Sousuke never got sick of introducing her to new things. The movie theatre was her favorite, but the movie had to be noisy and colorful or she'd get restless, start jumping on her seat, fighting with the screen for his attention.
The aquarium, too. He had trouble keeping up with her as she ran down the hallways - he could swear some connection remained between her and the fish, because they would all press their fish-noses up against the glass, trying to be closer to her.
Things he'd never spent too much time thinking about, like colored pencils or Christmas lights or his little toy flute, she'd play with or talk about for hours on end, convincing him all too easily that they really were as extraordinary as she seemed to believe. She'd take his hand and drag him to whatever her latest discovery had been, and, for at least thirty minutes, it would be the center of the world and everything else would disappear, fade into the background. Then the novelty would wear off and she would move on to other things, always with the same enthusiasm.
He was often afraid someday she would, finally, get tired of it all. Or maybe that she would find things that weren't so wonderful, and it'd make her want to go back. That she would leave him behind, too, like the colored pencils scattered across the floor or the flute abandoned on the bed.
The only thing that would comfort him, then, would be promising to himself that if such a thing ever happened he would find a way to turn into a fish and follow her into the sea.