(First-person • Enkei Shiron • Slice of life, funny, flirty, light mystery)
That morning, my shirt was wrinkled, my mood wrecked, and the lecturer for Intro to Cognitive Systems sounded like a first-gen AI running out of battery. My enthusiasm: ten percent. Coffee in hand: zero. Will to live: …okay, still there. Barely.
Auditorium B-12 was always as cold as a fridge with a broken thermostat. Neon lights bounced off the long tables, casting a cheap cinematic sheen on the sleepy faces around me. Some were watching cat videos, some were glaring at the slides while pretending to understand, and there was me—understanding, but choosing not to engage.
"Shiron," whispered Ren beside me—best friend and the loudest creature alive at eight a.m. "If you close your eyes again, I swear that lecturer is going to think you died."
"I'm meditating," I said, opening one eye. "It's an art. Don't break my breathing rhythm."
"My breathing stopped when I saw your quiz score last week." Ren grinned. "You didn't even study. How'd you get a ninety-three?"
"Luck," I said, easy. Not entirely a lie. I am lucky—in math. In other things… don't ask.
Our lecturer, Mr. Alvar, tapped the screen with his pointer. The slide changed: Neuroplasticity & Behavioral Triggers. "Observe this diagram," he droned. "The human brain responds to emotional stimuli with predictable patterns. Under certain conditions, small triggers cause large chain reactions."
Ren nudged my arm. "Sounds like you."
"I'm not emotional," I said flatly.
"Ha. Sure. You're the definition of cold."
If only he knew. The problem isn't emotions. It's… reactions. Some people are allergic to dust. I'm allergic to… proximity. Too close, too intense, and things around me start to protest. Lights flicker, devices sulk, automatic doors forget their job. I call it "electromagnetic accidents." The campus psychologist calls it "unexplained psychosomatic responses." Everyone agrees on one thing: don't let me get too close—intimate range.
Easy to say. Hard to do. Life doesn't always keep its distance.
"Did you bring coffee?" Ren asked again.
"I brought ambition," I said. "But I think I lost it on the way."
"Your ambition is always lost."
I suppressed a smile. Ren is like an alarm clock set to ring at the most inconvenient moments, and somehow that's what keeps me… normal. Like I'm a regular student. Like nothing's weird.
The auditorium door opened again. A draft slipped in. Light footsteps—unhurried, more like a melody that accidentally synced with my heartbeat.
I didn't turn. I just felt a small shift in the room: conversations hiccupped, chairs creaked, heads swiveled. Curiosity washed over the rows in a small wave.
"Bro," Ren whispered, leaning in. "Look front."
I stared at the screen… then slowly lowered my gaze.
She stood at the top of the steps leading down between the rows: a girl with silver hair falling simply to her shoulders—not the flashy cosplay kind; more like neon light catching dusk. Her eyes—don't look too long—seemed to change shade by the second: sometimes gentle, sometimes mischievous, sometimes… dangerous. Her mouth was relaxed.Her body seemed specifically designed to defy logic—a slender waist, ample breasts bulging beneath a tight uniform, wide hips, and thick, flawless thighs clad in lace stockings; all combined with a delicate face and long, silver hair that made me lose my breath for a moment. Not smiling, not blank. The kind of look that says, "I know something you don't."
She scanned the room. And stopped. Right where I was sitting.
"Why is she looking here?" Ren whispered, panicking. "You know her?"
I shrugged. "No."
Honestly, what panicked me wasn't that she was looking—it was that the light fixture above me blinked once. Just once. But I know the dialect of flickers like people know a neighboring city's accent. It meant "careful."
She came down the steps, counting the rows, walking like the stairs were keeping time with her. When she reached our row, chairs scraped. The seat next to me—the one usually empty because of my reputation as a "localized minor disaster zone"—suddenly looked very available.
"Please don't," I muttered—too soft for anyone to hear, except maybe fate.
She stopped beside me. "Free?" her voice clear.
Ren answered on reflex, "Free. Very free. Please, be my—"
I turned, met her eyes. There was a millisecond where the world refocused itself. The light above us blinked again—politely. Like a greeting. Like, oh, it's you.
"Go ahead," I said at last.
She sat. A faint scent—nothing sweet, more like new books and the air after rain. The lecturer kept droning about stimulus and response; ironic. I stared at the screen without focus.
"Enkei Shiron, right?" the girl asked quietly, not looking at me.
My heart skipped. "Yeah. Do we know each other?"
"Not exactly." A brief smile. "I'm Mira."
"Mira…"
"Millover," she added, as if reading my mind.
Ren was already half leaning over like a nuisance. "Hi, I'm Ren—"
Mira flicked her gaze to him, then back to the front. "Hi, Ren." She said his name like she was reciting from a memorized list.
As soon as I saw her up close, my eyes were drawn in and I couldn't look away.
Her body was extraordinary… well-proportioned, but overly so in a seductive way. Her waist was slim, made even smaller by the contrast with her enormous breasts—so full and firm, that the buttons of her tight white uniform seemed to struggle to hold them in place.
Those breasts… perfectly round, rising and falling slowly as she breathed.
Her arms were slender and graceful, but not skinny—there was still a hint of soft flesh beneath the smooth skin. Her long silver hair fell naturally over the sides of her shoulders, flowing down her lower back like strands of silk.
My eyes dropped.
Her black pleated skirt tightly silhouetted her wide hips and curvy buttocks, clearly visible through her curves. When she stood with one leg slightly forward, her thighs looked large and smooth, flawless.
And even though she was wearing white lace thigh-high stockings, the exposed tops of her thighs only made her look even more… tantalizing. Her skin was bright and glowing, like a living doll from another dimension.
No, not just beautiful. She was truly... intoxicating.
I studied her profile—something about how she balanced her posture, never resting her back fully, like she was always ready to stand. Someone who never truly relaxes.
"What's today's topic?" she asked suddenly.
"Stimulus and response," I said.
She chuckled softly. "Exactly."
As if on cue, the projector went pixelated. Mr. Alvar tapped the remote; the screen froze. A few students cheered passively. I drew a slow breath.
Mira tilted her head. "Are you always like this whenever a girl sits too close?"
I turned fast. "What?"
"Look." She subtly pointed at the light. Blink, one… two. "Or should I say—'whenever someone sits too close'?"
I stared straight ahead again. "You picked the wrong seat. Plenty of others."
"And you sound like a whining fire exit." Friendly, but locking on. "Relax. I sat here because I wanted to."
I didn't reply. In my head, I mapped evacuation routes. If I stood now, everyone would stare. If I stayed, the odds of interference rose. Sometimes life leaves two options: look weird, or be weird.
"Don't worry," Mira whispered even softer, "I'm not fragile."
"Everything's fragile," I said. "Just waiting for the right moment."
She raised an eyebrow, like she was taking notes.
---
After ten minutes of projector drama, class was dismissed with a reading assignment as long as a life plan. Students scattered like a flock suddenly remembering the sky. Ren got up first.
"I'm heading to the canteen," he said—eyes ping-ponging between me and Mira like a tennis match. "You coming?"
"Later," I said.
Ren vanished, no doubt blasting the group chat: CREW B-12: SILVER PROJECT SAT NEXT TO SHIRON. I could already imagine the tacky emojis.
Mira stood, slinging her bag. "You running or walking?" she asked me.
"No one's running," I said, steadying my breath. "Do you need something?"
"If I say 'coffee', will you step back two meters?"
"Three," I said dead serious. "For public safety."
"Ridiculous," she said, lips curving. "But funny."
We walked out of the auditorium. The main corridor was plastered with campus posters: art shows, e-sports tournaments, career seminars everyone attends for the free bread. Sunlight bounced off the glossy gray floor, drawing lines of light that slid as people passed. I kept a step and a half between us. She noticed, of course.
"You drive with the handbrake on," Mira remarked.
"Defensive drivers last longer," I shot back.
"And racers win."
"You like racing?"
"I like winning."
Simple words, heavy weight. I glanced at her. "So, Mira Millover. Freshman?"
"Transfer." She raised her phone, showing the campus app. "Same major as you. Cognitive & Systems."
"Why transfer?"
"The weather," she said lightly.
"Our city has two seasons: rain, and rain with intermission," I said. "Wrong campus if you're chasing sunshine."
She laughed briefly. "I'm chasing storms."
I paused for a second. The corridor LEDs above us dimmed—very subtly, almost invisible unless you were watching. Mira eyed the panel, then looked at me and—this was crazy—tipped her head a fraction, as if greeting something unseen.
"You…" My tongue tripped for a beat. "You're watching the lights."
"Anyone who chooses to sit next to you needs the local language," she said.
"Light-speak?"
"The language of things that refuse to stay quiet."
I decided to change the subject before the system failure odds spiked. "You asked for coffee. Do you actually want it?"
"I want something better," she said. "But coffee first is fine."
The cafeteria sits on the west end, past a small garden with wooden benches. The breeze—or good luck—made the leaves do a soft dance, just enough to give the illusion of a low-budget romance film. We grabbed two coffees: black for me, latte for her. I paid faster than reflex; she didn't protest. We picked the outermost bench—usually my favorite because it's near an outlet. Today I chose it because there were no electronics within half a meter. Hard lesson: wooden benches rarely explode.
"So," Mira said, blowing the latte foam, "do you always avoid people?"
"Not avoid." I stirred my coffee that didn't need stirring. "Selective."
"Selective means choosing. You even reject your own shadow."
"My shadow is disciplined." I looked at her again. "Why bother sitting next to me? Be honest."
"Because you're interesting."
"I'm not—"
"Not like that." She tapped the spoon on her cup; the soft chime rang. "You're interesting—the way a safebreaker finds a vault interesting. There's a tiny click whenever you try to shut yourself. And I'm… curious."
"Curiosity can be an illness," I said.
"Then I'm chronic."
We fell into a brief silence. At the next table, two students laughed loudly about a meme that won't survive the week. Campus life carried on: cozy, predictable. I wanted to stay on that track. I really did.
"You could've sat far away. Plenty of seats," I said.
"And miss the light show?" she smiled.
"There was no show."
"Admit it. You're afraid I'll break."
"This course doesn't teach human repair." I took a sip. Bitter, honest. "I'm just… not good at certain ranges."
"Emotional?"
"Technical."
"Technical how?"
I weighed how much was safe to say. "If I get too close to something—someone—sometimes… interference happens."
"So you're a walking disaster?" she asked so casually the word felt weightless.
I almost choked. "That's exaggerated."
"Maybe." She dipped her head slightly, studying my fingers around the cup. "Can I try something?"
"No."
"You haven't even heard it."
"No," I repeated. "For public safety."
"You don't even know what I'll do."
"That's the point."
She nodded slowly. "All right." Then she looked at me for a long moment, like measuring the geometry of my face or reading notes only she could see. I resisted the urge to lean back. The space between us was safe—for now. One and a half steps. Demarcation line.
"I'm not afraid of you, Enkei," she said at last.
"That's not a compliment. That's a bad recommendation."
"Most people fear what they don't understand." She rested against the bench—not fully, still ready. "And I like understanding."
"You like winning, you like storms, you like understanding." I counted on my fingers. "Interesting list."
"You can add one more."
"What?"
"I like saying the right thing at the wrong time."
"Please don't."
She tilted her head, eyes tracing from my neck to my rumpled collar. "What time did you sleep?"
"Fifteen minutes before class."
"That's not a time. That's a speculative move."
"Focus. You were going to say something. The right thing, wrong time."
Mira gave a small smile, as if I'd asked her to open a vault. "Later."
---
The next class was a small lab where we had to strap EEG sensors on ourselves. Bad choice for someone like me. I told the lab assistant I had a history of "reactive migraines." He nodded and offered me the observer role. My favorite position. Observing never breaks anything—except yourself.
Mira stood at the side of the table, fingers tapping the stainless surface. "You're not going to try?"
"I have a personal policy: sensors and I are not friends."
"Fair." She put on the headband, movements fluid. The monitor showed green lines dancing in rhythm. Normal.
The assistant asked me to take notes. I wrote: Waves stable, baseline data. We were about two steps apart. Safe. Mira turned and looked at me again as if the real data was on my face.
"What if I move half a step closer?" she asked.
"Don't," I said too quickly.
"The assistant's at the printer." She pointed to the far end. "Chance for a self-experiment."
"This is a campus, not a gladiator arena."
Mira stifled a laugh. "Half a step."
"Mira."
She didn't move—not forward, not back. Just still, but the distance felt thinner. Sometimes proximity isn't about meters, but the intensity of intent. On the monitor, the green lines stayed steady.
"See?" she said. "Nothing—"
The lab lights flickered. The monitor blinked right after—not off, just the contrast shifting. The sensor headband ticked like a bored old clock.
I exhaled through my teeth. "That."
Mira looked at the data, then back at me. "You didn't touch anything."
"It happens when…" I swallowed the words. "Doesn't matter."
"When someone gets close," she finished. "A specific someone?"
"Anyone."
"Lie." She slipped off the headband, smoothing her hair like nothing happened. "You know the difference."
I opened my mouth, closed it again. Sometimes telling the truth summons the storm. This was one of those times. "I need the library," I said finally. Retreat isn't always cowardice; sometimes it's strategy.
"Okay," she said. "I'm coming."
"Of course." I raised a hand. "But one condition."
"What?"
"Keep your distance."
"One and a half steps?" she teased.
"Two," I corrected.
"Inflation again."
---
The main library smelled like old books and postponed hopes. Quiet, except for the clock and polite footsteps. We took a table near the big windows. From there you could see the field and people running after something that sounded like reasons.
I opened my laptop, stared at it, then shut it again. Today wasn't a good day for electronics.
"Analog it is," Mira said. She stacked a few books—advanced neuroscience, sensor manuals, even a philosophy book too thin to be philosophical. "Do you like reading?"
"I do. Sometimes books are more honest than people."
"Sometimes," she agreed. "But people can talk back."
"You talk a lot."
"You're very quiet."
"Balance," I said.
She rested her chin on her hand, watching me. A gaze that didn't demand, didn't pierce—just existed. That, ironically, made something in my head restless. I'm used to looks that judge or avoid. Hers… invited.
"You're not going to ask how I know your name?" she asked finally.
"Your data's all over the campus system. Anyone can know," I said. "Or you're talented at stalking."
"Both valid." She shrugged. "But there's another reason."
"What reason?"
She glanced at the window, then back to me. "You won't like the answer if I say it now."
"Try me. I like things I don't like."
"Enkei," she said softly, breaking my name into short notes. "You're not a curse."
I held my breath. That word. Not the first time I've heard it, but somehow from her mouth it was different. Not empty comfort—more like a diagnosis.
"I don't care what it's called," I muttered. "As long as other people don't get hit by it."
"What if someone chooses to be hit by it?"
"That sounds like a bad contract."
"Contracts are bad when people don't read the footnotes," she said.
I spun the empty paper cup on the table, watching its oval shadow shift. "Why do you care?"
Mira looked at me, her eyes reflecting the cloudy daylight. "Because someone once told me something." She paused. "And I want to see if it's true."
"And what was it?"
She sighed lightly, then leaned back. "Later."
I turned my chair half a degree away. "You're addicted to postponing answers."
"I'm addicted to timing." She straightened. "Okay. Let's make a deal."
"No contracts," I said fast.
"A deal without signatures." She smiled. "I won't come closer than the distance you set. In return, you won't vanish."
"Define vanish."
"Ghosting, running, changing class schedules, claiming a sudden love fever—pick your term."
I simulated outcomes in my head. Keeping distance isn't hard. Keeping myself stable when distance starts to feel like an invitation to cut it—that's hard.
"Fine," I said at last. "One week. Trial."
"Two weeks."
"Negotiating?"
"You like black-and-white. I'll add gray." She extended a hand—gentle, not pushing—stopping before the invisible border I'd drawn. "Deal?"
I stared at the gap between her fingertips and the air above mine. That space felt like the chalk line on a boxing ring floor. I set my palm on the table, not touching hers. "Deal. No handshake."
"Funny." She drew her hand back. "I like your deadpan humor."
"I'm not joking."
"I know." She gave a small smile. "That's what makes it funny."
---
By late afternoon the library thinned out. We shared an easy quiet—or at least, I learned to call it easy. Mira jotted in a small notebook. I pretended to read while watching our reflection in the window: two figures, one reserved, one quietly gleaming.
My phone buzzed. Ren: WHERE ARE YOU? TOMORROW'S CLASSROOM CHANGED. ALSO: SILVER GIRL. STATUS?
I looked at Mira. She didn't see my phone, but somehow her expression said she knew.
"I have to go," I said, standing. "I've got… stuff."
"Okay." Mira shut her book and stood too. "I'll walk you to the stairs."
"You don't have to—"
"I know."
We walked out of the library. The corridor was orange with evening. Campus sounds shifted—going home, dates, postponed assignments, little laughs behind pillars. We stopped at the top of the steps overlooking the plaza. The breeze tugged a few strands of her hair, making her look like an ad scene—minus the cheesy music.
"So," she said, "tomorrow."
"Tomorrow."
"Don't disappear."
"I won't—" I stopped, considering my reputation. "—try not to."
Mira laughed softly. "Good enough."
She tilted her head, watching the lowering sun. "There's one more thing I should say."
"Now?" I raised an eyebrow. "You usually delay."
"Not this time." She looked straight at me, calm, like she was choosing the right words from a very long shelf. "This might sound… dramatic. But I need to put it at the beginning so you have the option to step back before things go too far."
I waited. The corridor lights dimmed—not because of me. I think not. I hope not.
Mira smiled—not sweet, not sly—honest. "If one day someone asks why I got close to you, I'll answer like this: She said I am disaster."
Her words settled in the air. I blinked. "Who's 'she'?"
Mira looked down at the steps, then back at me. "Someone who used to be right. Or wrong. We'll see."
"And you believe her?"
"I believe people can be wrong at first and right in the end." She drew a breath. "You can be afraid. I won't force you. But I'm still going to sit beside you. At the distance you decide." She held up two fingers, measuring the air. "Two steps."
"Two steps," I echoed.
She stepped back one pace, then another—keeping the promise she'd just made. "See you tomorrow, Enkei."
I nodded. "See you tomorrow."
Mira turned and went down the stairs. The sun threaded a line of light through her silver hair. As she vanished into the crowd, the corridor LED above me blinked once—subtle, like a wink. I looked up and snorted.
"Don't start," I told the light.
The light behaved. For now.
I stood a few more seconds, letting the leftover evening soak into my skin. The world felt normal again, or at least pretended to be. Another message from Ren: BRO SERIOUSLY, STATUS? I typed: Status: safe. For now.
I typed again, deleted it, and replaced: Status: interesting complication.
I pocketed the phone. I descended the stairs, counting the steps like counting heartbeats. On the third step, I laughed—short, disbelieving. Me? Laughing? I shook my head.
At the bottom, someone called my name. I looked up—not Mira. Just a classmate asking to borrow notes. I handed them over gladly. Notes are safer than feelings.
As I headed for the west gate, the night wind carried the scent of postponed rain. In the distance, the campus power tower glowed orange. For once, I didn't think about what could break. I thought about what might go right—even with two steps between us.
And somehow, that thought… wasn't scary.
Yet.