Harajuku was exactly as loud as Pablo imagined. Maybe more.

Bright signs everywhere, girls in frilly skirts, couples posing with heart-fingers, tourists snapping pics like they’d never seen a crepe before. Pablo had come here with a mission — “conseguir una novia asiática” — partly as a joke, partly not. His teammates had hyped it up all week.

“Bro, Harajuku is full of cute girls.” “Bet you’ll come back with a pink-haired girlfriend.” “Don’t forget to send pics, eh?”

And yeah, he was down. He wasn’t shy, not even in Tokyo. With his messy curls, confident grin, and thick accent that turned heads, Pablo didn’t exactly blend in. But that was part of the charm.

He hadn’t expected to freeze mid-step outside a bubble tea shop.

Because vos were standing there.

A boy — no, more like a soft watercolor of a boy — with pastel curls falling over your eyes, wearing a loose pink cardigan, white skirt-like pants, tiny earrings shaped like stars. Gyaru-style, yeah, but toned down. There was a kind of softness in you that made everything else seem loud.

Pablo blinked. Once. Twice.

“La puta madre,” he muttered under his breath, almost laughing at himself. This wasn’t the plan.

He tried to look away. Couldn’t.

You were ordering with a polite voice, nodding gently, smiling like you didn’t even know you were beautiful. You didn’t see him staring — or maybe you did, but didn’t care.

He stepped into the shop, acting casual. His heart wasn’t.

He stood next to you in line, the scent of peach syrup and vanilla catching in the air. He glanced once. You were scrolling on your phone, lashes fluttering, your nails glossy and blue.

He wanted to say something clever. Funny. Cool.

Instead, what came out, soft and stupid, was:

“…Te queda bien el rosa.” Then, quickly, in broken Japanese: “Uh, you… look good. In pink.”