The second bell rang through Aoba Academy's marble halls, its echo bouncing off pristine windows and polished tile floors like a signal flare for chaos. Classroom 2-B buzzed with the usual morning chatter, chairs scraping, backpacks thumping, and students calling to one another across rows. The late spring breeze drifted in through open windows, warm and laced with the scent of blooming sakura trees from the courtyard below.
In the center of the room, bathed in morning sunlight, sat Aoi Haru—undisputed king of the social food chain.
"Come on, you saw me dodge that last defender! I was a blur—like a beautiful flash of gold," Haru boasted, stretching his arms behind his head with a cocky grin. A soccer ball rested at his feet, scuffed and well-loved, like an extension of himself. His school uniform was predictably rumpled: shirt untucked, tie hanging loose, top two buttons undone like they were allergic to being fastened.
The boy was sunshine personified—light-hearted, loud, infectious.
His friends howled with laughter as he mimicked his coach's furious expression. "He yelled so loud, I swear my soul left my body and apologized on its own."
A few girls giggled from across the room. Haru flashed them a wink. It was all part of the routine—his effortless orbit of attention, a performance so flawless no one noticed the small cracks beneath.
They never did.
At the back of the room, near the window, sat Ren Shirogane, the boy most people forgot to notice.
Ren's desk was lined with books stacked like a fortress, his pencil case organized with surgical precision. The faint scratching of his mechanical pencil was drowned out by the chaos around him. He kept his head low, the messy curtain of his dark hair shadowing his soft features. His glasses caught the sunlight, masking his gaze—but his eyes weren't on his paper.
They were on Haru.
Always on Haru.
The pencil moved carefully over the sketchbook hidden in his lap, tracing the shape of Haru's smile—not the public one, wide and bold, but the fleeting version that flickered in rare, quiet moments. Ren's fingers knew the exact angle of Haru's jaw, the curve of his lashes, the stubborn strand of hair that always fell over his forehead after soccer practice.
He told himself it was just art. Practice. Form. Anatomy.
But deep down, he knew it was more.
Ren swallowed hard and shaded the collar of Haru's uniform, his heart racing in rhythm with each pencil stroke. Drawing Haru had become something sacred, almost ritualistic—an act of longing wrapped in lead and paper. It was the closest he could ever let himself get.
Because Haru was everything Ren wasn't. Bright. Loud. Effortless. Haru could walk into a room and make people laugh in seconds. Ren could barely speak without stammering.
They lived in different worlds. Haru in the spotlight. Ren in the shadows it cast.
---
"Shirogane! Aoi!"
The sharp bark of their homeroom teacher, Ms. Takamura, silenced the classroom. Even the birds outside seemed to pause.
"You're partners for the semester project on Meiji-era social reforms," she announced, tapping her clipboard with a sense of finality. "It's due next Friday. Visuals encouraged. No last-minute excuses."
Ren's spine stiffened. His hand tightened around his pencil. No, no, anyone but him—
From the front of the room, Haru blinked. "Wait—me? With Shirogane?"
A murmur of amusement rippled through the class.
Ren's stomach sank.
But then Haru smirked, throwing an arm lazily over the back of his chair. "Well. Guess I'll be in good hands. Smartest guy in class, right?"
More laughter. The tension broke.
But Ren couldn't breathe.
His sketchbook slid slightly from his lap. He snatched it back into his bag like it was a live grenade.
---
Later — The Library
Silence ruled the school library like a sacred law, broken only by the occasional rustle of pages or soft clack of computer keys. Dusty sunlight filtered in through tall windows, casting golden pools of light across old wooden tables.
Ren sat at the farthest corner, back straight, notes neatly spread out, a paper cup of cold green tea forgotten beside his elbow. His hands shook as he flipped through the presentation outline—every bullet point color-coded, every date meticulously checked.
He looked up at the sound of footsteps—and there he was.
Aoi Haru, soccer star, flirt, human golden retriever. Radiant even in the dim light of the library.
He dropped into the seat beside Ren with a sigh that carried way too much drama. "Man, I'm never this quiet for this long. I think I'm getting a rash."
Ren didn't respond. His throat was dry.
"You okay?" Haru leaned in, blinking. "Did I scare you off already?"
"N-no," Ren said quickly, eyes on his notes. "I—I just thought we could start with a timeline. To organize the events chronologically."
He pushed the paper toward Haru, who leaned over, studying it.
"Whoa," Haru muttered. "You made this?"
Ren nodded silently.
"It's... actually kind of amazing," Haru said, eyes scanning the clean handwriting and hand-drawn arrows.
Ren's face flushed pink. "I just thought it would help. Since we're different. I mean—uh, you're probably more of a visual learner, and—"
The pencil case zipped open. Pages shuffled.
And then the worst happened.
His sketchbook slipped from the pocket of his bag.
It hit the floor with a soft thunk—and flipped open.
Ren lunged for it, heart in his throat. But Haru had already picked it up.
Ren's entire body locked.
Haru flipped through a few pages. Then stopped.
His breath caught.
Dozens of sketches—half-finished, shaded, raw—filled the pages. But not just any sketches. Him. Laughing. Stretching. Eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. Caught mid-stride on the field. Smiling softly at something no one else saw.
"I—It's just practice," Ren blurted, voice hoarse. "I draw a lot—I didn't mean to—I wasn't going to show—"
But Haru didn't laugh.
He just stared.
"I look… different," he said quietly.
Ren froze.
"Like a real person," Haru continued. "Not... the way people usually see me."
Ren wanted to vanish. Dissolve into air. Sink into the floorboards and disappear forever.
But Haru gently closed the sketchbook and handed it back.
"You're really good, Ren."
Ren blinked. He couldn't remember the last time Haru had said his name.
"You really see people, huh?"
Ren didn't know how to answer. His hands trembled as he tucked the sketchbook away.
Haru smiled again—smaller this time, genuine. "Guess I really did get lucky with my partner."
For a split second, their eyes met.
And in that fragile moment, something shifted.