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The rain began as Miwa Aoi stepped out of Sobu High, a soft drizzle that kissed her cheeks and clung to her eyelashes. The air was heavy with the scent of wet asphalt and cherry blossoms, their petals littering the sidewalk like fragile confetti. She tilted her face upward, letting the cool droplets slide down her skin, a fleeting relief from the heat of her thoughts. Her fingers tightened around the strap of her schoolbag, the leather damp and slick, grounding her as she started the walk home. The memory of the Service Club room lingered—Hachiman's sharp gaze, Yukino's piercing questions, Yui's hesitant warmth—and with it, a spark of hope she hadn't felt in years.
But hope was a dangerous thing, Miwa knew. It had betrayed her before, at her old school, where she'd poured herself into friendships that crumbled like sand. As she walked, the rhythm of her steps—soft thuds against the pavement—pulled her back, her mind slipping into the past like a stone sinking into water.
One year ago, Kanagawa Prefecture, Miwa's previous school.
The classroom was a cage of noise, laughter and chatter bouncing off the walls like ricocheting bullets. Miwa sat at her desk, her fingers tracing the glossy surface of a group photo, its edges worn from too many anxious touches. The photo showed her with three other girls, their smiles bright, arms linked during a school festival. She'd thought they were friends—real friends, the kind who'd stay through the messy parts. But the photo lied.
"Hey, Aoi-chan," one of the girls, Reina, had said that morning, her voice syrupy sweet as she leaned against Miwa's desk. "You're not coming to karaoke tonight, right? It's kind of a small group thing."
Miwa's heart had stuttered, but she'd forced a smile, her lips tight. "Oh, no, I've got… stuff to do. Homework. You know."
Reina's smile widened, but her eyes were distant, already drifting to the next conversation. "Cool, cool. Maybe next time!"
There hadn't been a next time. The invitations stopped, the group chats went silent, and Miwa was left with the photo, its glossy surface mocking her. She pressed her thumb against it now, the texture smooth and cold, a stark contrast to the ache in her chest. She'd tried so hard—joined the art club, laughed at their jokes, mirrored their slang—but it wasn't enough. They'd seen her desperation, her need to be wanted, and it had pushed them away.
She'd overheard Reina later, whispering to another girl in the hallway. "Aoi's just… intense, you know? Like, she tries too hard. It's kinda sad."
The words had cut deeper than Miwa expected, lodging in her like shards of glass. She'd gone home that night and cried into her pillow, the fabric damp and warm against her cheeks, her sobs muffled to avoid waking her parents. She'd wanted to be enough, to be someone worth keeping, but all she'd done was prove she wasn't.
Present day, Chiba, walking home from Sobu High.
The rain grew heavier, soaking Miwa's uniform, the cotton clinging to her shoulders like a second skin. She didn't mind. The cold was grounding, a reminder that she was here, now, not trapped in the past. She paused at a crosswalk, her fingers brushing the photo in her bag, the one she hadn't thrown away despite everything. It was a relic of her failure, but also a promise: she wouldn't make the same mistakes again.
Hikigaya Hachiman was different, she told herself. He wasn't like Reina or the others, with their shallow smiles and fleeting loyalties. His bluntness, his refusal to play the social game, felt like a lifeline. In the Service Club room, when he'd said, "Figure out what you're running from," it had shaken her, not because it was cruel, but because it was true. He saw through facades, hers included, and that terrified her as much as it thrilled her.
She resumed walking, her shoes splashing through shallow puddles, the sound a soft counterpoint to her racing thoughts. The streets of Chiba were quieter now, the after-school rush fading into the hum of distant traffic. A café's neon sign flickered ahead, its warm light spilling onto the wet pavement, and Miwa's mind drifted to Hachiman again. She pictured him there, maybe, sipping his MAX Coffee, his fingers wrapped around the can, calloused and steady. The image sent a shiver through her, unrelated to the rain.
Her hand rose to her chest, pressing against her damp blazer, where her heart beat too fast. She remembered the moment in the Service Club room, when her fingers had brushed Yukino's, the contact brief but sharp. It had been nothing, just an accident, but it had made her crave something more—Hachiman's touch, his warmth, the rough texture of his skin against hers. The thought made her cheeks burn, and she shook her head, droplets scattering from her hair.
"Get a grip, Miwa," she muttered, her voice lost in the rain. She wasn't here to fantasize. She was here to find something real, something worth fighting for. And Hachiman, with his dead-fish eyes and unflinching honesty, felt like the closest she'd come to that.
One year ago, Kanagawa, Miwa's old school, after school.
Miwa had stayed late in the art club room, the air thick with the smell of paint and turpentine. She'd been working on a sketch, a portrait of the group from the photo, hoping it might win them back. Her fingers gripped the pencil, its wood worn and smooth, the graphite smudging her skin as she shaded their faces. If she could capture them perfectly, maybe they'd see her effort, her care. Maybe they'd want her again.
The door had opened, and Reina stepped in, her expression a mix of surprise and discomfort. "Oh, Aoi-chan, you're still here?" she'd said, her voice too bright. "I just needed to grab my bag."
Miwa's heart leapt, then sank. "I'm working on something," she said, gesturing to the sketch. "It's… for you guys. I thought it'd be nice."
Reina glanced at the drawing, her smile faltering. "That's… sweet. But, like, you don't have to do that. We're good, you know?"
The words were kind, but they cut. Miwa's fingers tightened on the pencil, the wood biting into her palm. "I just wanted to… I don't know, make something special."
Reina's eyes softened, but it was pity, not warmth. "Look, Aoi-chan, you're nice and all, but maybe… ease up a bit? You're coming on kinda strong."
Miwa had nodded, her throat too tight to speak. Reina left, and Miwa stared at the sketch, the faces blurring as tears welled up. She'd torn it apart later, the paper's sharp edges scraping her fingers, the pieces fluttering to the floor like her hopes.
That night, she'd decided to transfer. She couldn't stay where she was invisible, where her efforts only made her more alone. Sobu High was a fresh start, a chance to be someone new—not the desperate girl who tried too hard, but someone who could stand on her own.
Present day, Chiba, Miwa's apartment.
Miwa reached her apartment building, the rain now a steady patter against her umbrella. She climbed the stairs, her shoes squeaking on the linoleum, and unlocked her door. The apartment was small, sparsely furnished, the air cool and faintly musty. She dropped her bag on the floor, the thud echoing in the quiet, and sank onto her bed, the mattress creaking under her weight.
Her fingers found the photo again, tucked in a pocket of her bag. She pulled it out, the glossy surface catching the dim light from her bedside lamp. The girls' smiles stared back at her, and for a moment, the old ache returned, sharp and heavy. But it was different now. She wasn't that girl anymore, or at least, she didn't want to be.
She thought of Hachiman, his voice low and steady in the Service Club room, his words cutting through her defenses. "Real's a tall order." He hadn't mocked her, hadn't looked through her. He'd challenged her, and that challenge felt like an invitation—to be more, to find the courage she'd buried under years of rejection.
Her thumb traced the photo's edge, the texture smooth and familiar, but no longer a weight. She set it on her nightstand, not hiding it but not clinging to it either. It was a reminder, not a chain. She'd made mistakes, but she could learn from them. Hachiman wasn't like Reina or the others. He didn't want her to be someone else, didn't expect her to perform. He just… saw her, or at least, she hoped he could.
Miwa stood, her damp uniform sticking to her skin, and moved to her desk. She pulled out a notebook, its pages crisp and untouched, and began to write. Not a letter, not yet, but a list—clubs to visit, interests to explore, steps to take. Yukino's task was a starting point, but this was more. It was a promise to herself, to find her place, to build something real.
Her pen moved, the ink's faint scent mingling with the rain-soaked air. Her fingers trembled slightly, the smooth barrel of the pen grounding her as she wrote. Each word felt like a step forward, away from the girl who'd torn herself apart for others, toward someone who could stand beside Hachiman—not as a shadow, but as an equal.
The rain tapped against her window, a soft lullaby, and Miwa's heart steadied. She didn't have answers yet, didn't know if Hachiman would ever see her the way she wanted. But for the first time, she felt like she could try. Not for him, not entirely, but for herself.