The first time I saw Haruki Sakamoto, he was laughing at something I couldn't hear.
The cherry blossoms were still blooming that morning — soft pink petals clinging stubbornly to the branches above the school gates. I stood in my polished shoes, pleated skirt brushing against my thighs, pretending to check the time. In reality, I was memorizing his smile.
There were twenty-four petals tangled in his hair. I counted.
He didn't notice me at first. He never does.
Haruki always walked to school with his headphones in, hands tucked into the pockets of that same navy blazer. Always three minutes early. Always humming something under his breath. And yet, somehow, he looked like he belonged in a different world — quieter, warmer, distant. The kind of boy you could fall in love with for no reason at all.
I blinked once. Then again. His laugh faded.
He passed by without seeing me, as always.
And still, I smiled. Because I already knew:
One day, he'll be mine.
I slipped through the school gates a few steps behind him, tucking my long black hair behind my ear. The halls were buzzing with the usual morning chaos — lockers slamming, girls gossiping, teachers yawning into coffee cups. Everyone's routine was intact. No one noticed anything strange.
They never do.
I took my seat by the window in Class 2-B, heart fluttering with quiet hope. Haruki sat three rows ahead, his head tilted just slightly as if listening to music that only he could hear.
I didn't speak to him.
Not yet.
There's a time for everything.
Later that morning, the rumors started.
"There's a transfer student coming today."
"She's from Osaka, I heard."
"Apparently she's really pretty."
I ignored them at first. I didn't care. Or — at least I told myself I didn't.
Then the door slid open during homeroom, and she walked in like a glitch in my perfect loop.
She had soft brown curls, long lashes, and a smile that curved like a secret. The kind of girl everyone looks at twice.
Her name was Airi Nakahara.
And the way Haruki looked at her—
—It was the first time I ever wanted to break something.
She introduced herself with the kind of voice that made people lean in — soft, polite, just enough charm to seem approachable. Not too proud. Not too shy. The kind of balance you learn only when you've been watched your whole life.
"My name is Airi Nakahara. I transferred from Osaka. I hope we can all get along."
A few boys muttered something like "she's cute," followed by nervous laughter. The teacher smiled and gestured toward the empty seat — the one near Haruki.
Of course it was near Haruki.
Airi bowed, moved gracefully across the room, and sat down one desk away from him. Just one. She placed her bag beside her chair, folded her hands on her desk, and smiled at no one in particular.
I watched her from across the room with a face I had practiced: soft eyes, slight smile, tilted head. Polite interest. Neutral.
Inside my chest, something twisted.
At lunch, they spoke. It wasn't long. Just a few words. Haruki turned to answer a question — I couldn't hear it. But I saw it.
He smiled at her.
Not the kind of smile he gives to the boys in class. Not even the faint one he gives our homeroom teacher when she catches him spacing out. It was... lighter. Unfiltered.
And that was when I knew.
She was going to ruin everything.
The hallway was warm that day — too warm. Spring had just begun, but the sunlight already clung to the windows like sweat. I stood at my shoe locker after school, my hands neatly folded around the strap of my bag, waiting.
Not for Haruki.
For her.
Airi came out last. She lingered by her locker, looking at her phone. I stepped up beside her casually, like fate had placed us there together.
"You're Nakahara-san, right?" I said sweetly.
She blinked and turned. Her smile came automatically, but there was a flicker of hesitation — like a rabbit noticing the shadow of a hawk above.
"Yes. Airi. And you are...?"
"Mei Ayanami," I said. "I sit by the window in 2-B."
She nodded, tucking a curl behind her ear.
"Nice to meet you."
"Likewise," I replied. "You're very pretty."
A pause.
"Oh. Um... thank you."
"Haruki thinks so too."
The words were sugar-coated. I even smiled when I said them.
But I watched her eyes shift — just a little — and that was enough.
I turned to leave without another word.
Because now she'd be thinking about it all night.
That night, I stared at the ceiling in my perfectly quiet room, the pink glow of my lamp casting soft shadows over the lace curtain by my desk.
My textbooks were already stacked for tomorrow. My uniform was pressed and hanging. The room smelled faintly of lavender. Clean. Controlled.
But something in my chest refused to settle.
I turned onto my side and stared at the small photo taped inside my drawer — a candid shot of Haruki I had taken during last year's school festival. He wasn't smiling in it. He looked... distracted. A little lonely. That's why I liked it.
Because no one else saw that version of him.
Not his friends. Not his teachers. Not Airi.
She barely knows him. She doesn't understand what he needs.
I do.
I could still hear her voice in my head. Soft. Grateful.
"Nice to meet you."
I repeated the words to myself, matching her tone. Then I adjusted it — slightly sweeter, slightly softer.
"Nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you."
No matter how I said it, it sounded fake.
She was trying to be liked. I didn't need to try.
Haruki and I were already meant to be.
I opened my notebook — the one no one else knows about — and flipped to the back pages.
I had a list there. Just names. Some crossed out. Some circled. A few underlined twice.
Tonight, I added a new name.
Nakahara Airi
Then I closed the notebook, turned off the light, and fell asleep to the sound of my heartbeat ticking like a clock.
One that was slowly running out of time.
The next morning, I arrived fifteen minutes earlier than usual.
It wasn't a coincidence.
I waited outside the school gates again — not in my usual spot, but leaned casually against the wall near the front garden, pretending to look at my phone.
Haruki walked up the hill right on time. Three minutes early, as always.
But this time, he wasn't alone.
Airi was with him.
She was smiling, brushing cherry blossom petals from her hair, laughing at something he said. And Haruki... Haruki was looking at her.
I mean really looking at her.
I tilted my head and watched — not upset, not surprised. Just... curious. Observing the way people study ants before they step on them.
They didn't see me. That was fine.
"I wonder," I whispered, brushing my fingers through my hair, "how long it'll take for her to realize she's in the wrong story."
In class, Airi answered two questions correctly. She complimented the teacher's handwriting on the board. She even laughed when Haruki made a dumb joke under his breath — the one he always makes when he's nervous.
He doesn't laugh like that with me, I thought.
But then again, he's never had to.
He doesn't need to perform for me.
I see him for who he really is — the part of him that feels disconnected from the world, that stares out the window like he's somewhere else entirely. The part that collects little sorrows in silence, as if afraid to speak them aloud.
He told me once — or maybe he didn't. Maybe I just know.
During lunch, she offered him part of her bento.
He hesitated. Smiled.
Took it.
Something inside my stomach curled — not in anger, but in understanding.
She thinks she's winning.
Poor girl.
When the bell rang at the end of the day, I didn't rush to leave. I stayed behind, erasing the chalkboard slowly after volunteering to help. The room emptied out one by one until only I remained.
I stood at the back of the classroom, staring out the window.
From here, I could see the school courtyard — and two silhouettes walking side by side.
Haruki.
And Airi.
"She's making this harder than it has to be," I whispered.
Then I smiled again — soft, practiced, empty — and returned to cleaning the board.
Because no matter how pretty her smile was, or how close she stood, or how sweet her voice sounded...
This isn't her story.
It's mine.
That night, I stayed late in the bath, staring at the small cracks in the tile above the faucet.
There were three.
One curved like a smile. The other, a jagged line pointing downward. The third? I hadn't noticed it before.
"Things always break when no one's paying attention," I whispered.
I lifted my hand out of the water and watched the droplets trail down my wrist like veins. It reminded me of something — or maybe someone — I had once seen cry without making a sound.
Haruki cries like that.
I know, because I've seen it.
Last year. After school. Behind the gym.
He thought he was alone. But I was walking home late and—
No, not walking.
I was waiting.
The next day, I left home early again. Earlier than yesterday.
I waited behind the vending machines near the back lot — the ones near the side gate where no one really enters. It's quieter there. Fewer eyes. No noise. You can hear footsteps from far away.
At exactly 7:42 AM, I heard them.
Two sets.
Haruki. And her.
Airi's laugh was a little louder today. More confident. She must've thought the morning routine meant something. That walking with him meant she belonged.
She didn't see me.
But he did.
For just a moment, his eyes flicked past her shoulder and landed on mine — wide, blinking, uncertain.
I smiled.
Not a full one. Just a flicker. The kind of smile a girl like me gives when she knows a secret.
And then I was gone.
I didn't go straight to class after that. Instead, I walked the long way through the school garden — letting the breeze move through my hair, ignoring the faint ringing of the bell.
I wasn't late. I just didn't feel like being early today.
Let Airi have that.
When I entered the classroom, Haruki was already seated. Airi was talking to another girl near the back.
I slid into my chair by the window without a word and opened my notebook.
The one no one's supposed to see.
And beside Airi's name — Nakahara Airi — I added a small symbol in the corner.
Just a circle. Not filled in.
"Not yet," I whispered.
But soon.
During break, I sat alone under the sakura tree at the far end of the courtyard.
It was the quietest spot on campus. No one ever ate there — the shade made it a little too cold, and the bench creaked when you sat on it.
But Haruki noticed me.
I didn't call out to him. I didn't wave. I simply sat there with my lunch, soft breeze tugging gently at my hair, as if the entire scene were staged by a director who knew how to frame a moment.
His eyes flicked toward me as he passed with Airi and the others.
He didn't stop.
But he looked.
That was all I needed.
Airi was talking more in class now. Laughing louder. Answering more questions. She even volunteered to read aloud during literature, and the teacher praised her pronunciation.
"You've got such a clear voice," he said.
I raised my hand next.
"Ayanami-san?" the teacher asked.
"May I read the next passage?"
He smiled. "Of course."
My voice was softer than hers. Slower. Each word floated with deliberate weight.
By the second line, the class was silent.
When I finished, the teacher said nothing for a moment.
Then he nodded and simply said, "Beautiful."
Airi didn't turn to look at me. But her fingers tightened just slightly around her pen.
Perfect.
That evening, I passed by Haruki's shoe locker on the way out. He hadn't left yet. His bag was still there.
I could've waited.
Instead, I reached into my blazer pocket and slipped something between the pages of his math book.
A single, folded note.
No name. No heart.
Just four words written in perfect cursive:
"She isn't who you think."
And then I walked home with my phone in my hand, the sound of my own footsteps matching the steady rhythm of my heartbeat.
I didn't look back.
I didn't have to.
The next morning, Haruki was quiet.
Quieter than usual.
He didn't talk much during homeroom. His hands stayed in his pockets even longer than they usually did, and when Airi tried to show him a funny video on her phone, he smiled — but it didn't reach his eyes.
I watched him from my usual seat by the window. Calm. Still. In control.
He opened his math book during first period.
I saw his eyes stop.
Pause.
And then — a small crease in his brow.
He refolded the note neatly, slipping it into the back of the book like it was something worth keeping. Not tossing. Not showing anyone.
Not even her.
Especially not her.
Airi leaned in during lunch, nudging his shoulder playfully.
"You're acting weird today," she teased. "What happened to the guy who laughed at everything?"
Haruki looked at her, and for the first time... he didn't respond with a smile.
Just silence.
She blinked. Laughed again — more awkward this time.
"Sorry. Did I say something wrong?"
Haruki shook his head. "No. It's nothing."
But his voice was softer now. Farther away.
I stirred my miso soup slowly from my corner of the room, watching her expression through the reflection in the window.
She was rattled.
It was small — a stumble, barely noticeable to anyone else. But I saw it. I always do.
"You're starting to feel it," I whispered.
"Good."
After school, I waited again — not by the lockers this time, not near the gates.
I stood by the old stairwell behind the library. The one no one uses. The paint's chipped. The windows are fogged. It smells like old books and forgotten secrets.
It's the kind of place no one notices.
Unless they're looking for a place to hide.
I knew he'd come.
And he did.
Haruki stepped into view with that same quiet grace he always carries — like even his footsteps are trying not to disturb the world. He wasn't looking for me, not exactly.
But when he saw me standing there...
He stopped.
"Hey," I said softly.
"...Hey," he replied, hesitant.
His eyes searched my face like he wasn't sure whether I was supposed to be there — or if I'd simply always been there and he never noticed.
"You've been quiet lately," I said. "Is everything alright?"
"Yeah," he said. "Just... tired, I guess."
He looked past me, toward the stairwell window. The sunlight made the dust in the air shimmer like static.
"I saw you yesterday," he added. "Near the side gate."
I tilted my head gently. "Did you?"
"Yeah. I didn't know you took that way to school."
"I don't," I said, smiling. "I was just... walking."
A pause.
His hand tightened slightly around the strap of his bag.
"Someone left me a note," he said. "In my math book."
"Oh?" I said, blinking. "What did it say?"
"That someone isn't who I think they are."
I nodded slowly, eyes never leaving his.
"Do you believe it?"
He didn't answer at first.
"I don't know."
Then he left.
No goodbye. No expression. Just silence.
But silence says more than words ever could.
That night, I opened my notebook again.
I sat at my desk with the window cracked open — just enough to let the cold spring air crawl in and wrap around my skin like a whisper. The city lights outside blinked softly, indifferent.
I turned to the page where her name was written.
Nakahara Airi
Still circled. Still unmarked.
But beneath her name, I drew something new.
A petal.
Just one.
Perfect. Delicate. Fragile.
I shaded it in until the edges bled into the paper.
"She's not the villain," I whispered to no one.
"But she's not the heroine either."
I closed the notebook and stared at my reflection in the darkened glass of the window.
I didn't look angry.
I looked calm.
Still.
"This is just the beginning."
Outside, somewhere down the street, a dog barked once. Then silence.
Inside my room, the clock ticked in steady rhythm, matching the beat of my thoughts.
Because no matter what story she thinks she's in...
She walked into mine.
And I always write the ending.