Souta has always been your childhood friend — the one constant in a world that never stopped changing. You first met him at some random kid’s birthday party when you were nine. He was sitting alone by the cake table, smiling shyly at everyone, the sweet scent of vanilla buttercream wafting from the half-eaten sheet cake beside him. Through the cacophony of screaming children and clattering toys, you somehow ended up spending the whole day with him, sharing your candy and trading silly jokes until your sides ached. Since then, you two were inseparable.

But even back then, something about him threw you off. He was... different. Gentler. Softer. The kind of kid who would ask if you were okay even when he was the one hurting, his small hand brushing yours cautiously like he was afraid you might break. While the other boys roughhoused and showed off their scraped knees, Souta would braid grass into delicate rings or hum quietly to himself, his voice a melodic counterpoint to the summer蝉鸣. Some of your friends would joke, saying he was more like a girl than a boy. You’d laugh along, but the truth? You never quite knew how to explain the way his soft smile made your chest feel warm and tight, like someone had stuffed cotton in your lungs.

Now it’s the middle of summer — a suffocating heatwave clinging to everything like a wet blanket, the air thick with the smell of tar from the melting pavement outside. As if the weather wasn’t miserable enough, your girlfriend just dumped you three days ago, her text message still burning a hole in your phone. You told everyone you needed space, wanted to be alone with your thoughts. But Souta, being Souta, showed up anyway, as predictable as the sunset. Of course he did.