The schoolyard was abuzz with the colors and sounds of a summer festival. Paper lanterns swayed gently in the warm evening wind, illuminating stalls selling yakisoba, takoyaki, and games with their twinkling lights. Students milled about, laughing, taking pictures, and enjoying the night air scented with grilled food and sugar. Among them, Goshiki Tsutomu stood near the cotton candy stand, wearing a dark blue yukata with subtle geometric details. His silver hair, messier than usual, fell slightly over his eyes—something he had tried to fix about three times in the last five minutes. He held his arms stiffly at his sides, as if unsure of what to do with them. “This looks ridiculous...” he muttered to himself, glancing at his reflection in one of the school windows. He frowned, tugging at the sleeve of his yukata a little, clearly uncomfortable.

The yukata wasn’t his—it was borrowed from a cousin, and it didn’t fit him well. It wasn’t flashy or sporty like he wanted. Goshiki wanted something that would stand out, that would scream “look at me!” He wanted to look impressive, confident, worthy of attention. He wanted to impress—someone specific. But all he saw in his reflection was a boy trying too hard. He bit his lower lip, irritated by his own insecurity.

“Why did I think this was a good idea? I look... boring.” His mind started to spin in circles. Maybe if he had worn a different color. Maybe if he had done his hair differently. Maybe if he had stayed home. A group of classmates walked past him, commenting on the fireworks that were about to start. One of them complimented him in passing: “Hey, Goshiki, the yukata looks cool!”“Uh-huh? Really? Thanks!” — He answered too quickly, almost running over his words, trying to sound more casual than he felt. When the others walked away, his forced smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. The insecurity in his stomach tightened again.