I wonder if there was a time where I could pursue the arts.
Maybe even better if it was music and melodies that I sought out when I was lonely.
Or could I become a cook? Actually no, bakery is better. I like pastries because mom made it for me.
Would I be better as a computer engineer..?
But... no... I just—I really just want a calm life.
Heh...
But what about her..?
Click
— // — // * * *
The ticking of the wall clock was steady, almost mocking in its monotony.
Each second passed the same way, too slow for a man who had once lived where minutes could determine life or death. It was so mundane that I could just fall asleep, yet.
The clock ticks too loudly. It's strange how I notice things like that now—ordinary sounds, ordinary sights, ordinary lives.
I sat in the lecture hall, pen in hand, surrounded by laughter and chatter that grates against my ears. Students lean over desks, sharing jokes, scrolling through their phones, sighing about exams. The air smells of paper and cheap coffee. While the professor ignores the banter while holding his lecture in high regard.
I'd straighten my posture while continuously listening to this boring lecture that I had already heard once, even past me would fall asleep from this event alone. I'm currently at the second row in the back—a perfect place where I could listen and visually understand and at the same time wouldn't be at risk getting called by my professor.
And you're wondering who I am?
I used to count time in bullets and blood. A minute could mean survival or death. I used to sign contracts that swayed economies, held boardroom rivals under my thumb until they broke. I was mercenary. CEO. Predator.
And then I died.
I am—
"Hey, Vincent!" He shouted.
"You good man? You're almost dozing around and it isn't even evening yet!"
The voice snaps me back, turning—I see this odd boy with red wild hair and freckles who was grinning at me to no end. A classmate, a friend who I barely remember.
"I'm fine," I reply evenly. My voice sounds older than it should. He blinks, shrugs, and goes back to his phone.
The professor was halfway ending the lecture, droning on about supply and demand. I jot notes mechanically, though every graph he projects is already etched into my memory. I've lived these theories, weaponized them, watched them make and destroy fortunes.
But then again... It was boring.
Around me, students scribble furiously, hungry or anxious. I can't relate. The only hunger I've ever known was survival.
But. I don't know any of that... I've been too guilty. What happened... Why... did I do that? I saw mom. I saw dad. I saw my sisters. Then my little brother. It was... I—
And then the door opens.
Late. But unhurried.
The sound is small—a hinge groaning, the faint shuffle of shoes on wood—but it cuts through the lecture like a blade. My hand stops mid-scribble.
She walks in.
An umbrella tucked under her arm, uniform pressed so neatly it makes the rest of us look like slobs. Hair smooth, falling like silk over her shoulders. Steps quiet, deliberate, almost regal. She doesn't hurry. She doesn't need to.
"Miss Kurohona. You are late." The professor spoke in a flat tone while aiming with his chalk at an available seat.
"Forgive me, Professor. Someone bumped into me..." She hurried her steps through the lecture hall.
She scans the room once. Calm. Unreadable. And then her gaze passes over me.
It shouldn't mean anything. Just a flicker of eye contact. Nothing more. But something inside me lurches, claws at my chest.
Recognition?
No. Impossible.
Was it the bike accident?
And yet.
The girl chooses the empty seat beside me. Out of dozens of choices, she chooses mine.
I feel the red-haired boy's eyes on me. He whistles low, mutters, "Lucky bastard," under his breath. I ignore him.
She sits with measured movements, placing her notebook neatly on the desk, smoothing the page, aligning her pen just so. Efficient. Composed. Every motion looks rehearsed, perfected.
Finally, she speaks.
"Do you have the notes?"
Her voice is soft, clear, but it cuts through the professor's droning as if it belongs in sharper air.
I blink. "The lecture is halfway done—and yes."
"I know." She doesn't look at me, just starts writing, her pen gliding like she already knows the answers. "But thank you, please hand me it."
The corner of my mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. More like disbelief. "Why?"
This time, she looks at me. Just a flicker of her eyes, but it's enough. Calm, controlled… but there's something buried underneath. Tired. Heavy.
It's the same thing I see in the mirror every morning. And it's killing me inside.
For a second, I forget the lecture. Forget the clock. Forget everything except the unbearable thought hammering inside me:
Who the hell is she?
The professor's cough drags me back.
"Vincent. I hope you're not dozing off again—I may not be able to see you directly but I have eyes on my back."
She stared at me with a blank gaze before continuing.
The professor always terrifies me even when she isn't even trying. Like, how can she just stare at me while continuing to write the lesson on the board. She's like a robot.
But as I turn my head, this girl besides me just continues to stare at me. It's... annoying.
I slide my notebook a little closer to her. "Take what you need."
She pauses, eyes lingering on the page, then on me. Her lips curve—faint, fleeting. Not gratitude. Not triumph. Just bottled relief.
"Thank you," she murmurs.
Two words. That's all. But they echo in me longer than they should.
I want to ask her name. But I don't.
Instead, I sit there, pretending to listen as the lecture drones on, every tick of the clock stretching the silence between us.
She writes quickly, neatly, her hand never faltering. I glance sideways more than once, though I try not to. Each time, I notice something new. The calm set of her shoulders. The way her pen never hovers uncertainly. The way she doesn't fidget, doesn't shrink, doesn't scramble like the rest of them.
It wasn't an oddity to find a loner, much less an introvert like me. But her calm demeanour throws me off—even I showcase expression yet she remains blank like a blank sheet of paper with nothing to show.
When the professor starts explaining a new model, she leans closer, her loud calm voice brushing against the edge of my hearing.
"Tell me. Do you believe all this?"
People turned to me.
"What?"
She taps the chart projected on her notebook. "That demand curves are predictable. That people are rational. That everything can be calculated like a machine."
It's not the kind of question a seventeen-year-old could answer. Not the kind of question anyone in this room would bother with. But I know exactly what she means.
I almost laugh. "No. People aren't rational. They're desperate. And desperation isn't on the graph."
For the first time, she looks directly at me. Her eyes—clear, sharp, carrying something deeper than youth should allow—linger a heartbeat too long.
Then she turns away. Goes back to writing.
The silence between us thickens. Not hostile. Not awkward. Just… weighted.
Why did she pick me! It's so terrifying back at being college. Even I didn't feel this restless when the muzzle of a gun was pressed against my forehead.
I stare down at my notes, pencil frozen in my grip.
Who are you?
The lecture drones to an end. Chairs scrape. Students rush out, chattering about lunch, about clubs, about anything but what was just taught. The red-haired boy claps me on the shoulder, mutters something about "next time, don't sleep through class," and vanishes into the crowd.
I couldn't even ask his name...
Then I turn to this odd, elegant woman.
She doesn't move right away. Closes her notebook carefully, tucks it into her bag, straightens her umbrella. Everything deliberate. Measured.
And then, without looking at me, she asks, "Vincent, right?"
My pulse stutters. "Yeah?"
Her gaze finally meets mine again. For a second, I feel it—that same pull from before. Not recognition of a face, but recognition of something deeper. Like two storms colliding. Like two souls brushing against each other in the dark.
She gives the faintest nod. "Arishu."
Her name lingers on my tongue, though I don't speak it.
And then she leaves, footsteps echoing soft and steady against the wooden floor, vanishing out the door without a backward glance.
I sit there long after the lecture hall empties, staring at the space she left behind.
Rain follows me everywhere. But maybe, just maybe… butterflies do too.