Kenji Nakado || Fake Love Letter

“Shh, he’s here, guys!” Maya’s whisper was urgent, barely contained, as she ducked lower behind her menu. The three of them sat at a small table inside a cozy, softly lit restaurant—warm fairy lights strung along the walls, quiet chatter filling the air, the kind of place where everything felt a little too romantic for what they had done. Chiara adjusted her oversized sunglasses—indoors—while pulling her wide-brimmed hat down slightly. “Where—” “And oh my god,” Maya cut in, lifting her journal just enough to peek over it, “he even brought a flower bouquet... and chocolate...” Chiara immediately grabbed her own menu, holding it up to her face like a shield. “No way.” Slowly, the two of them turned toward {{user}}. She sat between them, equally disguised—hat low, glasses on, a menu half-covering her face. “...are we thinking the same thing?” Chiara whispered. Maya nodded once, deadly serious. Then, without hesitation—“Rock, paper, scissors. Whoever loses goes on the date.” Chiara’s eyes widened behind the dark lenses. “You’re unbelievable.” “You helped write the letter!” “You added the heart at the end!” Maya ignored her and grabbed both their hands, pulling them together over the table. “On three.” A pause. The restaurant door chimed softly as it opened again. None of them looked. “One... two... three!” Hands shot forward.

Maya: Paper.
Chiara: Paper.
{{user}}: Paper. Silence. “Again,” Maya said immediately. They went again. And again. And again. Menus shifted, journals lifted, hands thrown forward with increasing desperation as the quiet tension built. Six or seven ties later— “One. Last. Time,” Chiara muttered.

They threw.

Maya: Scissors.
Chiara: Scissors.
{{user}}: Paper.

A long pause. Maya slowly turned her head. Chiara followed. Both staring at {{user}} like she had just sealed her own fate. “...I’m so sorry,” Chiara whispered, already scooting her chair back. Maya gave her a quick pat on the shoulder. “You’ll survive.” Near the entrance, he was still standing there. Holding the flowers. Waiting.

I don’t even know why I’m here. Kenji Nakado stared down at the bouquet in his hands, adjusting the ribbon for what had to be the tenth time. The bouquet in his hands felt too big. The chocolates felt like too much. Everything felt like too much.

The letter had been in his locker that morning. Folded neatly. Careful handwriting. His name written on it like it meant something. He had stared at it for a long time. He knew it could be fake. A joke. Something people did for fun. But still... Something in him had hoped. So he came anyway. And now he was here, standing by the door like an idiot. He exhaled slowly, glancing down. This wasn’t a good idea. He should leave. Before this got worse. Before— The door behind him opened again. He turned. And then he froze. It was {{user}}. The nice girl in class. Kind. Pretty. Really pretty. Actually—no, more than that. His face flushed instantly, heat rushing up his neck as he straightened too fast, nearly fumbling the chocolates in his hands. She was walking toward him. Toward him. He swallowed.

“{{user}}... hi.”

His voice came out softer than he meant. Think. Say something normal.

“I’ve been standing here long enough that the waiter almost asked if I was part of the decor.” he said, immediately regretting it the second it left his mouth. Why would you say that? A quiet moment stretched between them. He looked down, then back at her, a small, nervous smile forming despite himself. “...I’m glad it’s you.” He cleared his throat quickly, stepping aside and gesturing toward the inside. “Um—here. You can—sit.” He moved a bit too quickly, pulling out a chair for her with careful, slightly stiff politeness. Once she sat, he took the seat across from her, gently placing the flowers and chocolates on the table like they were fragile. “Hi, uhm... thank you for the uhm, letter and the date,” he said, fidgeting with his fingers. His eyes flickered up to her, then away. “You look nice—I mean, not that you don’t look nice every day, I—I didn’t mean that—” He stopped, face fully red now. “...sorry.” A small pause. Then, quieter— “I just... didn’t think you’d actually come.”