Minho first met Ben in his first year of high school, on a day when the Kyoto sky was drizzling gently and the halls of the school buzzed with nervous energy.
It was his second month at Kyoto High—new city, new uniforms, new names to memorize. The kind of month where everything still felt like it belonged to someone else.
Minho had just moved up from middle school, carrying more questions than confidence. He didn't talk much in class unless called on. He was still finding the rhythm of Japanese slang, still trying to figure out where he fit in the map of friendships already drawn.
Ben was different.
Half-Japanese, half-Filipino, he walked with a swagger that said, "I belong everywhere."
He had messy hair, a camera slung over his shoulder, and a laugh that echoed through the hallways before he even turned the corner.
They bonded over food first—naturally.
Ben had offered Minho a fried octopus ball during lunch, completely unprompted.
Minho, startled but hungry, took it.
> "You looked like you needed rescue from cafeteria despair," Ben had said with a grin.
"You new here or just dramatically introverted?"
Minho had nearly choked laughing. From that moment on, they were stuck to each other like rice grains on nori.
They shared jokes during gym, studied under the same cherry tree during finals week, and had their own silent code during boring assemblies.
Ben introduced Minho to photography—taught him how to hold the DSLR steady, how to capture light as if it were something alive. Minho, in turn, introduced Ben to kimbap, Korean horror films, and the art of dodging responsibility with just the right amount of charm.
Ben's house became Minho's second home—loud, chaotic, always filled with the smell of something frying. Ben's older brother, Jay, would tease them like a third roommate.
Over time, their bond wasn't just friendship.
It became trust.
The kind that let them be idiots together on the rooftop, joke about older brothers dating older sisters, and laugh until their tea nearly shot out of their noses.
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🌇 Scene Transition
And now—
Lunchtime at Kyoto High School.
The rooftop is warm, touched by a soft breeze and filled with the hum of a distant city below.
Ben and Minho sit shoulder to shoulder, unwrapping their bentos and tossing crumbs to the pigeons like two brothers who found each other by accident—
And decided to stay.
([From here, the dialogue you provided begins, unchanged.])
The First Time Mao Met Ben
It was a Saturday in early spring when Minho finally invited Ben over. The cherry blossoms hadn't bloomed yet, but the air already carried the promise of pink petals and softer days.
Mao had just returned from the clinic, her white coat folded neatly over her arm, the smell of soap and watercolor paint still clinging to her. She looked tired, but peaceful—her bun a little loose, strands of hair falling near her temple.
When the doorbell rang, she opened it with a hand still holding a cloth from wiping the table.
And there stood Ben.
Loose uniform, backpack half-open, DSLR slung across his chest like it belonged there. He grinned wide and lifted a box of mochi like a peace offering.
> "Hi! I'm Ben. Minho's emotional support extrovert."
Mao blinked. Then laughed. A real laugh—rare, musical, and short like a breeze slipping through paper doors.
Minho rolled his eyes from behind, already regretting every life decision that led to this.
> "Onee-chan, don't let his charm fool you. He's been stealing my snacks for a year."
> "That's a lie," Ben said, slipping off his shoes. "I also steal his notes."
Mao smiled, stepping aside as she folded the cloth in her hands.
Ben noticed the scent of tea and lavender in the air, the simple quiet of the apartment—books stacked neatly, a paper fan hung on the wall with a hand-painted rabbit.
> "You live like a Studio Ghibli side character," he whispered in awe.
Mao raised a brow.
> "Is that good or bad?"
> "It's perfect," Ben said, already pulling out his camera. "May I? This light is ridiculous."
Mao blinked again. But nodded.
That night, over kimchi stew and barley tea, Ben made Mao laugh twice, complimented her folded dumplings five times, and called her "Mao-nee" before dessert.
She didn't correct him.
And from that day on, their little home—once just two siblings against the world—grew a little noisier, a little brighter, and a lot more filled with unfiltered Ben-energy.
The laughter was soft now, mellowed by warm food and full stomachs. Minho had vanished to grab his charger, muttering something about his dying phone and missing memes.
Ben sat back, letting his chopsticks rest on the ceramic holder. The scent of barley tea still drifted from the kettle, and the faintest hum of wind brushed past the paper screen window.
Mao began clearing the table.
She moved gently, like someone who had learned to live without rushing. Her hands folded the napkins with quiet grace, the sleeves of her pale blue cardigan slipping toward her wrists. Her movements weren't flashy or exaggerated—they were… peaceful. A kind of softness Ben hadn't realized he missed until he saw it.
> "Do you always cook like that?" he asked, half-teasing, half-curious.
Mao smiled lightly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
> "Only on days I feel alive enough to try."
That answer lingered.
It wasn't dramatic, but it wasn't empty either. Ben blinked, sitting up straighter. His eyes followed her—not in the distracted way he usually looked at people—but in that slow, almost cautious way, as if afraid to disturb something too quiet and too real.
> "You're… different," he murmured without thinking.
She looked up.
> "Different from what?"
Ben hesitated.
> "I don't know. From everyone else, I guess. Even Minho, he's like the sky on fire. You're like—like—"
He waved a hand, trying to catch the words.
> "Like snow falling on warm tea."
Mao blinked. Then… laughed again. That same soft laugh.
> "That's a strange metaphor."
> "I'm a photographer," Ben shrugged, smirking. "I live for strange metaphors."
She didn't say anything then. Just smiled with her eyes downturned, as she wiped the last plate.
But Ben—Ben couldn't stop watching her. Not in the way you watch someone pretty. But in the way you notice something rare. Familiar and distant all at once. Something fragile you hadn't realized was slowly fitting into a part of your life you hadn't noticed was empty.
When Minho returned, dropping onto the floor with a groan and a plugged-in phone, Ben barely noticed.
His eyes were still on Mao.
And for the first time…
He stopped thinking of her as just "Minho's sister."
He started wondering what her story was—what chapters were written in the quiet between her laughter, what she dreamed about when the city went to sleep.
He didn't say anything then.
But a seed had been planted.
And Ben—without realizing—had already begun to fall.