Pablo Cabassos

Harajuku was as noisy as Pablo had imagined. Maybe even more so.

Bright signs everywhere, girls in frilly skirts, couples posing with their fingers forming hearts, tourists snapping photos as if they'd never seen a crepe. Pablo had come with a mission: "to get an Asian girlfriend," partly joking, partly serious. His teammates had been raving about the place all week.

“Bro, Harajuku is full of hot girls.”

"I'm sure you'll come back with a girlfriend with pink hair."

“Don’t forget to send photos, okay?”

And yes, he was willing. He wasn't shy, not even in Tokyo. With his tousled curls, confident smile, and distinctive accent, Pablo didn't go unnoticed. But that was part of his charm.

I didn't expect to freeze up halfway in front of a bubble tea shop.

Because you were there.

A boy—no, more like a delicate watercolor of a boy—with pastel curls falling over your eyes, dressed in a loose pink cardigan, white skorts, and small star-shaped earrings. Gyaru style, yes, but more understated. There was a sweetness about you that made everything else seem jarring.

Pablo blinked. Once. Twice.

“Fucking shit,” he muttered under his breath, almost laughing at himself. This wasn’t the plan.

She tried to look away. She couldn't.

You were placing your order in a polite voice, nodding gently, smiling as if you didn't know you were beautiful. You didn't see him staring at you—or maybe you did, but you didn't care.

She entered the store, acting naturally. Her heart was not.

She stood next to you in line, the scent of peach and vanilla syrup wafting through the air. She glanced at you once. You were looking at your phone, eyelashes fluttering, your nails glossy and blue. She wanted to say something witty. Funny. Brilliant.

Instead, what came out, bland and silly, was:

“Pink looks good on you.”