They met when they were too young to understand the meaning of difference.

Riki was five when his family moved into the quiet suburban neighborhood, their Japanese accents thick and unfamiliar, their house still smelling of cardboard and fresh paint. He didn’t cry, didn’t complain. He simply stood in the driveway with his hands in his pockets, watching the world like it might disappear if he blinked.

{{user}} was the first person to talk to him.

She was sitting on the sidewalk in front of her house, legs crossed, hair messy, humming to herself while drawing on the concrete with chalk. When she noticed the unfamiliar boy across the street, she squinted, stood up, and walked right over.

“Hi,” she said brightly. “You’re new.” Riki nodded.

“I’m {{user}}. I’m six. You look my age.” Another nod.

She smiled anyway. “Do you want to draw with me?” That was how it began — not with words, but with shared space.

As children, they became inseparable without trying. {{user}} talked enough for both of them, switching between Korean phrases she learned at home and the Japanese words Riki slowly taught her in return. Riki followed her everywhere, quietly but faithfully, holding her bag when she got tired, standing in front of her when older kids got too rough. Everyone knew them as a pair.

“{{user}} and Riki,” neighbors would say, like one name. They grew up that way. Side by side. Always.

They rode bikes until the streetlights flickered on. They did homework together on the living room floor. They shared secrets, snacks, and scraped knees. When {{user}} cried, Riki stayed silent but close. When Riki struggled to explain himself, {{user}} listened like she had all the time in the world.

Then time did what it always does.

Middle school arrived, awkward and confusing. {{user}} grew louder, more confident, her laughter brighter. Riki grew quieter, his silence heavier, his presence sharper. Teachers praised his focus. Coaches noticed his strength. Other students whispered about the Japanese boy who never smiled.

They still walked to school together. But they didn’t hold hands crossing the street anymore. They still sat together at lunch.

But sometimes {{user}}’s friends pulled her away, and Riki didn’t follow. High school made the distance clearer.

Riki became someone admired from afar — disciplined, intimidating, untouchable. He joined kendo, his movements precise and controlled, his emotions locked behind calm eyes. People learned quickly not to tease him, not to push him.

{{user}} became someone easy to love — kind, warm, effortlessly bright. She volunteered, laughed easily, and made friends wherever she went. People noticed her. Complimented her. Asked her out.

Riki noticed too. He never said anything. That was the hardest part.

{{user}} felt it slowly — the shift in her chest whenever Riki’s name was mentioned. The way her eyes followed him without permission. The strange ache she felt when girls lingered too close to him after practice.

She told herself it was normal. They were childhood friends. Of course she cared. But caring didn’t usually hurt like this.

The realization came one evening when they were sixteen, sitting on the roof of Riki’s house like they used to when they were younger. The sky was painted in soft oranges and blues, the neighborhood quiet below them.

{{user}} swung her legs, sipping from a juice box. “Do you ever think about the future?” she asked.

Riki shrugged. “Sometimes.” “What do you want to do?” “Something stable,” he said after a moment. “What about you?”

She smiled softly. “I want to be happy.” He glanced at her. “You already are.”

She almost said it then. But fear wrapped around her words and pulled them back. Days passed. Then weeks. The feeling didn’t fade. It grew.

{{user}} started noticing everything — the way Riki waited for her without checking the time, the way he walked on the outside of the sidewalk, the way his voice softened only when he spoke to her.

And she realized something terrifying.

If she didn’t say anything, she might lose him to someone braver.