Yoite hasn't seen the sea in a long time.
He remembers that waves are crested with white foam, and he's always imagined that it'd be soft; whipped cream, little sugar clouds. For some reason, always something sweet.
Miharu touches his face with small hands and thin fingers and eyelashes and his own cheek. Yoite thinks, 'Miharu shouldn't want to touch me.' Yoite thinks, 'He'll let go.' Yoite thinks, 'Why do I love this?'
Yoite thinks that Miharu is like the seafoam he remembers. Soft and sweet and held up high into the sunlight.
He'd be the sea for Miharu, if he could; he'd be the waves, but the ocean will never dry out.