That afternoon, they walked in sharing a single drink and a bucket of salted popcorn big enough to feed a football team. They sat almost at the back of the theater, far from everyone else, and for the first few minutes laughed like kids: the movie was truly stupid — in the right way. Nonsense jokes, scooter chases, tanuki doing jujutsu to take down a rival who wanted to steal their secret recipe.
And an angry tanuki shouting at a badly exploded plate of sashimi.
Yuji laughed loudly, sometimes a bit too much, but every time Aiko turned toward him, he seemed to snap back into himself, as if the sound had escaped his mouth before he could manage it. And in the meantime, he watched her. Not intrusively, but with that slightly goofy, adorable focus of someone trying to memorize every detail so they'll never forget it.
The curve of her smile. The way she touched her hair when she laughed too much. How she placed her hands on her knees during the film's most absurd moments, bending forward so as not to burst out laughing.
Yuji really did try to pay attention to the movie. But he ended up watching her. More than he expected. More than was normal.
Every time he reached into the popcorn bucket and his fingers brushed hers, he held his breath. Once, he touched her knuckles by mistake and pulled his hand back as if he'd bumped into something sacred. He ran a hand through his hair, uncertain, then forced himself to stare at the screen with determination. His ears, however, had turned bright red.
Aiko noticed everything. She didn't comment. But her laughter grew lighter. And every now and then, her gaze drifted back to him, lingering just a moment longer.
By the end of the screening, they stepped out of the cinema with that soft air you have after a lovely, absurd dream. The Tokyo sky had turned pale gold, the traffic hummed lazily, and the two walked slowly, talking over each other's jokes, finishing each other's sentences, and laughing even at the film's worst moments.
"The scene with the tanuki throwing sushi like shuriken? Absolute masterpiece," said Yuji, his eyes still a little teary.
"Yeah, but the monologue about the value of friendship between a zucchini and a raw shrimp… now that really changed me," Aiko replied, in a theatrical tone.
"Did it move you?"
"Deeply. I feel ready to make peace with seafood salad."
They laughed again, but under that lightness, something else slipped in. A pause here and there. A glance that lasted a second too long. A gesture not entirely casual: Yuji holding the door open for her without making a show of it, Aiko slowing her pace just enough to stay by his side.
She tucked her hair behind her ear; he pulled down his hood for the third time for no reason at all.
And it was right in that silence between two laughs—when their hands brushed again without quite seeking each other—that something clear settled into them both.
That afternoon hadn't just been a movie.
It had been a small step forward.
A real one.
Shortly after, they stopped under the station's portico, right where they had met a few hours earlier. The neon lights traced Aiko's face in a thousand soft shades. A tram slid past with its liquid noise, and for a few seconds there was only the two of them, standing still on the sidewalk, balanced between "it was a great day" and "I don't want it to end."
Yuji ran a hand through his hair for the umpteenth time. He wasn't cold, but he tucked his arms into the sleeves of his hoodie as if searching for something to hold onto.
"It was… nice," he murmured, staring at his sneakers' laces. Then he glanced at her for a second, only to quickly look away again. "I mean, I had fun. Really. With you."
Aiko smiled. "Me too. It's not every day you see ninja tanuki and also discover your encyclopedic knowledge of mochi."
Yuji chuckled softly. "That's my second hidden power."
Silence. The good kind. Neither of them moved.
Then, almost tripping over his own words, Yuji gathered his courage.
"Can I ask you something…?"
Aiko tilted her head, curious. "Sure."
"Have you ever had… I mean, like, a boyfriend? An ex?"
She didn't seem unsettled. She just gave a small shrug, her gaze relaxed.
"Yeah. A boyfriend, years ago. He was a little older. A quiet relationship, lasted a few months. We were very different. It ended well, though."
Yuji nodded, trying to hide the effect her answer had on him. Then he swallowed.
"And… um… have you ever… you know… done it?"
Aiko looked at him for a moment, then nodded, without embarrassment.
"Yes. But without rushing, without pressure. It was the right time, for where we were then. It wasn't anything traumatic or spectacular. Just… normal."
Yuji seemed to take the answer in with a kind of silent respect. Then he hunched his shoulders a little more.
"And you?" she asked him, curious.
"Me… no. I mean… not yet. I've never…" He made a vague gesture, as if to indicate everything and nothing.
"Give it time, Yuji-kun." Aiko smiled at him, softer this time. "It's not a race. And it's not what defines who you are."
Yuji lifted his eyes to her. There was something grateful, almost relieved, in that look.
"Yeah…" was all he said. Then, after a pause, "You're right."
A tram passed in the opposite direction. The sound of footsteps around them grew sparse. It was time to say goodbye.
"So… see you then!" Yuji said, trying to sound casual, though his voice was just a bit higher than usual.
"Of course. Text me whenever you want."
"Maybe I'll send you another ranking of the best mochi to beat Sukuna."
Aiko laughed. "I just hope eggplant parmigiana keeps first place."
Yuji looked at her for a moment longer, then took a step back—a clumsy gesture, like someone unsure whether to wave, hug, or bow.
In the end, he just lifted his hand in a small wave, and turned away.
She watched him go for a moment, then turned too, pulling her jacket tighter around herself. And as she walked away, her heart was beating as if she'd just been running, but her legs felt light, as if she'd only just begun to dance.
***
It was Monday, early morning, but Aiko still had Sunday afternoon in her eyes. The silly movie, the laughter caught in her throat, the cinema, Yuji's eyes, the feeling of something quietly growing between one silly joke and the next.
It wasn't anything declared. Not yet. Just a new closeness, fragile and real, like a shared breath that didn't need words.
And yet, since that evening, Yuji seemed more distant.
She had waited for a message from him the next morning. Any message — even just a "did you get home?" or a comment about the tanuki fighting the robotic sushi.
Instead, nothing.
In the end, she had been the one to write:
- Aiko: I woke up still laughing at the tanuki yelling "this is for my clan!" 😭
He had read it. Within minutes. But replied two hours later.
- Yuji: The robotic sushi totally deserved its own spin-off 😂
Two lines. No question. No "and you?"
For Aiko, it felt like receiving half a smile. Polite, kind… but distant.
He hadn't disappeared. But it was as if he had quietly closed a window.
Tuesday, the next day, same thing. She sent him a message about the weather — it was raining in Tokyo, as it usually did during that season, that light rain that seemed suspended — and he only replied in the evening.
And the day after that, Wednesday, nothing. Only silence.
Every time her phone buzzed, Aiko hoped it was him. And every time it wasn't, she felt foolish. Foolish for still hoping.
She kept thinking: maybe he's just caught up with training. Maybe he's fine, just tired.
Maybe… he's not interested anymore.
But the truth — the real truth — was that she missed him.
Not too much, not in some romantic or tragic way. It couldn't be called love, not yet.
She missed him the way you miss good things you don't yet know how to define, but that make you feel seen, chosen. Put first. The kind of things that fill you with attention.
And that was so much worse.
Across the street, in the dormitory of the Tokyo Jujutsu Technical School, Yuji had been staring at the ceiling for almost an hour.
His phone lay switched off on the nightstand, hoodie still on, hands laced behind his head. And he was thinking.
It wasn't that he didn't want to text her.
It was that he didn't know how to do it without sounding stupid.
Every message he typed felt clumsy, trivial. Every time he tried to hit "send," he deleted it.
Because he was afraid.
Afraid that she was just having a bit of fun, while he was taking it too far.
Afraid that Aiko — so strong, so full, so different from anything he'd ever known — might see him for what he really was: a simple boy, with too many scars and no experience.
Afraid he wasn't enough.
What if I really like her? he thought, closing his eyes.
That was the moment he stopped texting first. Not because he didn't feel anything. But because what he felt had started making too much noise inside.
When he thought of her, his eyes smiled. When his mind drifted back to that Sunday at the cinema, he laughed to himself. If he so much as remembered the softness of her hand brushing his while they ate popcorn… sharp pangs hit his stomach, and he couldn't explain why.
It was as if he was holding it all in. And he didn't yet know if he'd have the courage to let it out.
But it was Thursday night when it happened.
Aiko had just closed the register, slipped on her jacket, and waved a tired goodbye to her mother.
"Just ten minutes," she'd said, "I'm going to grab some fresh dorayaki."
Outside, Tokyo felt suspended: the warm air smelled faintly of distant rain and yakitori smoke, the streetlamps shimmered over the slick pavement, and everything — traffic, footsteps, thoughts — seemed to slide slower than usual.
She walked with her hands in her pockets, her mind half elsewhere, still lingering on the photo she'd thought of sending him. A failed slice of cake, the edge collapsed — a pretext, an excuse, an "hey, look what I made" hidden under sugar and irony.
But she hadn't sent it yet.
It was just as she was rereading that draft, eyes on her phone, that she saw him.
Yuji.
Across the street, next to a vending machine casting blue light across the sidewalk. He was wearing the dark hoodie he often used for training, his backpack slouched on his shoulders, that usual relaxed way of standing in the world.
But he wasn't alone.
Beside him, a girl.
Almost 1.80 meters tall, just a little shorter than him, composed, her black hair tied neatly back in a ponytail, a blouse tucked into a long skirt, her voice calm and rounded. She spoke, gesturing lightly, and Yuji laughed.
But not the way he laughed with Aiko.
That was a lower laugh, the kind you give when you're caught off guard by something familiar. The kind of connection you don't build in a week.
Aiko slowed her pace.
She looked at them for only a few seconds. Then her heartbeat went uneven, and something crumpled inside her, just beneath her sternum. Like a can crushed underfoot.
Maybe she was just a senpai from the Institute. Maybe a customer. Maybe nothing.
But she didn't know.
And not knowing… hurt.
Because Yuji hadn't said anything.
Because it had been days since he'd last texted her first.
Because that doubt — not violent, not obvious — had the power to make her feel small, out of place. Inadequate.
She lowered her gaze and crossed at the next light, choosing not to pass near them. Her hands clenched in her pockets, nails pressed into her palms. No words. No messages. No glance in their direction. She walked the street quickly, eyes down.
She reached the entrance and stepped into the pastry shop as if in a trance. Ordered, paid in a rush, apologized for not having change. Went home with the still-warm bag swinging from her wrist.
That evening she stayed in her room the whole time, didn't even eat a single dorayaki.
She layed on her bed, still dressed, hair loose on the pillow. Stared at the dark ceiling until it was too late to send any message that wouldn't sound like an excuse.
Checked her phone one last time, but it slipped from her hand to the side. The screen still black. No notifications.
And from that night on, Aiko began to quietly close herself off.
No more silly stickers. No more "what are you up to?"
She replied if he wrote. But she never opened the door first again. She would never text first again.
It wasn't jealousy — not entirely.
It was insecurity. It was not feeling chosen.
It was the terrible sense that maybe she had grown attached faster. Maybe she had believed in it a little more.
A little deeper.
And that small space she thought she'd carved out in Yuji's world…maybe it had only been a passing corner.
And maybe, now, it was already taken by someone else.