Disclaimer: All fanfiction on this site is a non-commercial work created solely for entertainment purposes and will always be freely accessible. All related intellectual property are protected by copyright and trademark laws. No unauthorized use, reproduction, or distribution is intended.
__________________________________________________________________
The hallways of Sobu High were a labyrinth of noise after school, students weaving through the corridors like currents in a river, their voices a chaotic hum of plans and complaints. Miwa Aoi lingered near the locker area, her fingers tracing the smooth edge of a folded note, its paper rough from being handled too many times. The air smelled of polished wood and the faint tang of sweat, undercut by the lingering sweetness of cherry blossoms drifting through an open window. Her heart pounded, a wild rhythm that drowned out the chatter around her. The note was a risk, a secret she wasn't ready to claim, but the thought of Hachiman finding it—reading it, wondering about her—sent a thrill through her that she couldn't resist.
She'd spent the week watching him, not in a calculated, predatory way, but with a quiet hunger, memorizing the details that made him him. The way he always bought MAX Coffee from the vending machine near the science wing, his fingers lingering on the can's cool metal. The way he slouched against the library's back wall during lunch, a battered paperback in hand, his eyes scanning the pages with a focus that shut out the world. The way his lips twitched, almost a smirk, when someone tried to pull him into their shallow banter. Each observation was a thread, weaving a picture of Hikigaya Hachiman that felt both distant and achingly close.
Miwa's fingers tightened on the note, the paper crinkling softly, its texture a lifeline as she scanned the hallway. The crowd was thinning, students spilling out toward clubs or home, and the locker area was quiet, save for the occasional clatter of metal doors. She'd written the note last night, her pen gliding across the page in her dimly lit room, the ink's faint scent grounding her as she poured out her thoughts. You see things others don't. I wish I could be that brave. Simple words, unsigned, but they carried a weight she felt in her bones. She didn't expect a response, didn't even know if she wanted one. She just needed him to know, to feel the echo of her presence, even if he didn't know it was her.
Miwa's observations had started innocently, a way to understand the boy who'd caught her attention with his dead-fish eyes and unflinching honesty. But the more she watched, the more she craved—craved his attention, his acknowledgment, the spark she'd felt when her fingers brushed his collar in the courtyard. She'd replayed that moment a hundred times, the rough weave of his blazer, the faint lavender scent of his shampoo, the way her pulse had surged like a storm. It wasn't enough anymore to stand on the sidelines, to hope for chance encounters. She needed to act, to leave a mark, however small.
The hallway was nearly empty now, the last stragglers disappearing around the corner. Miwa took a breath, the air cool against her lips, and approached Hachiman's locker. She'd learned its location by chance, noticing him there one morning, his movements quick as he swapped books. The metal door was scratched, the number 214 faded but legible. Her fingers trembled as she unfolded the note, its paper soft and slightly creased, and slipped it through the locker's vent. The act was quick, almost anticlimactic, but her heart raced, a mix of excitement and guilt that made her lightheaded.
She stepped back, her shoes scuffing the polished floor, and pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the rapid thud of her pulse. The note was out of her hands now, a piece of herself left for him to find. She imagined him opening the locker, his calloused fingers brushing the paper, his eyes narrowing as he read her words. Would he guess it was her? Would he care? The uncertainty was agonizing, but it was also alive, a pulse of possibility that made her feel more present than she had in years.
Miwa's reverie was broken by a familiar voice, sharp and precise, cutting through the hallway's quiet. "Hikigaya-kun, a moment."
Miwa froze, ducking behind a nearby bulletin board, her breath shallow. Yukino Yukinoshita stood a few lockers down, her posture impeccable, her dark hair catching the fluorescent light. Hachiman slouched nearby, his bag slung over one shoulder, his expression one of mild irritation.
"What's up, Yukinoshita? Don't tell me you're adding more charity booth shifts," he said, his tone dry. "I'm already sacrificing my precious napping hours."
Yukino's eyes narrowed, her fingers tapping the edge of a notebook she held. "This isn't about the booth. It's about Miwa-san."
Miwa's heart stopped, her fingers digging into the bulletin board's cork, its texture rough and splintery. She shouldn't be listening, shouldn't be hiding like a spy, but her feet wouldn't move, her body rooted by the weight of Yukino's words.
Hachiman raised an eyebrow, his smirk fading. "The new girl? What about her?"
Yukino's voice was measured, each word deliberate. "She's… intense. Her request to the Service Club was vague, and her behavior—particularly around you—suggests motives beyond what she's stated. I advise caution."
Hachiman snorted, but there was a flicker of unease in his eyes. "Caution? What, you think she's plotting to steal my coffee stash? She's just a transfer student trying to figure things out."
"Perhaps," Yukino said, her tone unconvinced. "But her focus on you is noticeable. She watches you, Hikigaya-kun, in a way that goes beyond curiosity. It's… unsettling."
Miwa's cheeks burned, shame and fear twisting in her gut. She pressed herself closer to the bulletin board, the cork's sharp edges biting into her palms, grounding her against the urge to run. Yukino had seen her, seen through her, and the exposure was suffocating.
Hachiman shifted, his fingers tightening on his bag strap. "You're reading too much into it. She's awkward, sure, but that's not a crime. Besides, I'm not exactly the type to inspire obsessive fan clubs."
Yukino's lips pressed into a thin line. "Your self-deprecation is irrelevant. I'm not suggesting malice, only that her intensity could complicate things—for her and for the Service Club. You'd do well to keep your distance."
Hachiman's expression hardened, a rare edge to his voice. "If she's got issues, that's her deal. I'm not here to play therapist, but I'm not gonna ice her out just because she's a little weird. That's not how we do things."
Yukino sighed, a sound of exasperation tinged with respect. "Very well. Just… be mindful, Hikigaya-kun. For everyone's sake."
She turned and walked away, her steps crisp against the floor, leaving Hachiman alone. He muttered something under his breath, too low for Miwa to catch, and opened his locker. The note fluttered out, landing at his feet, and Miwa's breath caught, her heart lurching as he bent to pick it up.
Hachiman unfolded the note, his fingers brushing the paper's rough surface, his eyes scanning the words. Miwa watched, hidden, her pulse a deafening roar in her ears. His expression didn't change—no surprise, no recognition, just a faint narrowing of his eyes, like he was solving a puzzle. He read it twice, then folded it and tucked it into his pocket, his movements slow, deliberate. He didn't look around, didn't search for the sender, but the way his fingers lingered on the pocket, the paper's edge just visible, made Miwa's chest ache with a mix of hope and guilt.
She'd wanted him to know her, to feel her presence, but Yukino's words echoed in her mind—intense, unsettling. Was that what she was? Not a girl seeking connection, but a shadow clinging too tightly, repeating the mistakes of her past? The thought made her stomach churn, the bulletin board's rough texture no longer enough to anchor her.
Hachiman slung his bag higher and walked away, his steps unhurried, the note a secret he carried with him. Miwa waited until he was gone, then slid to the floor, her back against the wall, her knees drawn to her chest. Her fingers found the edge of her skirt, the cotton warm and slightly creased, and she gripped it tightly, the fabric grounding her as her breath came in shaky bursts.
She'd crossed a line, she knew. Not just with the note, but with the way she'd watched him, studied him, let her longing shape her actions. Yukino's warning was a mirror, reflecting the parts of herself she'd tried to bury—the desperation, the fear of being unseen. But Hachiman's response, his refusal to dismiss her, was a lifeline. He hadn't thrown the note away, hadn't scoffed at it. That meant something, didn't it?
Miwa stood, her legs unsteady, and brushed the dust from her skirt. The hallway was empty now, the air cooler, the cherry blossom scent fainter. She walked to her own locker, her fingers trembling as she opened it, the metal door creaking softly. Inside was her notebook, the one she'd started writing in after her walk home, its pages filled with lists and hopes. She pulled it out, the cover smooth under her fingers, and flipped to a new page.
Her pen moved, the glide of ink steadying her as she wrote: Be brave, but be careful. He's not like the others. Don't ruin this. The words were a vow, a reminder to tread lightly, to channel her longing into something stronger, something real. She closed the notebook, the faint scent of ink lingering, and tucked it away.
As she left the school, the setting sun cast long shadows across the courtyard, the cherry blossoms glowing in the fading light. Miwa's heart was heavy with guilt, but there was excitement too, a fragile hope that Hachiman might carry her words with him, might wonder about the girl who'd left them. She'd be careful, she promised herself. She'd learn to balance her longing with restraint, to be someone worth seeing, not just for him, but for herself.