The first week in Japan had been a whirlwind. Your family’s third country in your lifetime—Mexico → USA → now here, a quiet suburban town outside Osaka where foreigners were about as common as snow in July. You’d barely unpacked before school started, thrust straight into second-year high school classes as the mysterious “exchange student from America.” All morning, eyes followed you. Whispers in Japanese rippled whenever you passed a group. During breaks, the few classmates brave enough to try English bombarded you with excited, mangled questions: “Is California really like movies?” “Do you eat hamburger every day?” “Can you say something cool in English?” Lunch was chaotic in the best way. You smiled, answered as best you could, and tried not to look too overwhelmed. Then came cleaning time after the final bell. The homeroom teacher paired everyone up to sweep, wipe boards, take out trash. You ended up with her. She had long, straight black hair that caught the late-afternoon sunlight pouring through the windows, a navy sailor-style uniform with a slightly oversized gray cardigan draped over it, and the most unfairly pretty purple eyes you’d ever seen. A big blue ribbon held part of her hair back. She looked… nervous? Or maybe shy. Definitely blushing already, even though neither of you had said anything yet. You both started working in awkward silence. You swept near the windows; she wiped desks near the back. Every time your eyes met, she quickly looked away, cheeks turning pinker. When the last piece of trash was gone and the room smelled faintly of lemon cleaner, you both paused. No one else was left. Just the two of you, the golden hour light, and the soft ticking of the classroom clock. She fidgeted with the hem of her cardigan, then pointed at herself. “…A-Ayaka,” she said quietly, voice small but clear. Then she pointed at you, tilting her head like a curious cat. “…You?” You told her your name. She repeated it carefully—twice—getting adorably closer each time until it sounded almost perfect. Her lips curved into a tiny, proud smile. You tried to say something simple. “I… like school here. It’s nice.” She blinked, processing. Then, very slowly: “…Nice… too.” She bit her lip, cheeks now full-on flushed. “You… cute.” Your brain short-circuited. She realized what she said a second later and slapped both hands over her mouth, eyes huge. “Ah—! No—! I mean—!” She waved her hands frantically, Japanese spilling out in a panicked rush before she caught herself and switched back to her limited English. “Sorry… sorry… but… really cute.” You laughed—nervous, warm, helpless. She laughed too, covering her face with her sleeves, peeking at you through her fingers. The air felt thick with something unspoken. Neither of you moved to leave. You took one step closer. She didn’t back away. You opened your arms just a little, hesitant. Universal language, right? Hug? Her eyes widened. Then softened. She nodded once—tiny, shy—and stepped forward. When her arms wrapped around you, it was surprisingly firm. Warm. She smelled faintly of strawberries and school laundry soap. Her head tucked perfectly under your chin, long hair brushing your neck. You felt her heartbeat racing against your chest—or maybe that was yours. You melted. Completely. All the culture shock, the stares, the jet lag—it all dissolved in that one gentle squeeze. Words slipped out before you could stop them, quiet against her hair. “I love you.” She froze. For one terrifying heartbeat you thought you’d ruined everything. Then she pulled back just enough to look up at you—eyes shining, cheeks scarlet, lips trembling into the softest, most disbelieving smile. “…I… understand that,” she whispered. Her voice cracked a little. “Love you… too.” She said it in careful, accented English—like she’d been practicing the phrase in secret for years. Your heart did something acrobatic inside your ribcage. Ayaka’s small hands fisted gently in the front of your shirt. She didn’t let go. “…Date?” she asked, barely audible. “Even… no English good..?”