The next morning, the festival committee room felt smaller than it should have with eight of us crammed inside.
Professor Daizen sat at the head of the long table, our proposal spread out in front of him like evidence in a trial. Three student committee members flanked him—upperclassmen whose expressions ranged from mildly interested to openly skeptical.
My bracelet had been pulsing steadily since we'd walked in. Not warm this time. Urgent.
"So," Daizen said, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses, "a Memory Garden installation. Interactive, collaborative, designed to foster emotional connection between participants." He looked up at Airi, who stood at the front of our group like she'd been born to present ideas. "Ambitious."
"Doable," she replied without hesitation. Today's version of her was all business—dark blazer, hair pulled back severely, every gesture precise. This was Airi the project manager, and she was magnificent. "We've calculated materials, timeline, staffing requirements. Everything's accounted for."
"The budget breakdown looks solid," Ren added, stepping forward with his perfectly organized binder. "And we've already secured preliminary approval from the art department for supplies."
One of the committee members—a stern-faced girl with purple hair—frowned at the sketches. "This seems... emotionally intensive. What if participants find it overwhelming? Or inappropriate?"
"That's why we're including trained volunteers at each station," Miyu said brightly. "Art therapy students from the psychology department. They'll help guide interactions, make sure everyone feels safe."
I watched Airi's face as her friends backed her up, saw something ease in her expression. This was what she'd been afraid of losing—this automatic support, this sense of team.
"And the logistics?" Purple-hair pressed. "Weather contingencies? Crowd control? Clean-up procedures?"
"All covered," Saya said coolly, producing her own folder. "We've planned for every scenario except alien invasion. And honestly, if aliens show up, I think they'd appreciate the Memory Garden too."
Daizen chuckled. "Ms. Kurosawa, your confidence is either inspiring or terrifying."
"Why not both?" she replied with a slight smirk.
The committee members exchanged glances—the kind of silent communication that made my stomach clench. This could go either way.
"The concept is innovative," Daizen said finally. "And your preparation is thorough. But..."
But. There's always a but.
"This type of installation requires more oversight than typical festival booths. If we approve this, you'll need a faculty sponsor to be present throughout the event. Someone who can handle any... emotional situations that might arise."
"That's fine," Airi said immediately. "We can—"
"I'll do it."
Everyone turned to stare at Professor Daizen.
"Sir?" Airi's professional composure cracked slightly.
"I'll sponsor your project," he repeated, standing. "It's been years since I've seen students propose something that actually aims to touch people's hearts rather than just their wallets. Besides," his eyes twinkled behind his glasses, "I'm curious to see what memories people choose to share."
The room erupted in contained celebration—fist bumps, quiet cheers, Miyu actually bouncing in place. But I was watching Airi, who looked like she might cry with relief.
"There is one condition," Daizen continued, and the celebration died.
Of course there is.
"Given the scope and complexity of your project, you'll be representing not just yourselves, but the festival as a whole. This will be the centerpiece installation—which means if it fails, the entire event suffers."
The weight of that statement settled over us like lead.
"Additionally," he continued, "the committee will be evaluating your project for potential inclusion in next year's university showcase. Success here could open doors for all of you."
"No pressure," Taichi muttered under his breath.
"None at all," Daizen agreed with a grin that suggested he'd heard. "You have my approval. Don't make me regret it."
The campus café buzzed with afternoon energy, but our corner table might as well have been in its own universe. Eight chairs pushed together, celebration drinks scattered between notebooks and planning materials, voices overlapping in excited discussion.
"Centerpiece installation," Rika was saying, her usual calm demeanor brightened by genuine enthusiasm. "That's huge, Airi. This could actually launch your art career."
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Airi replied, but she was glowing. This was happiness Airi—unguarded, radiant, infectious. "We haven't even built it yet."
"Details," Kouta waved dismissively. "We're going to crush this. I can feel it."
"Your feelings are not statistically reliable data," Ren pointed out, but he was smiling too.
"Math boy's got jokes," Saya observed. "I'm impressed."
I sat back and watched the dynamic unfold. Two friend groups that had been cautiously circling each other for weeks, now planning and laughing together like they'd known each other for years. In the center of it all was Airi, animated and confident, her joy pulling everyone else into orbit.
My bracelet pulsed warm against my wrist, and for a moment I caught Airi's eye across the table. She smiled—not one of her careful, calculated expressions, but something real and bright and just for me.
This is perfect, I thought. This is exactly how it should be.
That's when Miyu's expression shifted.
"This reminds me of junior year," she said suddenly, her cheerful tone carrying an undercurrent I couldn't place. "Remember, Airi? The cultural exchange project?"
The change in Airi was instant and devastating. The light in her eyes dimmed, her shoulders tensed, and suddenly she wasn't happiness Airi anymore. She was careful Airi, guarded Airi, the version that appeared when she felt threatened.
"That was different," she said quietly.
"Was it?" Saya's voice had gone sharp. "Big collaborative project, lots of enthusiasm, mixed friend groups..."
"Saya," Rika warned.
"I'm just saying, we've been here before."
The table fell into uncomfortable silence. Whatever reference they were making, it was clearly significant. And painful.
"What happened?" Kei asked gently.
Airi stared at her hands. "Nothing. It's not important."
"If it's affecting how you feel about this project, it's important," I said.
She looked up at me, and I saw something crumble in her expression. Fear, maybe. Or resignation.
"Someone got hurt," she said finally. "Someone who trusted me. Someone who..." She took a shaky breath. "The project fell apart. People stopped talking to each other. And it was my fault."
"That's not—" Miyu started.
"It was," Airi cut her off. "I was so focused on making something beautiful, I didn't notice what was happening right in front of me. I didn't notice that someone was..." She pressed her lips together. "Feelings got complicated. And when things fell apart, everyone blamed me for not seeing it coming."
The pieces clicked into place. A collaborative project. Mixed friend groups. Someone getting hurt. Someone whose feelings had gotten complicated.
Someone had fallen for Airi. And she hadn't noticed. Or hadn't been able to handle it.
"Airi," Rika said softly, "that wasn't your fault. And this situation is completely different."
"Is it?" Airi's voice was barely above a whisper. "Because I look around this table, and I see the same pattern starting. People being nice to each other, working together, pretending everything's simple when it's not."
Her eyes flickered to me for just a moment, and I felt my stomach drop.
She was scared. Not of the project failing, but of history repeating itself. Of someone getting hurt because she'd let herself care too much, trust too easily.
Of me getting hurt.
"Hey," I said, reaching across the table to touch her hand. "This is different. We're different."
"You don't know that," she replied, but she didn't pull away.
"I know you," I said. "And I know that you're not responsible for other people's feelings. You're only responsible for being honest about your own."
The bracelet on my wrist pulsed once, sharp and bright, and this time I was sure Airi saw it. Her eyes widened slightly, and she stared at my wrist like she was seeing something impossible.
"Your bracelet," she said suddenly. "It's—"
"Glowing?" Taichi interrupted, leaning across the table. "Dude, that's actually kind of cool. Where'd you get it?"
I looked down at my wrist, and my heart stopped.
The bracelet wasn't just pulsing. It was glowing. Soft blue light emanated from what I'd always assumed was just brushed metal, pulsing in rhythm with my heartbeat.
"I..." I stared at it, mind racing. "I don't remember."
"You don't remember where you got a glowing bracelet?" Saya's eyebrow arched. "That's... concerning."
"Maybe it's mood jewelry," Miyu suggested helpfully. "Like those rings that change color based on your body temperature."
But I wasn't listening anymore. Because across the table, Airi had gone completely still. She was staring at my bracelet with an expression I'd never seen before—recognition mixed with something that looked almost like terror.
"Airi?" I said. "Are you okay?"
She blinked, seeming to come back to herself. "I... yes. Sorry. I just... I should go."
She stood abruptly, gathering her things with shaking hands.
"Wait," I said, standing too. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. I just remembered I have a thing. A family thing. I need to..." She was backing toward the exit, eyes still fixed on my bracelet. "I'll see you all tomorrow."
And then she was gone, leaving seven confused friends and one very frightened Yuuma staring after her.
"That was weird," Taichi said into the silence.
"Understatement of the year," Saya muttered.
I looked down at my bracelet again. The glow was fading, returning to its normal metallic appearance like nothing had happened.
But something had happened. Something that had made Airi run like she'd seen a ghost.
The question was: what did she know that I didn't?
And why did I have the sinking feeling that our perfect afternoon had just become the beginning of something much more complicated?
My bracelet gave one final, faint pulse.
Like a warning.
Like a countdown.
Like time running out...