That summer—Hiroki's was still and quiet, yet destined to shift.
His class, 1-3, was reserved for top,tier students. Though the school sat on a modest concrete road in a rural village, it was known for its quality. The schoolyard faced golden fields stretching wide—evoking an indescribable peace.
Most students had known each other for years. But Hiroki was different. He wasn't close with anyone before transferring here. His elementary friends had scattered—and he never tried to reconnect.
His first year of high school passed like that: others exploring friendship, awakening to first loves—while he remained on the fringes.
The expansive schoolyard bustled with small groups—but in the storage room, one student hid away.
It was dim—no light except thin sunbeams slipping through a small, high window. Sports gear, balls, and cones lay coated in dust.
Hiroki sat against a metal shelf, using the faint light to illuminate a textbook. He leaned over complex equations, attempting to solve them before gym class ended.
As always, if he wasn't here, he'd be curled up under a tree, surrounded by thick math, physics, and chemistry textbooks. The school knew Mamoru Hiroki as a prodigy in the sciences—but his studying style was considered… intense. He seemed like a lone creature, apart from everything. But for him, solitude was comfort.
The pen in his hand rustled paper after paper. Another problem, then another. His back ached. Why hadn't gym ended yet?
He pushed to sit up straight, interlaced his fingers behind his head—and accidentally brushed something. Not lightly, either.
Crash!
Plastic containers crashed to the floor, a carton spilling colorful rings and sports gear. One plastic ring slid down around his neck like jewelry, and a cone tumbled onto his head.
He froze—blinded, weighed down by fallen equipment.
Damn it. Hope no one's watching. In the corridor, he could still hear the school riot outside, but inside, silence.
"Well…what did I just do," he muttered, trying to pull the cone further over his face.
If anyone saw him now, he'd spend the entire year frozen like the Toji statue—come rain or shine.
"Um…one basketball—or two?" came a voice.
The door swung open with a squeak. He'd been discovered, and could only hope it wasn't humiliating.
"Teacher Karaki? Wait…just a moment– …"
A female student peered in—seeing him sprawled in the mess, coned and ringed. He froze, red with embarrassment, his eyes shut tight. Of them all, she was the last person he wanted to see—especially like this.
"Are you… okay?" she asked.
He looked up. The cone still obscured half his vision.
"Oh—it's you, Mamoru-san." She was Ikeda Yuna, the class vicepresident—shoulder,length teal hair and a bright smile.
"I-Ikeda-san…" he stammered.
"Let me help you up," she offered, grabbing his hand firmly. He tried to stand with her aid, but they both slipped backward—his back thudding against the shelf.
"Um…aah! No need to,"
Yet she wouldn't let go of his wrist.
"Okay…" she gritted her teeth. "We'll do this together."
He assured her it was fine, but she persisted. Finally, she lifted him upright. The cone fell from his head, revealing his messy blonde hair.
He choked on dust. She sighed, amused.
"Hmmph...Mamoru-san…" she huffed uncontrollably. Meanwhile, he fixed his hair and flicked away the orange ring still around his neck.
"Ah—I'm sorry…Hmphh…I didn't mean to see you like this—"
From the hallway: "Yuna, are you done?"
She turned and responded loudly to Teacher Karaki. When she turned back, Hiroki had disappeared from sight.
….
After that incident, Hiroki tried to erase it from memory. He'd avoided interaction—only for the event to still affect him.
Next gym session, he thought, I'll just find another hiding spot…
During break, he buried himself in books at his desk. Sticky notes—chemical formulas filling him to the brim. Hiroki remained silent, immersed in study as if exhaustion did not exist.
But the reverie broke quickly. Girls in the row ahead began chattering. One turned around with legs crossed lazily, another stood nearby.
"Hey Hiroki-san, don't you get tired studying all the time?"
He said nothing, eyes unmoving.
The first girl (he didn't remember her name) sounded annoyed. "Hey—if you're not hanging with the boys, you could at least pay attention to us?"
"Ah~ Shiki, are you trying to flirt with our cold-handsome-chemistry-genius?"
"What are you saying, Ame? I just wanted to invite him to the salon~"
"Oh really? Hiroki-san, your hair's getting way too long—and didn't Shiki wanna watch a movie?"
"Stop teasing me, Ame."
Their high-pitched voices buzzed around him. He barely cared—they were an inconvenience, nothing more. If he didn't pay attention, maybe they'd give up eventually, that's what he always thought.
He hardly cared about his appearance. His long blond hair reached the nape of his neck, untouched. At a salon someone once called it "rare, thick and long." Yet it often became a subject of ridicule—or unwanted attention.
What he didn't know was that it also made him stand out among the girls...
One day they held the first-semester awards ceremony in the school gym. Nothing grand—just recognition of exemplary students. Winners walked up to collect certificates in categories like reading, sports, art, and academics—all praised over the PA.
Names called, students received applause as they ascended the stage. But only one boy drew all eyes—the next name to be announced:
"Next, we honor Takahashi Ryusei, Class 1-3—our pride and joy."
"He's earned First Place in Tokyo City Math, Runner-Up in the National Physics Challenge, and as soccer team captain, led us to the Osaka Student League Championship!"
The crowd—especially the schoolgirls—couldn't stop cheering Takahashi Ryusei's name. Their excited whispers and chatter filled the air. His close friends were there too: Shimaki, the goalkeeper who'd been held back three years; Kizuha, a solid defender; and Kairo, standing proudly nearby with a silver medal as a member of the school's baseball team. The four of them made quite the crew.
At the back, Hiroki wore his usual impassive expression, watching the cheering mass send their star forward. Takahashi Ryusei, the class president of Hiroki's class, still carried himself with that same effortless poise from afar. His head was held high, features sharp and striking. His jet-black hair was swept neatly to the sides, partially covering those equally dark eyes. More than looks or achievements, it was the unexplainable charisma he carried that made hearts flutter—something not earned, not taught, but simply possessed.
Hiroki bored his arms, stifling a yawn. With Ryusei honored, there was nothing left for him to watch.
Then through the crowd, turquoise hair caught his eye. And he heard her name on the PA—Ikeda Yuna.
Their vice-president—the one who saw him at his most humiliating moment— stood just below Ryusei, beside another girl from their class. That familiar sunlit smile rested gently on her lips, lighting up the corner of the stage. Shimaki, ever the lively one, whispered something to her, prompting a shy laugh from Yuna. For a brief second, her eyes flickered toward Ryusei. He, keeping up his noble air, merely smirked and turned away, letting Shimaki carry on his antics at his side.
Then came whispers behind Hiroki:
"I heard Ryusei and Yuna are kind of... involved?"
"Ryusei and Yuna? They do make a nice pair—look at them."
"Hmm… standing so close during the ceremony…"
"I heard... they're like a thing."
"Like… a thing?"
"Yeah—they like each other. But who likes who?"
He looked around—girls at the ceremony gossiping.
"Even Shimaki is involved..."
"Yeah, clearly he has..."
"Wait—next name coming."
That woke Hiroki from his stupor—it was his own name.
He straightened, determined to step onto the stage as inconspicuous as possible. But whispers still followed:
"Oh, it's Mamaoru,senpai, right? That quiet kid."
"I don't get it—his hair makes him look like a girl."
"I kinda like silent geniuses."
"That weirdo's winning too? Same class as Ryusei and Yuna?"
"He's always so moody... but apparently he's exceptional."
"Younger girls adore him."
"But nothing rivals Ryusei."
Hiroki ignored them and walked forward—his gaze fixed on the toe of his shoe. The spotlight shone down on him—an unlikely hero at the back of the line. He'd never been comfortable here. In middle school, when he'd won an award, he'd trembled like a bomb. Thankfully, a teacher calmed him and reminded him to smile—and he had managed a genuine grin for photographers.
He couldn't have imagined the photo that hung in his home kitchen would be him, stiff and uncomfortable, receiving the prize—every morning he "admired" that image.
When all awardees assembled, he straightened, holding his certificate—the First Prize in the Japanese Chemistry Olympiad. He faced the camera seriously, recalling his old smile. He told himself: Do your best and don't look awkward.
His eyes drifted to the right of the stage: Ryusei and his friends posing comically, Yuna standing below—radiant. The cameras flashed. Hiroki managed a genuine expression while preserving his dignity.
That day, one ceremony left an impression deeper than he'd expected. And he thought—maybe this photo would finally replace the one in the kitchen.
….
Hiroki just needed a quick trip to the restroom.
Hands in his pockets, he marched down the corridor, his gaze deliberately cast low.
The school PA system was broadcasting rules—followed by an announcement in Yuna's voice. No surprise—her talent had become more recognized since the awards ceremony. Hiroki felt a strange calm wash over him whenever he heard her pure, gentle tone.
Then, as if scripted, Ikeda Yuna appeared before him, clutching a stack of weekly newsletters. She wasn't alone—Ryusei walked beside her, carrying documents and other materials in hand. He looked especially refined walking alongside her. Seeing Hiroki, she waved politely; unfamiliar with the social exchange, he replied with a slight nod.
They didn't usually act like that around each other, but lately…
Hiroki passed them, none too conspicuous. They went their way, he went his.
Yet, barely twenty steps later, his head collided with something, and he momentarily staggered.
"A-A-Hiroki-senpai…"
A student—one of the girls.
"P-please accept this letter—it's a confession of my f-feelings…"
Coldly, Hiroki brushed past without skipping a beat. The girl was visibly hurt, clutching her letter. Other girls gathered around, whispering and staring at him.
But Hiroki didn't bother with anything that didn't concern him—especially now, when he had an urgent matter to attend to.
Closing in on the boys' restroom, he exhaled in relief. It was as if the path to his goal had finally cleared. But fate wasn't finished: suddenly he was shoved against the wall—not hard, but enough to catch his attention—by a group of male classmates.
"Hey, Mamoru, wait up." Hiroki glanced up lazily. The authoritative tone? It belonged to Kurosawa Shimaki—Hiroki hadn't expected him to approach like this. "Not in a hurry? Let's talk."
His voice flat, Hiroki said, "What?"
"Heard some girls confessed to you again. You ought to stop looking so… aloof." Shimaki tilted his head, nostrils flaring occasionally. "Show me a bit more respect."
Hiroki thought: Because you're older, so I owe you something? Ridiculous.
He retorted, "What?"
"You,"
Before Shimaki could continue, Kizuha stepped in, grasping Shimaki's shoulder. "Our football team's missing Ren—the central midfielder hurt his leg. You'll take his place."
"No thanks," Hiroki replied lazily, his eyes flicking toward the restroom door. Kizuha persisted, pushing at his chest.
"Are you going or not?"
He sighed and muttered, "No."
A midfielder position—while he had never even joined the football team? It was obvious they just wanted to humiliate him. He'd never liked sports. It all felt pointless.
"You're really declining? Then we're playing a friendly match next week—don't forget to show up," Kizuha said, letting go.
Hiroki squeezed past the group toward the restroom. They smirked at one another, following him in—like mischievous circus monkeys.
Inside the boys' restroom, laughter and crude comments echoed. Hiroki just wanted to leave.
…
"Aaa, Ryusei scored again!"
Under the late afternoon sun, cheers rose across the school field. Hiroki sat at the far end of the empty stands.
He hadn't planned on coming in the first place. But after relentless pestering—bordering on threats—he finally dragged himself there. It wasn't out of fear, but because he didn't want to burden anyone else any further. Not telling them the result of the match would've meant getting dragged out to the middle of the field…
Pointless.
Ryusei, the star striker, had just scored a brilliant goal: sprinted, controlled a long pass mid-air, and arced it precisely into the top corner—2:1 for their team. The stadium exploded. Ryusei's masculine sweat,shined face radiated triumph. Yet his gaze was fixed on one direction.
The halftime whistle blew. Girls rushed around to pass water—especially to Ryusei. He accepted a bottle, jogged to midfield—girls screamed, lost in excitement.
Hiroki couldn't see who got that bottle—until Ryusei tossed his drenched jersey toward the stands, and Yuna caught it. Frozen, she stood surrounded by classmates, holding the shirt in dazed astonishment.
So Yuna had been his chosen recipient…
Not your business, Hiroki reminded himself.
The second half began. Hiroki forced himself to focus as the opposing team pressed hard. A breakaway chance, a fierce shot—Shimaki flew in, deflecting it with fingertips against the bar. The crowd gasped. On the swift counter, Kizuha snuck inside the box and calmly scored with a left-footed strike.
"Awesome! We win!" the girls cheered.
"Of course, with Ryusei on the field we're unstoppable!"
"So cool—I want his number!"
"Planning to steal him away?"
"Wait, who did he go to, exactly?"
"There! That's who got it!"
Hiroki turned to watch. Ryusei, surrounded by teammates, lifted his shirt off over his head. From twenty meters away, he threw it precisely into the stands—landing in Yuna's arms. She looked astonished, speechless, as classmates teased and surrounded her.
The match ended in victory. Ryusei stood shirtless, athletic physique shining in the evening light. No wonder everyone coveted a piece of him—including a damp shirt. Poor—or lucky—Yuna found herself teased by classmates afterward.
Twenty minutes later, Hiroki quietly slipped away from the field. Some lingered for photos and chants.
Moments later, the football team and cheering crew paraded down the hallway chanting, "Class 1-3 is awesome!"—calling out each name with exuberant pride. The corridors buzzed noisily.
Coincidentally, Hiroki strode alone in the opposite direction. He navigated through the crowd—when he caught Ryusei's gaze a short distance away. Ryusei paused, saw him out of the corner of his eye, then turned away—stride confident, crowd following.
Hiroki felt nothing—yet he would never forget that look: probing, icy, full of unspoken rivalry.