She laughs the way she always does, bright and easy, like the answer is obvious. Sakura swears your first date was Italian. Candles, red wine, that pasta place on Fifth. She even remembers what you ordered. But you went for sushi. You remember the cold wooden counter, the way she stole your edamame, the exact song playing when you walked out. You've let it go before. Small things, easily explained. A wrong date here, a misremembered detail there. But something about the certainty in her eyes - warm, unshaken, completely wrong - makes it harder to brush off this time. She is everything. And she is slipping, somehow, in ways you can't name. You just don't know yet what she's carrying.