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The classroom smelled of chalk dust and springtime, a faint breeze slipping through the half-open windows to stir the curtains. Sobu High buzzed with the restless energy of a new semester, voices overlapping in a cacophony of laughter, complaints, and the occasional shout about forgotten homework. Miwa Aoi stood at the front of Class 2-F, her fingers curling tightly around the strap of her schoolbag, the leather smooth and cool under her skin. Her heart thudded, a rhythm too loud in her ears, as twenty pairs of eyes sized her up like a specimen under a microscope.
"Introduce yourself," the teacher said, her voice clipped, already half-turned to scribble something on the board.
Miwa swallowed, her throat dry. She'd rehearsed this moment in her mirror at home, but the weight of the room's attention made her words feel flimsy, like paper about to tear. "I'm Miwa Aoi," she said, her voice softer than she intended, barely carrying over the rustle of papers and shifting chairs. "I transferred from… another school. I like reading and… um, quiet places. Please take care of me."
A murmur rippled through the class, not unkind but not warm either—just the idle curiosity of teenagers faced with a new variable in their predictable equation. Miwa's gaze darted to the floor, then up, scanning the faces. Most were already losing interest, turning back to their phones or whispered conversations. But one pair of eyes caught hers, sharp and unyielding, like they saw through the polite mask she'd plastered on.
Hikigaya Hachiman slouched at a desk near the window, his posture screaming disinterest, yet his stare was anything but. Those eyes—dead-fish eyes, she'd later call them—held a glint of something raw, something that didn't bother with pretense. Her breath hitched, and for a moment, the room faded, leaving just the weight of his gaze and the faint warmth creeping up her neck.
"Alright, Miwa-san, take the empty seat by the back," the teacher said, snapping her out of it. Miwa nodded, her steps deliberate as she wove through the desks, hyper-aware of every rustle of her skirt, every brush of her hair against her shoulders. She slid into her chair, the wood cool against her thighs, and stole another glance at Hachiman. He'd already looked away, his attention now on a battered paperback, but the memory of his eyes lingered, sharp as a pinprick.
The morning dragged on, a blur of introductions and syllabus handouts. Miwa kept her head down, scribbling notes to avoid drawing attention, but her mind wandered. She'd heard whispers about Sobu High before transferring—its competitive academics, its cliques, its unspoken hierarchies. But what drew her here wasn't the school's reputation. It was a chance to start over, to escape the shadows of her old school, where her desperation to be seen had left her bruised and invisible. Here, she could be someone new. Or at least pretend to be.
By lunch, the classroom had fractured into its usual groups, students spilling into the halls or clustering at desks with bentos. Miwa lingered, pretending to organize her bag, her fingers tracing the smooth edge of a notebook. She didn't trust herself to join the chatter, not yet. Instead, she watched, her eyes drifting to Hachiman again. He sat alone, eating a convenience-store onigiri with mechanical efficiency, his expression one of studied indifference. A girl with bright pink hair and a bubbly laugh—Yuigahama Yui, she'd learned—approached him, her voice carrying.
"Hikki, you're eating that again? You're gonna turn into a rice ball one day!" Yui teased, leaning forward, her ponytail swinging.
Hachiman didn't look up from his book. "Better than turning into a walking advertisement for sugar and sparkles," he muttered, his tone dry but not cruel.
Yui pouted, but her grin betrayed her amusement. "So mean! You're lucky I'm nice enough to check on you."
"Lucky's not the word I'd use," he said, turning a page. "Go bother someone who enjoys your brand of sunshine."
Miwa's lips twitched, a flicker of a smile. His words were sharp, but there was no malice in them—just a quiet honesty that cut through the noise. She envied it, that ability to say exactly what he thought without apology. At her old school, she'd tried to fit in, molding herself into whatever shape she thought others wanted. It hadn't worked. But Hachiman… he didn't seem to care about fitting in. He just was.
The afternoon brought a group project, a teacher's half-hearted attempt to "foster collaboration." Miwa found herself assigned to a group with Hachiman, Yui, and two other students whose names she barely caught. They gathered at a cluster of desks, the air thick with the scent of eraser shavings and someone's floral perfume. Miwa sat across from Hachiman, her knees brushing the edge of the desk, her fingers fidgeting with a pencil.
"So, we're supposed to make a poster about… what, cultural festivals?" Yui said, tilting her head as she skimmed the assignment sheet. "Sounds fun! We could do something colorful, right?"
"Or we could do the bare minimum and not waste our lives on glitter," Hachiman said, leaning back, his arms crossed. "Festivals are just excuses for people to pretend they're having fun while spending money they don't have."
Yui rolled her eyes. "You're such a buzzkill, Hikki."
"It's called realism," he said, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "You should try it sometime."
Miwa listened, her heart fluttering at the ease of their banter. It was like watching a dance, each step deliberate yet effortless. She wanted to join in, to prove she could keep up, but her tongue felt heavy, her words stuck somewhere between her chest and her throat. Instead, she focused on the worksheet in front of her, her pen scratching out ideas—a safe way to contribute without risking rejection.
"Hey, new girl," Hachiman said suddenly, his voice cutting through her thoughts. "You got anything to add, or are you just here for the scenery?"
Miwa's head snapped up, her cheeks warming. His tone wasn't hostile, but it wasn't gentle either—just blunt, like he was testing her. "I… I was thinking we could focus on smaller festivals," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "Like local ones. They're less commercialized, more… real."
Hachiman raised an eyebrow, studying her. "Not a bad angle. Most people would've gone for the flashy stuff."
"Most people are idiots," Miwa said, the words slipping out before she could stop them. Her eyes widened, and she clamped her mouth shut, but Hachiman's smirk widened.
"Bold statement for day one," he said, leaning forward slightly. "Care to back it up?"
Yui laughed, breaking the tension. "Oh, wow, she's got you there, Hikki! I like her already."
Miwa's pulse raced, a mix of embarrassment and exhilaration. She'd spoken without thinking, but Hachiman's reaction—amused, not dismissive—felt like a small victory. She dared to meet his eyes, and for a moment, the world narrowed to the faint crinkle at the corners of his gaze, the way his lips curved just enough to hint at approval.
As the group worked, Miwa found herself hyper-aware of Hachiman's presence. He was close enough that she could smell the faint bitterness of coffee on his breath, see the way his fingers tapped idly against the desk, calloused and unpolished. When it came time to pass the worksheet to him, her hand brushed his, a fleeting contact that sent a jolt through her. His skin was warm, slightly rough, the texture lingering in her mind like a photograph. Her breath caught, and she pulled back too quickly, the paper crinkling under her fingers.
Hachiman didn't seem to notice, his focus on the worksheet as he scrawled a note in his messy handwriting. But Miwa's heart pounded, her skin tingling where they'd touched. It was nothing, she told herself—just a clumsy moment. But the warmth of his fingers, the brief press of his knuckles against hers, felt like a spark, a promise of something she couldn't name.
"Earth to Miwa," Yui said, waving a hand in front of her face. "You okay? You're kinda spacing out."
Miwa blinked, her face flushing. "S-sorry, just… thinking about the project."
Yui grinned, oblivious to the storm in Miwa's chest. "No worries! You're doing great. Right, Hikki?"
Hachiman grunted, not looking up. "She's not dead weight, if that's what you mean."
It wasn't much, but to Miwa, it was everything. A crumb of acknowledgment from someone who didn't hand out praise lightly. She tucked the moment away, a secret to savor later, when the loneliness crept back in.
By the time the bell rang, signaling the end of the day, Miwa's nerves had settled into a quiet hum. She packed her bag slowly, watching as Hachiman slung his over his shoulder and headed for the door, his steps unhurried. Yui called after him, something about the Service Club, but he waved her off with a half-hearted gesture. Miwa lingered, her fingers tracing the edge of her desk, the wood smooth and worn from years of use.
She didn't know why Hachiman felt so different, why his presence tugged at her like a tide. Maybe it was his honesty, the way he saw through the shallow games people played. Maybe it was the way he didn't flinch from his own flaws, wearing his cynicism like armor. Whatever it was, it stirred something in her—a hope that someone like him might see her, really see her, and not turn away.
As she stepped into the hallway, the chatter of students fading into a distant hum, Miwa made a silent promise. She'd get closer to him, not to change him or win him, but to understand him. To find out if someone like Hikigaya Hachiman could look at someone like her and see something worth keeping.
The spring breeze followed her out of the school, cool against her cheeks, carrying the faint scent of cherry blossoms. Her heart was still racing, but for the first time in a long time, it didn't feel like fear. It felt like possibility.