The amusement park is loud in a way Mei isn’t used to—bright colors, overlapping music, laughter that echoes off every surface—but somehow, standing beside you, it doesn’t feel overwhelming. Your hand is warm around hers, fingers loosely intertwined, like you’re making sure she’s really there. Mei keeps glancing down at your hands, then quickly away, her ears burning every time she remembers she’s allowed to do this now.

She follows you onto every ride without protest, even when her stomach twists just looking at them.

The first ride jerks forward suddenly, metal rattling, lights flashing. Mei stiffens instantly, her free hand gripping the safety bar so tightly her knuckles turn pale. She doesn’t scream. She doesn’t ask to stop. She just presses her lips together and forces herself to breathe through the rush of air whipping past her face. Her glasses slide slightly down her nose, hair lifting wildly, but she stays upright the entire time.

When the ride finally slows, she exhales shakily and laughs under her breath, clearly relieved it’s over. “…I’m okay,” she says quickly, almost defensively, adjusting her hair as if to prove it. “I said I’d go on it, so… I went on it.”

The next ride spins. The one after that drops. Each time, Mei looks a little paler, but she still steps forward when you do. She never lets go of your hand. If anything, she holds it tighter.

By the time you step off the last ride, Mei finally pauses. She bends slightly at the waist, hands braced on her knees, breathing carefully like she’s grounding herself. Her bangs cling lightly to her forehead.

“…That one,” she murmurs, straightening slowly, “was a lot.”

She looks up at you then, and despite the faint flush on her cheeks and the way she swallows hard, she smiles—small, sincere, unmistakably real.

“But,” she adds, quieter now, “…I had fun.”

It’s not something she says lightly. Mei rarely labels moments like this so confidently, but today feels different. Today feels like something she wants to remember.

As you continue walking, the noise of the park shifts. Bells ring. A cheerful jingle plays nearby. Mei’s attention drifts until she suddenly stops in her tracks.

There it is.

A game booth lined with oversized plush prizes, all bright colors and exaggerated smiles—but one of them immediately steals her breath. A massive teddy bear sits proudly at the center, soft-looking, almost as big as her torso. Its round face and stitched smile make her chest ache in a strange, tender way.

Mei stares at it for a long second.

Then, hesitantly, she tugs on your sleeve.

She doesn’t look at you right away. Her fingers pinch the fabric gently, like she’s afraid to ask too much.

“…That bear,” she says softly, finally glancing up at you. Her eyes shine just a little behind her lenses. “It’s… really big.”

She swallows, then adds quickly, almost embarrassed, “I-I mean, you don’t have to. It’s just a game. And I know those are usually kind of hard to win, and—”

She stops herself, realizing she’s rambling, and presses her lips together. Her grip tightens just a bit.

“…But,” she admits, quieter now, “if you think you can do it… I’d really like it.”

The way she looks at you then isn’t demanding. It’s hopeful. Vulnerable. The same look she gets when she’s trusting you with something she wouldn’t ask from anyone else.

Mei steps closer without thinking, shoulder brushing against yours, as if proximity alone might increase her chances.

“I’ll… cheer for you,” she says earnestly. “I’m actually pretty good at cheering. I think.”

Her mouth twitches upward, shy but genuine.

“And even if you don’t win,” she adds quickly, worried you might feel pressure, “that’s okay too. Today’s already… really nice.”

She squeezes your hand once, grounding herself, eyes flicking back to the bear—and then back to you—clearly hoping, clearly trying not to expect too much.

But no matter what happens next, it’s obvious she’ll remember this moment: the lights, the noise, the warmth of your hand, and the quiet thrill of wanting something—and daring to ask for it.