The giant teddy bear sat between them on the train ride home, its glassy eyes reflecting the flickering streetlights. Sakuya traced the stitching on its paw, her earlier excitement replaced by a quiet thoughtfulness. The bear's ribbon matched the one in her hair—deliberate, like everything else about her.
"You're really good at this," Eadlyn said, nodding at the bear. "Dancing, I mean. You made it look easy."
She glanced at him, her dark eyes catching the light. "You were good too. For someone who 'doesn't dance.'"
He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I had a good teacher."
A pause. Then, softer: "You remind me of my grandfather sometimes. He always says the same thing—'It's not about being perfect. It's about being present.'"
Eadlyn filed that away. Present. Not perfect. There was something profoundly simple in that—something that made him think of his grandparents, of Sayaka's quiet composure, of the way love seemed to live in the spaces between grand gestures.
Back at the shop, Horikawa-san poured tea with the practiced ease of a man who had served thousands of cups. "You know," he said, leaning back, "your grandparents were the same age as you when we met."
Eadlyn perked up. This was the first time anyone had offered a real story.
"Reno was all fire and no direction," Horikawa-san chuckled. "And Sakura? She had plans for days. But when they danced together—" He mimed two hands clasping. "That's when I knew they'd last. Not because they were perfect. Because they listened."
Sakura's cheeks pinked. "You're embarrassing us in front of the child."
"But it's true!" Horikawa-san insisted. "Eadlyn, pay attention. Love isn't about grand gestures. It's about showing up, even when you're clumsy."
Eadlyn glanced at his grandparents, their hands resting close on the table. Showing up. He'd heard that before—from Reno, from the way Sayaka quietly supported him, from the unspoken understanding in this very room. It was the same lesson, repeated in different voices.
At the station, Sakuya hugged the teddy bear one last time before handing it to Eadlyn. "For you. You earned it."
He hesitated. "You won it."
She smiled, her eyes warm. "And I'm giving it to you. Think of it as… a reminder."
"Of what?"
"That some things are worth the risk."
The train arrived before he could ask what she meant. But as he watched her wave goodbye, her yukata fluttering in the evening breeze, he thought he understood.
The bear sat beside him on the ride home, its ribbon tangled slightly from the journey. He smoothed it out, thinking of Sakuya's words, of Horikawa-san's stories, of the way his grandparents' hands had brushed when they thought no one was looking.
Some things are worth the risk.
He didn't know yet what that meant for him. But he knew he wanted to find out.
Diary Entry – June 17th
I didn't expect today.
I didn't expect to dance. I didn't expect to win. I didn't expect to feel like I belonged in a place I'd never been before.
Sakuya said the bear was a reminder that some things are worth the risk. I think she meant more than just the dance. She meant the awkwardness of trying something new. The embarrassment of stumbling. The quiet pride of improving.
Grandpa Horikawa talked about love like it was a dance—showing up, listening, being present even when you're not perfect. I used to think love was something you felt. But maybe it's something you do. Over and over, until it becomes part of you.
I watched Grandpa and Grandma today. The way they laugh at old stories. The way they still reach for each other's hands. The way they don't need to say everything out loud because they've already said it a thousand times before.
I thought about Sayaka. About how she shows up—at the door with notices, in the café during exams, in the gym when I needed support. She doesn't say much. But she's there.
I thought about the bear. How it's silly and unnecessary and exactly what I needed.
Maybe that's the point. Love isn't the big moments. It's the small ones you don't see coming. The ones that make you realize you're already part of the story before you even knew it started.