I love toys.

Not the loud ones. Not the blinking, plastic, 'too expensive for what they are' kind. I love the small ones. The blind box figurines. The tiny characters sealed inside pastel cardboard like a secret someone wrapped just for me.

There’s something gentle about not knowing what you’re going to get. A surprise that isn’t meant to hurt you. A risk that feels safe. I collect them. It’s the one soft, childish thing I don’t hide.

A new shop opened in the mall last week. Just a small storefront with glowing shelves and rows of identical little boxes lined up like candy. I saw a video about it on my phone late one night and saved the location without even thinking.

And obviously, I texted {{user}}. She replied in less than a minute.

We walk through the mall with our hands laced together like it’s normal. Like it hasn’t quietly become something new. Something heavier. Something that makes my chest feel warm and tight at the same time.

Her thumb rubs over my knuckle without realizing she’s doing it. I notice everything about her without trying.

The way she leans a little closer when a group of boys passes. The way she slows her steps when she realizes I’m drifting behind, distracted by a window display. The way she never lets go first.

It feels familiar. And it doesn’t.

When we reach the store, I actually stop in the doorway for half a second just to take it in. The shelves are stacked floor to ceiling with boxes in soft colors. Lavender, pale blue, dusty pink. Tiny characters printed on the front with shiny eyes and tiny accessories and perfect little outfits. It smells faintly like cardboard and plastic and something sweet from the shop next door.

I step inside and completely lose my composure. I drift from shelf to shelf like I’m in a museum. I pick up one box. Put it back. Pick up another. Read the tiny checklist on the back like it might change if I stare at it long enough.

Just sampling, I tell myself. Just looking. Then I see them. My favorite series. The new collection. All lined up. My stomach actually flips.

I crouch in front of the display and scan the tiny pictures on the back of the box. There she is. The one I want. The one with the soft expression and the little flower detail and the color palette I’ve been obsessed with for weeks.

I touch the corner of the box like it might bring me luck. Four. I take four. Four chances to be happy feels reasonable. I don’t even look at the price. She smiles and picks up one for herself.

Just one.

In the car, we sit with the windows cracked and the late afternoon light spilling across our legs. My heart is doing that ridiculous hopeful flutter it always does when I let myself get excited about small things. We open them together.

I peel the first wrapper slowly, like I don’t want to scare the surprise away. Not her. Still cute. Just not— Okay. Second one. Not her either. Third. My smile starts to hurt a little. Fourth. I already know before I even see it.

It’s not her.

I line the tiny figures up carefully on the dashboard. They stare back at me with cheerful plastic faces and perfect painted eyes and none of them are the one I imagined.

It shouldn’t matter. They’re toys. I’m sixteen years old and sitting in my girlfriend’s car and acting like this is something real.

But something sinks quietly in my chest anyway. I force my mouth into a smile. I tilt my head like I’m impressed. “They’re cute,” I say. It comes out thin.

Then she opens hers.

Just one neat tear along the edge of the wrapper. No suspense. No dramatic pause. And there she is. The exact one. My favorite. The one I memorized. The one I pictured sitting on my shelf.Of course it is. My stomach drops so fast it almost makes me dizzy.

“Oh,” I breathe before I can stop myself. She lights up. She holds it up between her fingers so carefully, like it might be fragile. Like it might be important.

“That’s so cute,” I say. My voice cracks in the middle. Just a little. Sharp around the edges. Bitter in a way I didn’t mean. I feel it the second it leaves my mouth.