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Chapter 5 - Chapter 4 - Like a Dream He Tried to Forget

He was standing on stage again.

Not present-day Haruaki—the one with glasses slightly too low on his nose and sleeves rolled up in a café uniform. No. This was little Haruaki. Uniform perfectly ironed. A medal around his neck. Teachers clapping.

Someone shoved a bouquet into his arms.

He blinked at the lights above, blinding and white and hot.

He didn't speak. Didn't smile.

Someone next to him muttered, "Why him?"

He heard it—soft, but sharp as a paper cut. Another voice followed:

"He's always so quiet. Probably thinks he's better than everyone."

"I heard he doesn't even study, he just knows everything."

Their voices blurred together like rain sliding down a window, words twisting, melting into a white noise that hummed beneath the applause. He clutched the bouquet tighter. His shoulders curled inward.

People clapped harder.

So he shrank smaller.

The next memory jumped without warning.

He was sitting alone at lunch. Not because he wanted to—but because the whispers had followed him everywhere. Because the praise had turned into distance. Because being "the top" meant becoming someone people admired from afar... and no one actually knew.

So he faded.

Stopped answering so quickly.

Stopped raising his hand.

Stopped being noticed, except when test results came out.

He learned how to disappear in plain sight.

He learned how to become quiet on purpose.

And then—

He woke up.

The alarm buzzed softly beside him.

Haruaki sat up, blinking at the ceiling, the memory still fogging his eyes like early morning mist. His chest felt a little tight, as if the dream had followed him out of sleep and was now lounging in the corner of his room.

He rubbed his face, groaning once. "Why now?"

He pulled himself out of bed, changed into his uniform, and left the house early. The café smelled like coffee and sugar as always. Nozomi was still asleep upstairs—miraculous—so he tiptoed out without incident.

He arrived at school earlier than usual.

The courtyard was still quiet, except for the occasional morning chatter from teachers and a few sleepy students. He entered the hallway, scrolling lazily through his phone, before hearing Aika call out:

"Eh? You're early today!"

"I can be mysterious too," he said, slipping his phone away.

"Wow, Haruaki, you're glowing today—did you wash your face with angel tears?"

"Just water. But go off."

She laughed as she adjusted her backpack, sidestepping a rowdy group of first-years. But then—

The noise around them shifted.

Voices dipped low. Phones came out.

Students were starting to part—not like they were told to—but instinctively. Automatically. Like something important was about to pass through.

Aika tugged on Haruaki's sleeve.

"Ohhh... yep. It's them."

"Them?" he echoed.

And then he saw it.

The Ivory Spire Student Council walked down the corridor like it was a runway made of polished tile and gasps.

Leading them was a tall, composed figure—black hair perfectly sleek, the subtle glint of glasses catching the morning sun—Renji Arakawa, the infamous president. Graceful, cold-eyed, sharp as a contract.

Beside him, like an executive shadow, was Chika Hanabusa, the vice president, all precision and silk-laced judgment.

Then there was Kaito Minakami, sleeves rolled, smile casual, somehow the only one looking like a normal human. And trailing with surprising energy was Nozomi Tsugihara, skipping lightly—his sister, of all people—somehow part of this polished empire.

And there, toward the center of it all, walking without rushing, eyes locked forward—

Mizuki Fuyune.

Her steps were calm. Her expression unreadable.

She didn't look at the crowd. She didn't need to.

The hallway parted for them like they carried titles carved in gold.

Haruaki tilted his head. "...Oh."

Aika looked at him. "What?"

He scratched his neck. "That girl in the middle... That's the girl I played shogi with."

Aika's jaw dropped. "Wait what?"

He shrugged a little. "I lost."

"You mean Mizuki Fuyune? As in Student Council Mizuki? As in scary smart violin-playing Shogi queen Mizuki?"

He blinked. "...That explains a lot, actually."

"She's from that family," Aika whispered, leaning closer. "They're super strict and loaded and like... she's been top 1 since first year. She doesn't even show up to class sometimes, but still ranks higher than people who try."

Haruaki didn't respond.

His expression dulled.

He stared ahead, but didn't really see anything.

Because her name—her type—brought something else back.

He remembered the old student rankings.

The loud pride in the top students' voices. How they'd talk about everyone else like background noise. The gossip. The cruelty that wore the mask of excellence.

He remembered being beside them once.

Not with them.

And how, when he slipped out of the spotlight, not a single one of them noticed.

Not one.

Aika looked at him again. His shoulders had dropped slightly. His gaze seemed far away.

"...Hey," she said gently. "What's wrong?"

"I just..." He paused, then exhaled. "...remembered something bad."

That was all he said.

She didn't push.

Aika, for all her dramatics, had a surprisingly good read on moods. She simply gave him a soft pat on the back and said, "Wanna go get melon bread before class starts?"

"Yeah," he said, forcing a smile. "Let's."

They walked away from the echo of the crowd, leaving the hallway to its whispers.

Haruaki didn't look back at Mizuki.

But for the first time, he wasn't just curious about her game.

He was curious about her silence.

Because it didn't feel like arrogance.

It felt... familiar.

Lunch came, and Haruaki didn't follow the class to the cafeteria.

Instead, he made his way around the outer walkway of the school—away from the noise, the announcements, the crowd circling Mizuki like she was some silent star.

He liked quiet more.

And today, he needed it.

The koi pond was hidden just beyond the music room, tucked between old trees and half-blooming bushes. A wooden table sat near the edge, its surface carved with the faded outlines of old games. A weather-worn chessboard was etched into the top, probably used by generations of bored students.

He sat down, lunchbox unopened in his hands, staring absently at the still water.

The fish swam slowly—white, gold, orange. Unbothered.

He envied them a little.

Mizuki Fuyune.

That name shouldn't have meant much.

But now that it had a face—now that it was the girl who'd defeated him without a word—it stuck harder than it should.

He still remembered the look in her eyes that day.

It wasn't smug. Or proud. Or cold in a cruel way.

It was... tired. Almost hollow.

Like someone who had already lost something long before the first move was made.

But she was a top student.

Beloved.

Wealthy.

Student Council elite.

From the same world that he had once brushed against.

The one that had chewed him up, and never once said "sorry."

He clenched the chopsticks tighter in his hand.

It was stupid, he knew. To lump her in with them. To assume the worst just because of a title or rank. That wasn't fair.

And yet...

He couldn't shake the bitter whisper in the back of his mind: they're all the same.

He hated it.

Hated how easily his thoughts circled back to that bitterness. Like a reflex. Like an old wound flinching before it even got touched.

He sighed, tapping the side of the chessboard with a quiet rhythm.

"...I'm an idiot," he muttered to himself.

He was. He knew better than this. Comparing himself to her wasn't going to make him any different from the people who used to side-eye his wins like they were crimes.

So what if she was at the top?

That didn't mean she was them.

Didn't mean she even wanted to be.

Still...

His mind wandered again. Back to the library. Back to her sitting there, quiet and still, long after the game had ended. The way her fingers had hovered over the pieces like they were made of glass. The way she never once looked satisfied.

What happened to make her like that?

He didn't know.

And part of him didn't want to.

Because if he knew...

He might care.

And if he cared...

That would make things complicated.

He exhaled and leaned back, watching the breeze disturb the surface of the pond.

He didn't want to get involved.

Not with the student council—especially not with the council. A nest of top-ranked, poised-for-success, always-polished, too-damn-perfect students. His sister included, of course. Nozomi was the loud outlier, but she was still part of it.

The rest?

Too clean. Too sharp. Too shiny.

They reminded him of the kids from his old school. The ones who talked like they were already halfway into university, who laughed at him behind fake praise. The ones with tailored uniforms and connections and family names you recognized in the newspapers.

He didn't belong in that world.

Didn't want to belong.

Especially now—when he finally had a school life that wasn't painful.

He could tinker with broken watches. Tutor classmates who didn't judge. Sit by koi ponds alone if he wanted. Smile without it feeling like armor.

He didn't want anyone—especially not Mizuki Fuyune—to look at him too closely.

Because what if she saw what the others had seen?

Just a scared, quiet boy pretending to be fine.

The bell rang faintly in the distance.

But he didn't move.

Not yet.

He looked down at the faded chessboard carved into the wood of the table, idly tracing a knight with his finger. The koi swam lazily behind him, ripples catching soft sunlight. The air was warm, quiet.

Then—

A shadow.

And a voice.

"...May I sit?"

He looked up.

It was her.

Mizuki Fuyune.

She didn't look like she belonged here. Not in this quiet little corner of the school. Not in front of a weather-worn table with a broken rook and sun-bleached squares.

But she sat anyway.

Wordlessly, she picked up a piece and began setting up the board.

"It's not Shogi," she said softly, "but it'll do."

Haruaki blinked, hesitating just long enough to realize—he didn't mind.

"...Sure."

He helped finish setting up the pieces.

The game began.

Pawns moved.

Pieces danced.

The koi pond behind them murmured like background music.

Then, unexpectedly, she spoke again.

"This place attracts lonely people," she said, eyes on the board. "Myself included."

He glanced up at her, surprised.

She moved her queen's pawn with elegance.

"You had a bitter expression earlier," she continued. "The kind people make when they wish they could dissolve into the air."

"...You were watching?"

"Not intentionally. But... I've worn that same expression."

Her voice remained even. Calm. Not unkind.

"It's the look of someone used to being seen... but never known. Watched, judged, envied, maybe even admired—but never really understood."

Her bishop slid across the board.

"That gaze can feel like drowning," she murmured. "But I decided... it wouldn't stop me from doing what I like."

He stared at her.

Not just at her eyes—but at the way she spoke. Like every word was weighed, measured, then delivered with grace. Like she'd thought about these things for a long time, and simply chose this moment to let them breathe.

"...You're not like I expected," he said quietly.

She tilted her head.

"And what did you expect?"

"I don't know. Cold. Distant. Like the rest of the top students."

"You think I'm cold?"

"I thought you were," he said, then blinked. "Not now."

A silence settled between them again—only this time, it wasn't uncomfortable. It felt like the kind that meant something.

She moved another piece.

And then—

"Checkmate."

She looked down in surprise.

The knight sat quietly on her king. Two bishops boxed the path. Nowhere left to run.

She blinked once.

"You won."

He glanced at the board like he wasn't even sure how. "...Guess I got lucky."

Mizuki stared at the board a moment longer.

Then offered her hand.

"Good game."

Her fingers were pale, slender, steady.

He hesitated—just for a heartbeat—but then reached out and shook it.

And somehow... the colors of his old memories began to shift.

They weren't all gray anymore.

Maybe she wasn't like the others.

Maybe she was as different as he was.

Not in the same ways, maybe.

But different all the same.

Opposite pieces on a board—drawn to the same game.

She stood, smoothing her skirt.

"I enjoyed that," she said softly. "Let's play again sometime."

He nodded.

"...Yeah. I'd like that."

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