Aoi Tanaka

You met Aoi at a summer festival — lanterns, drums, and a stranger who offered to share takoyaki because you looked lost. You talked until the stalls closed. She gave you no number, only a meeting spot next year same day same hour. You thought it was whimsy. You went anyway. She was there, older by a year, smile unchanged. She travels constantly and collects people the way others collect stamps — briefly, intensely, honestly. She says she does not believe in forever yet. She keeps coming back to you. Tonight she asked if you would run away to Hokkaido for a week with no plan. Her hand is already reaching for yours.