12:45 p.m.
We walked toward Garden Café—yes, the Garden Café, the one with the outdoor terrace that looked like it had been handcrafted by angels who majored in aesthetic architecture and minored in making introverts uncomfortable.
Trailing wisteria vines hung over the terrace like sleepy chandeliers. The kind of scenery that makes you feel like you accidentally stepped into the background of someone else's romantic flashback.
Midtown Park's spring breeze flirted with the flowers, and every step we took felt like we were walking deeper into a live-action shoujo manga. The only thing missing was sparkles and a sparkly bishounen soundtrack.
…Unfortunately, I was the male lead. Budget version.
Behind us, a couple in their mid-30s strolled by.
"I told you we should've come earlier, Kenji! Now we're stuck in the sun."
"It's filtered sunlight, honey. That's supposed to be romantic."
"It's filtered melanoma, Kenji."
I didn't know whether to laugh or agree.
We were seated at a little round table. White-painted. Ornate. Wobbly in that elegant "don't you dare put your elbows on me" kind of way.
It screamed expensive tea party hosted by someone who collects porcelain cats.
I felt like a discount extra in a period drama.
Across from me, Rin sat with her back perfectly straight, holding the menu like it was a sacred text. Her cheeks had their usual soft pink flush, and her lips moved slightly as she whispered the food names under her breath like incantations.
"…omurice… p-plain pancake… roasted vegetables… eep, no, too expensive…"
It was oddly cute.
Not that I noticed or anything.
Nearby, a pair of high school girls were chatting animatedly:
"Oh my god, he liked your post?"
"Only after I deleted it and reposted it with better lighting."
"That's not love, that's algorithm manipulation."
Eventually, she peeked up from behind the menu with the same expression as someone confessing they were a criminal.
"Um… I think I'll get the omurice."
"Safe choice," I said, nodding like I was a culinary guru who'd just approved a Michelin star order.
She hesitated. "W-What about you?"
I looked up from my own menu with the solemn gravity of someone choosing between two types of rice and mild regret.
"The curry."
She nodded like I'd just revealed my blood type.
Then silence. The dramatic kind. The kind where even the pigeons sound like they're holding their breath.
Our waitress came, looking like she hadn't slept since the Meiji Era. She took our order, gave a perfunctory smile, and floated away—probably to judge our choices in private.
Rin folded her hands in her lap, stared intensely at the glass of water like she was having a staring contest with her reflection.
I resisted the urge to ask if she saw the future in there.
A few minutes later, our food arrived.
Her omurice looked like it had been made by a god of lunch: golden dome of egg hugging the ketchup rice like a mother hen, and a little heart drawn in ketchup on top. Too perfect. Suspiciously perfect.
Mine? Steaming Japanese curry with a generous chunk of fried pork cutlet lounging on top like it owned the plate. The potatoes were basically bricks of comfort food. A man's dish. A warrior's dish. A "I've suffered through gym class and math quiz" kind of dish.
I took one bite and nearly cried. Not because of the taste. Because it wasn't cup ramen.
Rin, meanwhile, just poked the parsley garnish like it had offended her family.
Then, after what felt like the longest silence in our short, awkward existence:
"D-Do you like it?"
I blinked. "…The curry?"
She nodded, still looking down like the table was going to scold her.
"Yeah," I replied, shrugging casually. "I like anything I don't have to cook."
And then, like I'd remembered to give the correct answer in a life-or-death game show, I added, "But your cooking was still better."
There was a pause.
And then, softly—so soft it could've been mistaken for the wind brushing past—a giggle with a smug shine.
"That's such… a Mizuki-kun answer."
Is it though?!
Normal me would've just nodded like a socially anxious potato.
But the me now? The me now lives in constant fear that her affection meter will drop and I'll go boom.
And somewhere in the background, from the guy still arguing with his girlfriend:
"Okay but hear me out—crocs are practical."
"So is divorce, Kenji."
As we finished our meals, the sun had shifted. More petals danced down from the vines above. The table between us felt smaller somehow.
1:30 PM – Arcade Stop
If there's one place after lunch where awkward tension goes to die a glorious, glittering death, it's an arcade. Not just any arcade—but the kind that feels like it hasn't updated its wallpaper since the Bubble Economy burst.
The moment we stepped in, the entrance assaulted us like a kaiju composed entirely of retro game noise. Buttons being mashed like someone owed them money, coin chimes ringing like a pachinko hall, and in the distance, some absolute rhythm god obliterating the Taiko no Tatsujin machine like his ancestors were drums.
Seriously, who hurt that guy? He was demolishing those drums like they owed him yen.
Rin stood beside me, wide-eyed.
"It's… loud," she whispered, blinking like a cat seeing snow for the first time.
"Welcome to the neon jungle," I said, trying to sound cool. "You get used to it. Like caffeine addiction or high school disappointment. Besides, it's a whole new vibe for you. Think of it as—crashing to reality with neon lights and the sweet sting of wasted pocket money."
She gave a small giggle, covering her mouth with her fingers like a noble lady in a period drama. "Is this your idea of romance, Mizuki-kun?"
"If I win, yes. If I lose… then I was being ironic the whole time."
We wandered deeper into the chaos, passing a pair of middle schoolers screaming at a soccer game and a couple that was way too close for public decency.
One guy was having a literal breakdown at the claw machine, smacking it with a rolled-up manga like a desperate gambler. Respect.
Then we found it.
A colorful rhythm panel game with arrows, blaring J-pop from overhead speakers and lights that probably violated at least three health codes.
Rin squinted. "Is this… some kind of ritual?"
"It's called Arrow Hero. You press the buttons. Fast. Rhythm. Sweat. Tears. Soul. Possibly early arthritis."
She looked hesitant.
Five minutes later, she was annihilating me.
"W-Wait, what—how—!?"
She was tapping arrows with the force of a trained ninja. The screen lit up with PERFECTS like she was personally sponsored by the arcade.
The final score wasn't just a gap—it was a public shaming.
She stepped off the pad with a shy grin, brushing her bangs behind her ear like an idol accepting her 100th fan letter.
"That's Pyon-sama! From Magical Bunny Garden! I love her!"
I blinked. "…Pyon who now?"
She pointed at the bright pink rabbit in the background of the game, who was waving a star wand and giggling like a sugary fever dream.
"She's my favorite! She grants wishes with carrot stars and spreads love through sparkles!"
Behind us, a third-grade boy with a Pyon-sama plushie gave Rin a solemn nod of approval, like she had joined an elite cult of believers.
"…I didn't expect her to like a kids' anime character," I muttered, mostly to myself.
Don't like her too much, dammit. Even after that god's blessing, her heart-in-eyes look never sparked that brightly for me.
As Rin happily explained Pyon-sama's entire lore—yes, lore—to me like it was a Shonen Jump arc, I wandered off to a nearby crane game.
Inside sat none other than the chubby, pink bunny herself. Wearing a magician's hat. Holding a wand. Looking innocent and mocking all at once.
The mission was clear.
One try: fail.
Two tries: heartbreak.
Three tries and the precision of a brain surgeon—I snagged her. Barely.
Victory taste: salty, like sweat and minor finger injuries.
I returned and held it up like a divine relic.
"Your magical overlord, my lady."
Rin's eyes lit up like someone had cast Fireworks: Maximum Sparkle Edition. Her mouth formed a silent "Wow!" before blooming into a smile so bright, it made my stomach clench.
She took it with both hands like I was handing her a newborn star.
"She grants wishes with carrot stars and spreads love through sparkles!" she repeated, voice rising an octave.
"I got that part."
She immediately clipped it to her bag with sacred reverence. Her cheeks were red again—but this time, it wasn't the embarrassed kind. It was… happy. Secure. A little sparkle of bravery in it.
"Thank you, Mizuki-kun," she said, softly.