Morning sunlight spilled through the tall glass windows of Mizuhara Academy, casting a warm glow across the polished corridors. The faint hum of air conditioning and the occasional squeak of shoes against the tiled floor were the only sounds as I made my way toward Class 1-D.
It was still early. Too early for most.
When I slid the classroom door open, the space was nearly empty. A handful of students were scattered among the rows, their heads buried in books, or simply resting against their arms. The silence inside was almost comforting—far removed from yesterday's chaos.
I stepped inside quietly, my shoes tapping against the floor with even rhythm, and took my usual seat by the window. My bag rested against the desk leg, while my gaze drifted lazily toward the courtyard below. The morning breeze stirred the leaves outside, painting a scene too calm for the restless energy this school usually carried.
Time passed in stillness.
Then, the soft sound of the door sliding open again drew my attention.
Naomi Takahashi.
She entered with the same elegance she had displayed yesterday, her steps measured, her uniform perfectly in place, her long hair cascading smoothly over her shoulders. Her presence commanded attention without effort, though her cold expression kept most people at a distance.
Her eyes swept across the room, and then—unexpectedly—they landed on me.
She paused, a flicker of thought crossing her face before she began walking toward her seat. But halfway there, she turned.
"Good morning, Arata," she said.
The words were spoken clearly, not loud but enough for everyone in the room to hear.
A ripple of surprise spread instantly. Heads lifted. A boy in the corner nearly dropped his pen. The few students present exchanged quick glances, eyes wide. Naomi Takahashi, the girl who rarely spoke, who carried an air of untouchable distance—speaking, and to me of all people.
I blinked once, unfazed by the attention, and replied evenly, "Good morning."
That was all.
Naomi's lips pressed together faintly. A small shadow passed over her eyes. She had expected more. A name, perhaps. Recognition. Something warmer. Instead, my flat response hung in the air like an unfinished sentence.
Without another word, she turned and walked to her desk, sitting down with quiet grace.
The murmurs around the room lingered for a moment longer before fading back into silence. Still, I could feel the subtle shift. Their eyes darted toward me occasionally, questioning, curious. Why me? Why had Naomi spoken to me?
I ignored them, resting my chin lightly against my palm, staring out the window once more.
---
Hours passed slowly. The sun climbed higher, its rays cutting sharper through the classroom glass. The room gradually filled, the trickle of students arriving early swelling into a steady flow.
I remained in my seat, silent, detached. Conversations bloomed around me—laughter, introductions, gossip—but none of it reached me. I made no attempt to join, no effort to engage. To me, their chatter was nothing more than background noise.
From across the room, however, I felt her gaze.
Naomi.
At first subtle, then lingering. She had turned slightly in her seat, chin resting on one hand, her eyes trained on me as though trying to decipher a puzzle.
Finally, she spoke, her voice carrying just enough to cut through the noise between us.
"Do you never get bored, sitting there in silence for hours?"
A few heads turned at her question, startled by the fact that she was addressing me again.
I tilted my head slightly, meeting her gaze with calm indifference. "No."
Her brows furrowed faintly. She exhaled, almost in disbelief, before shaking her head and turning away. Yet her expression carried something else—something closer to frustration than resignation.
It was rare, I suspected, for Naomi Takahashi to take interest in anyone. Rare for her to bother speaking twice. And rarer still for her words to be brushed aside.
The classroom door rattled again as more students streamed in, their chatter growing louder. Within minutes, the room was full, the morning energy restored in full force.
Yet beneath the noise, a quiet thread remained—the weight of Naomi's question lingering in the air, and the fact that, for some reason, she had chosen to direct it toward me.
The sound of the sliding door opening silenced a few, but only for a moment. **Saeko Shizuru** stepped into the room, her heels clicking sharply against the polished floor. She wore the standard faculty uniform, but her bearing carried a commanding presence. Her long hair framed her stern face, and her eyes swept the classroom with an expression that demanded discipline without her needing to say a word.
"Quiet down," Saeko said firmly, her voice cutting through the chatter like a blade. For a second, the class obeyed—but as soon as she turned her back to write something on the board, murmurs started again, gradually rising in volume.
Arata Kurosawa, seated at his desk, barely moved. His eyes followed her chalk lines across the board, absorbing each word. He had no desire to join the chatter; listening was easier, and he preferred it that way. The lecture mattered more than meaningless small talk.
Saeko didn't waste time. "The first exam will arrive sooner than you think. There is no room for carelessness. Let me explain the format—" Her explanation continued, concise and structured, touching on the importance of fundamentals, the grading structure, and consequences for poor performance. Every sentence was sharp, efficient, and without wasted effort. She didn't scold, she didn't plead—she simply stated the facts with absolute clarity.
Yet, most of the class didn't listen. They whispered to one another, trading jokes and comments about the monthly points they had received. The noise swelled, and even Haruto, who usually tried to maintain composure, leaned over to chat with the girls near him.
Arata noticed, but didn't react. His gaze remained forward, his expression calm and indifferent, as though the world outside of the blackboard didn't exist. In truth, he was dissecting each sentence Saeko delivered, filing away the information in his mind. The warning she carried in her tone wasn't empty—there would be consequences. Of that, Arata was certain.
After nearly thirty minutes, Saeko closed her notes. "That's all for today. Whether you listen or not, reality will not be kind to you. Class dismissed." Her words were blunt, but her eyes lingered for a moment on the sea of distracted faces before she turned and left.
The room immediately erupted into noise again. Laughter, teasing, and careless remarks bounced from wall to wall. A group of boys near the back chuckled, one of them slamming his palm against the desk. "Man, why bother? We've got all these points to use every month. Studying's pointless when we can just buy whatever we need."
Another chimed in, smirking. "Exactly. As long as we keep getting points, what's the problem? This school gives us everything—luxury dorms, allowance, food, clothes. Might as well enjoy it. Exams won't ruin our fun."
Their voices carried, and soon others nodded along. The girls leaned in, whispering agreements, and laughter rippled through the class again. It was almost unanimous—the class had decided that effort was unnecessary.
But one voice cut through the careless agreement. Haruto leaned forward in his chair, brows furrowed, his usual charm replaced with a determined expression. "No. That's dangerous. Even if we get points every month, we can't assume it'll last forever. The teacher just warned us. If we don't take it seriously, we'll regret it later."
A few students glanced at him, surprised. Others rolled their eyes. "You're overthinking, Haruto. Chill. This place is basically paradise—what's the worst that could happen?" one boy said, laughing.
Arata, still silent, observed it all. He didn't side with Haruto, nor did he support the others. He simply sat still, his eyes calm, weighing the atmosphere. To him, the answer was obvious, but he had no intention of speaking. Words were wasted on people who refused to listen. His lips didn't move, but his thoughts were sharp: *They don't understand. But soon, they will.*
The bell rang, signaling the short break after Saeko Shizuru's sharp lecture and the students' foolish chatter. The class remained noisy, most of them still riding the confidence of their points and allowances.
Arata sat silently at his desk, his expression as calm as always, as though detached from the commotion around him. His bag remained closed; he had no intention of joining the excitement over snacks or gossip.
Then, the sound of footsteps drew attention. Naomi Takahashi—the girl known across the class, perhaps even across the first-year cohort, as one of the most beautiful students—walked toward Arata's seat. The movement alone was enough to hush the room. Conversations faltered, laughter died, and eyes turned toward the scene unfolding.
Naomi stopped beside Arata's desk, her gaze cool yet curious. Without hesitation, she asked in her soft, straightforward tone:
"Arata. Want to take a break together?"
The silence that followed was suffocating. The entire class held their breath, waiting for his answer. Murmurs rippled like suppressed thunder; no one could believe she had asked *him*.
Arata's eyes lifted, meeting hers. He didn't flinch, but his answer came with the same bluntness he carried in all things.
"No. I'd rather be alone."
For a moment, no one moved. Then laughter burst out like an explosion.
"Hah? Did he just reject her?"
"Unbelievable!"
"Who turns down *Naomi Takahashi*?"
The noise filled the classroom again, louder than ever, fueled by disbelief and mockery. Naomi's face didn't change, though her lips pressed slightly into a line as Arata rose from his seat, slinging his bag over his shoulder. Without a second glance, he walked out of the classroom and down the hall, heading for the café.
As the door slid shut behind him, the whispers and laughter swirled into ridicule. Hiroshi Tanaka, tall and confident with a sly grin, leaned back in his chair, shaking his head dramatically.
"What's wrong with that guy? He's strange. Rejecting a girl like Naomi? That's throwing away the greatest chance anyone here would kill for."
His words drew more laughter, several boys nodding in exaggerated agreement. Hiroshi smirked, emboldened by the response, and stood from his seat. He approached Naomi, who remained calm at her desk, seemingly unbothered by the noise. With a self-satisfied tilt of his chin, he said, loud enough for everyone to hear:
"You don't need to waste your time on someone like him, Naomi. If it's company you want, I'll gladly take his place."
The class erupted again, some cheering him on, others waiting eagerly for Naomi's reply. She turned her gaze toward him, her expression icy, her eyes sharp enough to pierce through his false bravado. Her words were delivered with deadly precision:
"You disgust me."
The laughter returned, but this time it was different. It was aimed squarely at Hiroshi. The mockery rolled through the room like a storm, each chuckle and snicker chipping away at his pride. His grin faltered, his face stiffening as the realization sank in.
Naomi rose from her seat gracefully, not sparing him another look. Without hesitation, she walked out of the room, her long hair swaying behind her as the whispers of admiration followed her instead of him.
Hiroshi stood frozen, fists clenching at his sides. His face twisted, not in shame toward Naomi, but in anger directed at someone else. His glare fell on the empty desk where Arata had been sitting just minutes ago.
The laughter of the class still rang in his ears, echoing his humiliation. He gritted his teeth, his pride wounded, and thought bitterly:
*This is his fault. That bastard made me look like a fool.*
And with that, Hiroshi's animosity toward Arata Kurosawa took root, burning quietly beneath the surface.