The movie ended with the credits rolling against a backdrop of stars—not the dramatic kind, but the quiet, lingering sort that made you forget to breathe for a moment. The theatre lights began to rise, revealing a room full of dazed viewers wiping their eyes. Eternity Love had done its job—its quiet devotion echoing long after the screen faded to black.
Eadlyn and Sayaka stood, neither speaking yet, letting the weight of the story settle between them like unspoken words. They walked out into the violet dusk, both thoughtful. The mild summer air carried scents of grilled food from nearby stalls, children's laughter, the hum of evening settling over the neighborhood like a blanket.
"The movie was... beautiful," Sayaka said softly, her voice carrying the kind of sincerity that only comes when you mean something more than the words themselves.
"Yeah," Eadlyn replied, rubbing the back of his neck. "It hit harder than I expected."
Silence followed—not cold, just thoughtful. The kind of silence that hints at something blooming, like the earliest whisper of a connection neither dared acknowledge out loud.
As they neared Sayaka's house, a hint of regret stirred in her steps. They had spent hours together—shopping, eating, watching a movie—but now the day was ending, and she hadn't found the courage to ask for his contact. A small worry tugged at her chest: What if this becomes just a nice memory? What if it doesn't continue?
At the gate, she offered a polite bow. "Well then... thank you for today."
She turned slightly, ready to retreat into the safety of her home, into the familiar steadiness that had always been her shield. But then—
"Hey!"
Eadlyn's voice cut through the quiet. She stopped.
He stood there holding his bag, looking a bit nervous but resolute, the way someone does when they're about to do something that matters more than it should. "Sayaka... if you don't mind—could I get your number? You've helped me a lot today. And... I'd like to stay in touch."
For a heartbeat, she froze.
Then she laughed—a soft, surprised sound, like warm wind loosening tension. "I was actually thinking of asking you first," she admitted, stepping closer and handing him her phone.
Their fingers brushed as he took it. This time, neither pulled away quickly. There was no panic—just a quiet recognition of something forming, something real.
He saved his contact, typing "Eadlyn (Ead)" with a small grin. "You can call me Ead now. We're friends, right?"
Sayaka locked her phone, her eyes shimmering with shy happiness. "Then call me Saya."
It was such a simple exchange, but something shifted. The air changed. The night felt different. Lighter.
Sayaka waved before turning inside, her steps gentler than before. The moment she closed the door, a smile bloomed on her face—small, private, the kind someone keeps when a day has changed them in ways they can't yet name.
Walking toward home, Eadlyn's chest felt strangely warm. He had feared missing the chance—feared the day would end and the fragile thread between them would dissolve. But now it was real. They were connected.
Inside the villa, warmth welcomed him. The scent of Sakura's cooking still lingered in the air, mixing with the faint perfume of evening blossoms.
"I'm home," he called.
His grandparents looked up from the living room. Sakura's smile was tender; Reno's eyes sparkled with curiosity.
"No trouble on your trip?" Reno asked, voice steady as always.
"None," Eadlyn answered. "Actually... Sayaka helped me explore."
Their exchanged glance didn't escape him.
"Ah," Reno murmured. "Saya-chan is a fine girl."
Sakura chimed in, "We're glad you get along with her. She's helped us many times."
They told him that his admission into Hamikawa High was finalized. The fresh green-and-white uniform waited neatly by the TV, symbolizing a new chapter that would begin tomorrow.
After dinner, he bathed, changed, and lay in bed. His phone buzzed with messages—Ken's jokes, Manami's teasing, and one new notification at the top of his screen.
Saya: Get home safely. And... good night, Ead.
Eadlyn smiled, his heart humming with something he didn't yet know how to name.
But he felt it.
A beginning.