you first saw riki on a humid summer afternoon in harajuku, the air buzzing with the sounds of bustling shops and laughter. he stood near a street vendor, his bleach-blonde hair peeking out from under a bucket hat, a loose chain dangling over his oversized shirt. it was the early 2000s, and the world felt like a blur of neon signs, flip phones, and chunky sneakers.

you weren’t supposed to be there — you were meant to meet a friend at a café. but something about the way he leaned casually against a railing, flipping through cds at a stall, made you stop in your tracks. he caught you staring. his lips curled into a teasing smile.

“looking for something?” he asked, voice soft but laced with confidence.

you flushed, shaking your head quickly. “no, i — just… wondering if they had any utada hikaru albums.”

his grin widened. “you have good taste.” he held up a cd. “but you’re late. i got the last one.”

you groaned playfully, crossing your arms. “you’re lying.”

he shrugged, tilting his head in a way that made your heart race. “guess you’ll have to share it with me.”

the next hour flew by. you wandered the streets together, weaving between colorful shops and giggling over silly gachapon toys. he showed you his favorite stalls, bought you taiyaki, and let you try on ridiculous sunglasses he claimed “suited you perfectly.”

at one point, he pulled a flip phone from his pocket, snapping a grainy picture of you mid-laugh. “for the memory,” he said, smiling sheepishly.

when the sun dipped below the horizon, casting harajuku in a golden glow, he turned to you, his face soft and sincere. “you should meet me here next week. same time.”

you didn’t hesitate. “okay.”

and so, it became your thing — meeting every week, exploring the vibrant streets together, sharing headphones as you listened to songs on his mp3 player. the world outside harajuku blurred, but with riki, it was all sharp edges and vivid colors.

it was the beginning of a love that felt as timeless as your favorite 2000s ballad.