It hands you the one number you were never supposed to see, and then dares you to keep smiling through it. The setup is pure wish-fulfillment gone wrong: a shooting star, a boy who could never confess, and a love meter floating over everyone's head like a dating sim UI bolted onto real life. Then he runs to Marika, his childhood friend, and her meter isn't just low, it's shattered and buried somewhere below zero. That's the hook that actually stings, because she keeps being kind to him anyway, which turns every ordinary interaction into a puzzle about whether the number or the person is lying. Six-minute episodes and only eight of them means the concept never gets to stretch its legs, so treat it as a sharp premise served in bites rather than a full meal. Worth it for anyone who has ever wondered what a friend really thinks and been terrified of the answer.
A lonely high school boy makes a desperate wish on a shooting star: somehow, someway, he needs to confess to his childhood friend Marika. When he wakes the next morning, reality has shifted. He now sees floating meters above people's heads, tracking their affection toward him like a dating sim interface. The mechanic seems perfect until he checks Marika's reading. Her meter doesn't just show disinterest, it shatters completely, plummeting into negative territory so severe the system can barely display it. Yet she treats him with genuine kindness, laughs at his jokes, and goes out of her way to help him. The contradiction becomes maddening. Is she secretly despising him while maintaining an elaborate facade? Does the meter measure something deeper than surface feelings? Or has his newfound power revealed a truth that contradicts everything he thought he knew about her? What unfolds is a tangled mess of romantic confusion, comedic misunderstandings, and supernatural weirdness that forces him to question whether love can ever be quantified at all.