What It Means To Fall Inlove

There are things in this world that are terrifying.

Like clowns. Pop quizzes. Accidentally liking your own 5-year-old embarrassing post while stalking someone's profile. Or accidentally rewinding time to the wrong era and ending up watching dinosaurs argue over territory.

But nothing—nothing—is as terrifying as realizing that you, a once-proud time warden, have fallen for the most chaotic, suspiciously adorable, disaster-magnet of a human being to ever exist.

And yet here I am. Walking through downtown like a normal guy. Holding hands with her.

Yep. I'm doomed...

I've said this a million times... I just wanted to remind myself how much I messed up...

She's swinging our hands like a child hyped on ten packets of sugar, and every third step, she does this tiny hop like she's skipping in a fairytale. If she starts singing to nearby pigeons and they sing back, I'm leaving this timeline entirely.

I sneak another glance at her. That makes... what, the 57th time? In the last ten minutes?

She's smiling at the wind like it told her a joke. Her hair is bouncing, the sun is bouncing off her cheeks, and I swear the pigeons are getting jealous. I can't believe it. I still can't believe I like this girl.

No, scratch that.

I like-like her. The terrifying, heart-exploding, brain-melting, world-ending kind of like. It's the kind of like that makes you say, "Sure, I'll walk three kilometers to get you that limited edition boba cup." And then smile while doing it.

It's terrifying. Soul-crushing. Knees-weak, arms-spaghetti, please-someone-send-help levels of scary.

It's scarier than being late to a time anomaly inspection. Scarier than the time I accidentally rewound myself into a wedding where they thought I was the groom. Scarier than the time I tried to cook dinner and almost blew up the microwave with a potato.

But also...

It's nice.

And warm.

Like a fresh, newly brewed tea in the middle of a winter.

Hotter than that gyudon I gobbled up last week at at my favorite ricebowl diner across Fried Chicken Heaven that definitely gave me temporary heartburn and long-term spiritual enlightenment.

I steal another glance at her. Bad idea. Because she's smiling at me now.

At me.

Not the sky. Not the pigeons. Not the cotton candy man across the street.

Me.

My heart reacts like it's auditioning for a shoujo anime soundtrack. Loud. Dramatic. Off-beat.

buh-buh-BUH-BOOM!

It's not normal. This isn't romantic. This is cardiac danger.

"You're suspiciously smiling cutely at me," I mutter, side-eyeing her like she's up to something—which, let's be real, she always is. "What mildly world-altering chaos are you plotting this time? And please, don't say it involves fireworks, goat rentals, or convincing a mime to teach you how to be invisible again."

Akari just grins.

Grins like she's holding all the secrets to the universe behind those slightly boba-stained lips.

And then.

She grabs my hand with renewed gusto and drags me. Again. To god knows where. Again. Probably to buy snacks. Again.

I make a noise that can only be described as part-sigh, part-giraffe-mating-call.

"Akari! What is it this time? A yakitori stand? Limited-edition melonpan? Please tell me we're not chasing that guy with the cotton candy cannon again—"

"We're going where fate takes us!" she declares with a sparkle in her eyes and exactly zero sense of direction.

Fate, apparently, takes us to a takoyaki stall. And then to a mini plushie crane game. And then to a place that makes animal-shaped pancakes. Each time she yells, "OH MY GOSH, LOOK!" and bolts toward it like a cartoon character chasing a dream. Or food. Mostly food.

And each time I follow.

Like the fool I am.

Because somehow, despite all logic, I like her. Enough to eat five octopus balls in a row even though I'm 89% sure I'm allergic to shellfish. Don't ask...

Akari hands me a bunny-shaped pancake with a grin. "It's you!"

"It's... edible."

"It's cute!"

"It's got weird little eyes that feel like they're judging me."

"You're just projecting!"

I nibble the pancake's ear. It tastes like regret and sugar.

She giggles. Her laugh bubbles up like soda, fizzy and light and somehow manages to hit every corner of my chest at once. Not fair. Not fair at all.

We plop down onto a nearby bench surrounded by string lights and old people feeding pigeons. She starts talking about how she's going to adopt a pigeon and name it Jellybean.

"What about its pigeon friends?" I ask.

"They'll be fine. Jellybean will rise above the rest. Literally. I'll give him tiny stilts."

"...Why are you like this?"

"Because you're like that."

"What does that even mean—?"

Suddenly, she's close. Real close. Her face is just there, leaning into mine, pupils wide, breath full of sweet pancake scent.

"Shiwei," she whispers.

My soul tries to leave my body.

"Yes?"

"...You've got powdered sugar on your nose."

"WHAT?!"

And she wipes it off with her thumb. Smirking. Smirking like she just stole a galaxy.

I have never been this attacked in my life.

I want to scream. I want to rewind time. I want to bury myself in a hole and never emerge again unless someone brings curry. Or that one Filipino breakfast that screams high blood pressure.

Instead, I cough, shift away dramatically, and pretend to inspect a pigeon like it's a rare bird species I need to catalog.

She stretches out on the bench beside me, looking like she owns the universe.

"Nice weather today, huh?"

"Yeah. Too nice. Suspiciously nice. Sky's probably plotting something."

She chuckles. "Maybe it's in love."

"Gross..."

She hums a tune, one of those weird ones she always makes up that has lyrics like 'snacks before smacks' and 'don't trust cats wearing hats.'

My heart is still misbehaving. I want to scream at it to chill. But it won't. Because she's right here.

And I'm doomed.

Doomed in the best way possible.

And somehow, some terrifying, warm, terrifying again way... I don't mind at all.

***

After the quest of strolling outside, and invading every foodstalls possible, which she called "date," we decided to head back home.

And there...

She did it again.

She gave me a heart attack.

The fatal kind. The cute overload cardiac arrest type. Someone call a medic. Better yet, call a priest. Last rites and all that.

We were standing in front of her apartment door. Our date had ended -if you could call that chaotic city-wide quest for snacks a "date"- and there she was again—standing right next to her door, which was conveniently right next to mine, flashing that idiotic, infamous finger heart with her suspiciously sparkly eyes.

"Good night, Shiwei!" she chirped, smile glowing brighter than the sun cranked to max brightness.

I think my soul ascended. And then immediately descended right back to earth with all the grace of a brick dropped from a helicopter.

I muttered a barely coherent "Goodnight" and staggered back into my apartment, face flushed, chest doing somersaults, and dignity left behind somewhere near the grilled yakitori stand.

I slumped on my couch like I just came back from war.

She will be the end of me.

If her chaotic energy that leads to disasters doesn't take me out first, her unbearable cuteness will. Either way, I'm doomed. There's no escape. This is my life now: dodging disasters and dying of love-induced trauma.

So... what now?

We're not exactly official yet. I mean, we held hands, she smiled at me a lot, and there was definitely a moment where I think she was about to say something romantic before she got distracted by a hot dog with mustard smiley faces.

Still. We're not a couple yet.

So now I have to do the thing. The thing that all poor mortals in love do when they're stuck in this emotional limbo.

I asked for help.

But did I ask a person? No.

Of course not.

I turned to the one source of information that has guided many to their emotional downfall, and that includes myself...

The Smartphone...

I hesitated.

Then, with trembling fingers, I opened the search bar.

And typed:

Search: how to confess love to girl who is a disaster gremlin but also cute and might accidentally set the world on fire if left unsupervised

...

I got results like:

"Confess with confidence! Bonus: How to survive the rejection!"

"Top 10 anime betrayals (but romantic)."

"Why your crush might actually be a cat in disguise."

I stared.

My blood pressure spiked.

I considered throwing the phone out the window. Or better yet, feeding it to Barker, the dog. I'm sure he'd enjoy the taste of despair-flavored circuitry.

Still, there were some helpful nuggets.

After digging through the terrifying search results and ignoring one that told me to hire a flash mob-NO!-, I started writing things down.

I pulled out the sacred document.

The Notes of Doom.

Official title: Guide to Winning Over Your One True Love (Even if You're an Idiot).

Unofficial title I gave it: My Will to Live, In Bullet Points.

I added some gems:

Step 1: Don't die before confessing.

Step 2: Buy flowers. Real ones. Not plastic. Don't be cheap.

Step 3: Practice not stuttering like an overheated rice cooker.

Step 4: If rejected, do not fake your own death. (Tempting. But no.)

Step 5: Smile like a normal person. Not like someone who's seen eternity and forgot how lips work.

I stared at my notes.

I sighed.

A long, tired, defeated sigh.

And then...

I smiled.

Because somehow, through all that chaos today... I felt something warm. Like... like the warmest feeling I've ever known. Warmer than the fresh gyudon I had last week that almost burned the roof of my mouth off. Warmer than standing in the sun while wrapped in a kotatsu that I don't own. Warmer than Akari's smile when she finally won that one rigged claw machine after nearly declaring war on it.

That's what this is.

This is what falling in love feels like.

Smiling like an idiot for no reason.

Looking at a girl who might actually glow with cuteness.

Going broke. Absolutely, gloriously broke. Because apparently, aesthetic boba and twelve rounds of takoyaki aren't cheap.

Making a fool out of yourself in public.

Rewinding time just to make sure she doesn't walk into a lamp post while trying to photobomb a stranger's family picture.

It's a one-way ticket to your own emotional demise.

And the worst part?

I'm not even mad about it...

I closed my notebook and tossed it gently -violently- onto the coffee table.

Then I leaned back on the couch, looked up at the ceiling, and whispered:

"...I'm doomed."

The smartphone buzzed ominously.

"Shut up, smartphone."

It buzzed again. Probably laughing.

Whatever. Tomorrow's another day. Another chance. Another disaster.

And maybe...

Just maybe...

The day I finally confess.

Assuming I survive it, of course...