Saturday, a day off, no school.
But Sakura's mom yanked her from her cozy blankets, ordering her to wash up. A chilly drizzle had fallen at 3 a.m., leaving droplets on the window and rose planters, glinting in the sunlight. The sky was a clear, glowing blue, the cool morning breeze carrying post-rain freshness and a distant forest scent.
Grudgingly, the girl swapped pajamas and faced her mirror, hair a wild mess rivaling a sci-fi alien.
Downstairs, the living room table held a steaming coffee mug, a folded newspaper beside it. Her dad was cooing at a cockatiel he'd somehow acquired, doting on the blushing bird whenever he had a moment, playing Liszt's La Campanella in hopes it'd hum along someday.
Breakfast was lemon-roasted salmon and shrimp omelet, brimming with flavor and nutrition. The poised, elegant news anchor on TV delivered the day's headlines.
"Saturdays are great—sleep in, savor breakfast, nap again, and lounge with the TV, ignoring work," Her dad said, delighted.
"Make me skip cooking three meals a day, then I'll call it a rest day," Her mom huffed.
"No worries, Ayane's grown—she can start learning your kitchen magic."
"Exploit your wife, now your daughter?"
"Not what I meant! You know I'm a kitchen disaster. I'll stick to washing dishes for you two forever."
"I'm not letting Ayane cook. Once she learns, she'll be stuck with meals daily," Her mom said sternly.
"What about when she starts a family?"
"Her husband can cook."
"Fine by me, as long as it's not me," Her dad said, nodding.
"Pick a diligent, clever husband. Women don't have the upper hand in marriage. A bad mother-in-law or father-in-law, and you're swallowing tears," Her mom advised.
"Pick a gentle, caring wife. Men don't have it easy either. A prickly spouse, and your savings are stuffed in your socks," Her dad added.
"Are you calling me overbearing?" Her mom glared.
"Perish the thought! Those were hypotheticals to guide the young. You're my ideal, my soul's other half," Her dad said, righteous.
"Men's sweet talk hides shady motives."
"Empty sweet words are fragile lies. I've booked two VIP seats for Don Giovanni at the theater tonight. Please, my lovely lady, do me the honor," Her dad said, adopting a roguish tone.
"I'm a married woman, and you dare invite me? Shameless!" Her mom scolded, tapping her chopsticks.
"Ethics be damned, I can't quell this soul-deep longing. I envy the man who won you—what's he got?" Her dad cried.
"He's handsome, upright, family-loving. Meeting him was my fortune. Leave, or tongues will wag."
"If he's that peerless, I've no words," Her dad sighed, feigning defeat.
Sakura ate her omelet in silence, rolling her eyes at her parents' theatrics.
Her dad, eager for their date night, turned to her. "Your mom and I are heading to the theater this afternoon, so no ride for you, okay?"
"Don't need it," Sakura said, shaking her head.
"Awesome! I'll slip you extra pocket money. Have fun with friends!" He didn't mind her dismissal.
"I'm doing homework upstairs," Sakura said, grabbing a piece of meat and stomping up the stairs.
Her dad, hearing her heavy steps, privately wondered if she needed a diet but didn't dare say it.
Back in her room, she didn't study. Instead, she flopped onto her bed, flipping through a new fashion magazine. The former tomboy was now into style.
Aside from her grumpy wake-up, she was in high spirits.
With the semester ending, her class planned a pre-finals gathering. As an outsider, she'd been personally invited by the popular, handsome class president.
Since elementary school, she'd rarely joined outings like picnics or dinners. But her bland youth was finally shifting.
Friendships, shared joys and struggles, even the upcoming school trip—those cherished moments from shows and books were coming her way.
The one pulling her from her gray rut was a top student with a 68 deviation score, excelling in looks and talent. As a normal high school freshman, she felt a flutter of excitement.
She raided her closet for the comfiest, most flattering outfit, perfecting her makeup—especially her brows and eyeliner.
After hours of prep, she went downstairs for lunch. Her bird-teasing dad chuckled, "Looking sharp! Almost like you're meeting a boyfriend… Wait, you don't actually have one, right?"
She shot him a glare.
Lunch was creamy chicken breast, fish bone broth with noodles, thinly sliced roasted duck, chilled veggies, and a big bowl of rice.
Her parents chatted about gossip—the neighbor's affair ended with a terrier biting his rear, a double-yolk egg for good luck, a colleague who quit after a lottery win only to lose everything, a new hire who dropped a pen near a power strip, accidentally shutting off twenty computers, crashing programs and files. If not restrained, he'd have jumped from the twentieth floor in shame.
The talk veered from grocery prices to Mars migration.
"I'm full!" Sakura scraped her bowl clean, stomped upstairs, grabbed her coat, and dashed to the door to slip on her shoes.
"Ayane, don't go too wild. Got your phone and wallet?" Her mom called.
"I'm good!" The girl bolted out like the wind.
After calculations by the study, PR, and labor committees, they picked a trendy spot near Omotesando for the meal, with plenty of nearby spots for more fun.
As famous as Harajuku, Shibuya, Daikanyama, and Ginza for street snaps, Omotesando buzzed with stylish crowds—long-legged women in trench coats and sunglasses strutting like models, hip-hop guys with dreads swaying to earbud beats.
Sakura blended in, cute and eye-catching. She often shopped here with her mom, maxing out her dad's card. Fashion boutiques stretched across three streets.
She found the highly rated Western restaurant easily, stepping in to familiar classical piano music. Her polished look drew a waiter's greeting.
"A bold yellow-green athletic top, vibrant yet breathable, oversized to highlight your delicate frame. Black cropped cargo shorts and dark sneakers accentuate your calves' sleek lines. The rose-hued belt is the perfect touch, grounding the look," The waiter said, bowing slightly. "Your sharp, short hair radiates energy and youth, a refined transparency that sparks admiration."
She barely listened to his verbose praise, scanning for classmates and sighing in relief when she saw none.
"How many?" The waiter asked, back to business.
"Friends' gathering. I'm early, waiting for them." Saying "friends" lifted her mood.
"Let's find a quiet seat for you to rest." He led her to a spot. "Something to drink? Tea's on the house."
She waved him off, and he retreated tactfully.
Arriving first avoided awkwardness, letting her flow with the group's vibe. Latecomers struggled to join in, risking lonely tea-sipping in a corner. Today, she'd planned to shine, even picking KTV songs in advance.
Popular idols, hit dramas, variety shows, magazine horoscopes—she knew them all, ready to chat.
Who'd arrive first? Hopefully someone talkative to set a good tone.
Maybe the class president? As the organizer, he'd likely show early. Alone with him… guys preferred games over celebrities, right?
What if math came up? Her grades were average.
Leaning back, overthinking, the elegant setting and soft piano lulled her excitement. Late nights and early mornings took their toll.
Friday, after the class heartthrob's invite, she'd stayed up past 3 a.m. planning, aware of the rain.
Her eyelids drooped, fighting sleep. She yawned, slapped her cheeks, and steeled her gaze, only to drift again seconds later.
…
Electric lights pierced the night streets, neon signs blazing like flames. Car headlights sliced the roads, crows perched on skyscraper ledges, waiting to roost. Saturday nights lacked rushing adults; couples strolled, licking ice cream, kids pestered parents at toy store windows.
The restaurant emptied, diners thinning. The head chef, checking inventory, scolded a newbie on stove habits.
The waiter loosened his tight tie and approached the girl who'd been staring at the night view for hours.
Her earlier spark was gone, like a puppet with cut strings or an abandoned alley kitten, listless and pitiful.
He set a star-shaped strawberry cake on her table.
"I didn't order this," Sakura mumbled, stirring.
"You didn't order anything, so I brought it," The waiter said. "It's an employee perk, no charge. I'm not big on sweets."
She didn't respond or touch the fork.
"Friends not here yet?" He asked softly. "You slept all afternoon."
She paused, clutching her hem. "They changed venues last minute and forgot to tell me. No one had my contact info. They only remembered to tell the teacher to pass it on."
"Heading there now?" He asked, hands behind his back.
"…Don't want to. They're done eating."
"Home, then?"
"I told my parents I'd be out late. If I go back early, they'll worry and ask questions," She said, lowering her head. "So, not yet."
He stayed quiet, then smiled. "Eat the cake."
Sakura looked up, puzzled, at the overly dedicated waiter.
"Just a starter. My thick-cut sirloin employee meal's reheating. I'll bring it too," He said, giving a thumbs-up.
"Probably tough as leather by now," She teased, then hesitated, feeling guilty for hogging the seat. "Sorry for taking so long. I'll order something."
"We're colleagues. No need to be formal," He said, unfazed.
"Colleagues?" She grew more confused.
"Yeah."
"Um, who are you?" She stammered, embarrassed.
He sighed, sat across from her, and met her gaze. She finally saw him clearly.
Her eyes widened, an instinctive reaction to beauty. Her grip on her hem loosened.
The boy's white shirt, tie off, revealed a hint of collarbone. His profile faced the bustling night, bathed in soft orange dusk, shadows accentuating his sharp nose. His brows were delicate as spring willow buds, blending masculine and feminine grace. His clear eyes rippled like a lake, spilling into someone's world.
Her tangled frustrations, especially her resentment toward the class president, vanished in a gust.
They gazed silently, waiting for the other to speak, while Beethoven playing in the background.
Finally, Takizawa broke the awkwardness. "Still don't recognize me? Am I that forgettable?"
"I remember now. The late senpai who humiliated by adult social games," Sakura said and looking away.
"Don't make it sound like I was a host serving guys," Takizawa said exasperated. "Try the cake. It's good."
This time, she didn't refuse, forking a piece into her mouth.
Rich cream, fluffy cake, and fresh strawberry burst on her tongue.
"How is it?" Takizawa raised a brow.
"Sweet," Sakura said, licking cream from her lips.
"Told you. Wait here, I'll grab the steak." He jogged to the kitchen, returning with a steaming sirloin.
He drizzled black pepper sauce, tied a napkin around his neck, and gripped his knife and fork. He sliced gently, then harder, pinning the plate to cut, finally tearing off a piece. He chewed slowly, then furiously, swallowing whole, face red, exhaling heavily.
Wiping his mouth, he coughed and said primly, "Tough."
Sakura stifled a laugh, her crescent eyes betraying her.
"Want some?" Takizawa smirked, gesturing generously. "It's got bite."
"I can't take your dinner," She said, reserved.
"No big deal. Good stuff's meant to be shared." He hacked at the steak.
"I'll order my own," She said, grabbing the menu.
"What can I get you, dear guest?" He snapped into service mode, standing and bowing.
"Thick-cut sirloin."
"Got one right here," He said, still pushing to share.
"Fresh, medium well."
"Fine, I'll talk to the chef and save the new cook getting chewed out for spilling food," He said, slightly deflated.
"And I want top-tier, make-me-feel-at-home service," She said, tapping the table.
"As you wish, fair lady," Takizawa said, donning a "starry-eyed, perfect smile" mask and bowing like a gentleman before leaving.
"Hey," Sakura called.
He paused, adjusting his expression to a bright grin. "Yes, lovely lady?"
"Hurry up, then come eat your steak," She said, pointing at the dark lump.
"Esteemed lady, want to see me chip a tooth and bleed? Waiters are human too, with joys and sorrows. We get hurt and quietly cry," He said, smiling through gritted teeth.
"What's that supposed to mean?" She ate her cake, pouting, then added, "Eating together's more fun. Less boring."
Takizawa blinked, then grinned, flashing an OK sign.
***
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