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The Sobu High classroom was hushed after school, the usual clamor of students replaced by the soft rustle of papers and the distant hum of a janitor's vacuum in the hallway. Miwa Aoi lingered at her desk, her fingers tracing the smooth edge of a bookmark, its textured paper embossed with a simple cherry blossom design.
The air carried the faint scent of chalk dust and the lingering warmth of spring, filtering through the half-open windows. Her heart thudded, a nervous rhythm that echoed the risk she was about to take. The bookmark, along with a can of MAX Coffee tucked in her bag, was a gesture—small, deliberate, a way to reach Hachiman without words, to leave a mark he couldn't ignore.
The memory of their shared umbrella, the graze of his shoulder, the warmth of his breath in the rain, still burned in her mind, a spark that fueled her longing. But Yui's confrontation on the rooftop and Yukino's warning in the hallway had left cracks in her confidence, reminders of the line she was skirting. Intense. Unsettling.
The words haunted her, but they couldn't douse the need to be seen, to make Hachiman feel her presence, even if he didn't reciprocate. The gifts were a compromise—safer than a confession, bolder than silence.
Hachiman was at the front of the classroom, packing his bag with his usual indifference, his movements slow, almost reluctant. The Service Club had met earlier, a brief session to finalize charity booth plans, and Yukino had left with Yui to deliver paperwork to the student council. Miwa had stayed behind, her excuse flimsy—organizing notes—but her real reason was Hachiman, the chance to be alone with him, to offer her gifts and see his reaction.
She stood, her legs unsteady, and approached him, the bookmark and coffee can clutched in her hands. The floor creaked under her shoes, the sound sharp in the quiet, and Hachiman glanced up, his dead-fish eyes narrowing slightly, as if sensing her intent.
"Hey," Miwa said, her voice softer than she intended, barely carrying over the classroom's stillness. "I… got you something."
Hachiman raised an eyebrow, his bag half-zipped, his posture tensing. "Something?" he said, his tone dry but cautious, like he was bracing for a trap. "This better not be glitter or motivational quotes."
Miwa's lips twitched, a nervous smile breaking through. "No glitter," she said, holding out the bookmark, its cherry blossom design catching the fading sunlight. "I saw it at the bookstore and thought… you might like it. For your paperbacks."
He took it, his fingers brushing hers, the contact fleeting but electric. His skin was warm, slightly rough, and the jolt of it sent her pulse racing, a wild rhythm that made her breath catch. She pulled back quickly, her cheeks flushing, and offered the coffee can next, its metal cool against her overheated palm. "And… this. I noticed you like MAX Coffee."
Hachiman stared at the gifts, his expression unreadable, the bookmark held delicately between his fingers, the coffee can set on the desk with a soft clink. "You're… observant," he said, his voice low, a mix of suspicion and curiosity. "What's the occasion? I didn't miss my birthday, did I?"
Miwa's throat tightened, his scrutiny peeling back her defenses. "No occasion," she said, forcing her voice to steady. "Just… thought it'd be nice. You've been helping me, with the Service Club and… everything."
The lie was thin, and she knew it. The gifts weren't just gratitude—they were a plea, a way to say I see you, please see me too. Her fingers trembled, and she gripped her skirt, the cotton warm and slightly creased, grounding her against the fear that he'd see through her, that he'd call her out for the intensity Yukino had warned against.
Hachiman set the bookmark down, his eyes locking onto hers, sharp and unrelenting. "Miwa," he said, his tone shifting, no longer teasing but direct, almost heavy. "What's this really about?"
Miwa's heart stopped, the air in the classroom suddenly too thick, the chalk dust stinging her lungs. She wanted to run, to hide from the weight of his gaze, but her feet were rooted, her body betraying her. "I… I told you," she stammered, her voice cracking. "I just wanted to—"
"Cut the crap," he interrupted, his voice low but firm, not cruel but unyielding. "You've been hovering, watching, leaving notes, giving gifts. I'm not an idiot. You're not just being nice. So what's the deal?"
The note. He knew. Or at least suspected. Miwa's face burned, shame and panic flooding her chest. Her fingers tightened on her skirt, the fabric bunching under her grip, and she looked down, unable to meet his eyes. The memory of slipping the note into his locker, the rough paper, the thrill and guilt, surged back, amplified by his words.
"I… I didn't mean to… I just…" Her voice faltered, the words crumbling under the weight of her exposure.
Hachiman sighed, running a hand through his hair, his expression softening but still guarded. "Look, I'm not good at this… feelings stuff," he said, his voice gruff, almost reluctant. "People throw emotions at me, and I fumble them like a bad catch. But you're making it obvious, Miwa. You're into me, right?"
The question was a blade, slicing through her defenses, leaving her raw and trembling. Her eyes stung, and she nodded, a small, jerky motion, her hands clutching her skirt so tightly her knuckles whitened. "I… yeah," she whispered, the admission a weight lifted and a burden taken on. "I like you. I didn't mean to… push. I just… you're different. You see things. You see me."
The classroom was silent, the only sound the faint hum of the vacuum in the hallway, the distant patter of rain starting again outside. Hachiman's eyes widened, just a fraction, before his smirk returned, a shield snapping back into place. "That's… a lot," he said, his tone careful, like he was navigating a minefield. "I'm not… I don't do well with this. I'm bad at emotions, Miwa. Always have been."
Miwa's heart ached, his admission both a rejection and a revelation. He wasn't dismissing her, wasn't mocking her, but he wasn't reciprocating either. His honesty, the same bluntness that had drawn her to him, was a wall she couldn't breach. "I know," she said, her voice steadier now, fueled by a flicker of resolve. "I'm not asking you to… feel the same. I just wanted you to know."
Hachiman looked away, his fingers tapping the desk, the rhythm uneven, a sign of his discomfort. "You're… brave, I'll give you that," he said, his voice low. "Most people don't just… say it. But I'm not… I can't be what you're looking for. I've got my own mess to deal with."
The words stung, but they weren't cruel, just honest, and Miwa clung to that honesty, even as it hurt. She nodded, her eyes glistening but dry, her hands loosening on her skirt. "I get it," she said, her voice soft but firm. "But… I'm not giving up. Not on you, not on… me."
The confrontation hung between them, heavy and unresolved, but the classroom's quiet softened the edges.
Hachiman picked up the bookmark, his fingers brushing its textured surface, and tucked it into his bag, a small gesture that felt like a concession. "Thanks," he said, his tone gruff but not dismissive. "For the stuff. It's… nice."
Miwa's heart lifted, a fragile hope amidst the ache. He wasn't accepting her feelings, but he wasn't rejecting her entirely either. It was enough, for now, to keep her going. She managed a small smile, her fingers lingering on her skirt, the cotton warm from her grip, a reminder to stay grounded.
They packed in silence, the classroom's stillness wrapping around them like a cocoon. Miwa's bag felt heavier, the weight of her confession a tangible thing, but there was a clarity too, a sense of having crossed a threshold. She'd been exposed, her facade cracked, but she hadn't shattered. Hachiman's admission—I'm bad at emotions—was a piece of him, a vulnerability she'd hold close, even if it wasn't love.
As they left the classroom, the hallway was dim, the vacuum's hum fading into the distance. Hachiman walked a step ahead, his shoulders slouched, the coffee can in his hand, the bookmark in his bag. Miwa followed, her steps lighter despite the ache in her chest. She glanced at him, memorizing the way his hair fell over his forehead, the faint curve of his lips, the steady rhythm of his steps.
Outside, the rain was a soft drizzle, the air cool and clean. Miwa opened her umbrella, the handle smooth under her fingers, and paused, watching Hachiman disappear into the evening. Her fingers brushed the edge of her notebook, tucked in her bag, and she knew what she'd write tonight: I told him, and it hurt, but it was real. He's not mine, but he's still here. Keep going, but be strong.
The cherry blossoms lay scattered on the pavement, their petals glowing in the rain's reflection, and Miwa walked home, her heart heavy but unbroken. She'd faced her fear, laid her feelings bare, and Hachiman hadn't turned away. It was a start, a crack in the wall, and she'd keep pushing, not just for him, but for the girl she was becoming.