Kumi moved through the crowd, weaving carefully between groups of students.
The gymnasium was already packed.
Voices overlapped. Laughter echoed. Anticipation hung thick in the air.
She stepped inside, glancing toward the stage.
So this is the place.
She had heard about the light band.
Popular.
Talented.
Worth watching.
…
She should have come with Rikka.
Her only friend.
But Rikka had collapsed into a fever right after the second day of the festival.
Too much energy spent.
Too much excitement.
Kumi understood that feeling.
She was exhausted too.
After all—
She had been dragged into the Marriage Booth five times in two days.
The maximum limit.
Saved only by the rules.
She exhaled quietly.
"I don't even remember who they paired me with…"
She never looked.
Never cared to.
Just endured it.
Though—
The dress had been nice.
Soft.
Elegant.
For a brief second, a thought slipped through
—
Maybe someday…
She would wear something like that again.
For real.
With someone she actually—
…
Kumi blinked.
Her steps slowed.
"…What am I even thinking?"
A faint frown formed.
She didn't understand that kind of thing.
Never had.
People talked about crushes.
About liking someone.
About feeling something.
But to her—
It was all distant.
Abstract.
Like trying to understand a language she had never learned.
She sighed softly.
"…I guess I'm just not built for that."
And with that, she let it go.
Or tried to.
…
The crowd below grew thicker.
Too noisy.
Too close.
Kumi glanced upward.
The second floor.
Storage area.
Less crowded.
Better view.
Perfect.
She climbed up, settling into a quiet spot among stacked equipment, overlooking the stage.
From here—
She could see everything.
…
The lights dimmed.
A shift.
The noise softened into anticipation.
"Next up—the Light Band!"
Applause erupted.
Then—
Light flooded the stage.
And Kumi's gaze—
Stopped.
Locked.
There.
At the center of the rhythm.
A girl.
Black hair.
Wearing a loose black long-sleeved polo, sleeves pushed up to her elbows.
Her collarbones caught the light, a gold star pendant resting just above them.
Simple.
Yet—
Striking.
Her shorts and belt framed her figure naturally.
Nothing excessive.
Nothing forced.
And yet—
Kumi couldn't look away.
…
The music started.
A sharp beat—
Then another—
Then rhythm.
Drums.
Strong.
Precise.
Unyielding.
Each strike echoed through the gym—
And somehow—
Through her.
Kumi's breath hitched slightly.
Her heartbeat—
Matched it.
Beat for beat.
Her fingers curled faintly at her sides.
What is this…?
A strange sensation pulled at her stomach.
Tight.
Unfamiliar.
Was she hungry?
No—
That wasn't it.
Then what—
She didn't understand.
Didn't have the words for it.
But she couldn't move.
Didn't want to.
…
The girl didn't smile.
Not once.
Her expression remained calm.
Blank.
Focused.
And somehow—
That made it harder to look away.
More captivating.
More—
Real.
…
Time slipped.
Song after song.
Beat after beat.
And Kumi stayed there—
Watching.
Listening.
Feeling something she couldn't name.
…
Then—
The lights shifted.
The performance ended.
The noise returned all at once.
Loud.
Overwhelming.
…
Kumi stood.
Or tried to.
Her knees gave way slightly.
She dropped back down, catching herself.
Her hands—
Cold.
Her chest—
Unsteady.
"…I think I caught Rikka's virus…"
The words came out quietly.
Unconvincing.
Even to herself.
…
Because deep down—
She knew.
This wasn't a fever.
...
Days later..
The soft hum of computers filled the shop.
Screens flickered in dim rows, the faint clicking of keyboards mixing with the occasional page turn.
Rikka sat hunched over a monitor, completely absorbed in her game. Rapid clicks, focused eyes, zero awareness of the world around her.
Beside her—
Kumi sat cross-legged on the cushioned floor, a manga open in her hands.
Romance.
Her favorite.
Or at least—
Something she kept reading.
Even if she didn't fully understand why.
…
A panel.
Confession scene.
Blushing.
Heart racing.
"I like you."
Kumi's eyes lingered on the page.
Then—
Slowly—
She closed the book.
"…Say, Rikka."
No response.
Click. Click. Click.
"…Rikka."
"Mm."
Still not looking.
"How do you know you like someone?"
—
The clicking stopped.
Silence.
Rikka slowly turned her head.
And gave her a completely flat, dead-fish stare.
…
Kumi blinked.
"…What?"
"You," Rikka said, voice dry, "are asking me that?"
A beat.
Then she leaned back in her chair.
"You picked the worst possible source of knowledge."
Kumi frowned slightly. "Why?"
Rikka pointed at herself.
"I spend 80% of my life here," she said, gesturing at the computer. "The other 20% is sleeping."
A pause.
"I don't even like real people."
…
Kumi considered that.
"…That explains a lot."
"Exactly."
Rikka turned back to her screen, already clicking again.
"If you want answers, go ask Google."
"Or better yet," she added, "ask one of those couples who keep making out behind the manga shelves."
Kumi's brows furrowed.
"I'm not asking them."
"Then suffer in confusion."
…
Kumi looked back down at her manga.
The confession panel stared back at her.
Heart racing.
Blushing.
Overwhelming feelings.
…
She pressed a hand lightly against her chest.
Nothing.
Then—
A pause.
A memory.
Drums.
A steady beat.
Black hair under stage lights.
That strange pull in her stomach.
Her fingers tightened slightly on the page.
"…That's not it either."
"Hmm?" Rikka muttered, not really listening.
Kumi shook her head.
"Nothing."
She flipped the page.
But this time—
She wasn't reading.