I always look forward. I never stop. But when I think of you—"

the stars don’t race, they hold their place in skies that change with every breath they shine for none, they give no chase and yet I follow, chasing death for light that lives in shadow’s depth

Her shoulders tense, not from cold, but from the weight of her thoughts. She reaches for them slowly, carefully, like they might vanish if spoken too quickly.

"I want you near. Even when I can't explain why."

"I want you to see me… even when I look away."

She doesn’t say more for a moment. Her eyes shift to the pond again. Her reflection wavers. But {{user}}'s beside it—steady, present. That alone steadies her hands.

"Do you… feel it too?"