---
Haruki dropped his pen with the subtlety of a magician pretending it was an accident.
It bounced off his notebook, hit the floor with a soft clack, and skidded to a stop beside Mari's foot.
She looked down. Then up.
Without a word, she leaned over, picked it up, and handed it back.
"Thanks," he murmured.
Mari gave a small nod, her expression unreadable, then turned back to her notes.
That was it.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing awkward.
But inside Haruki's chest, something flickered—hope, nerves, or maybe static from the numbers still clinging to the air.
> "Drop your pen now: 97% chance she notices and hands it back. Opportunity to talk."
He didn't talk. Not beyond two words. But it counted. A spark.
The shimmer faded.
Mari's braid lay over her shoulder, the end swaying as she scribbled with crisp, slanted strokes.
Haruki glanced at her handwriting—neat and sharp. Like she was trying to impose order on the world with the force of her pen.
He turned back to his worksheet. The math problem was still unsolved. His mind didn't care.
---
The next day, he tried again.
A gentle nudge sent the pen tumbling. This time, it tapped her shoe.
Mari didn't flinch. She bent down, retrieved it, and handed it over—same quiet efficiency. But her eyes lingered a moment. Curious.
Their fingers brushed.
Haruki thought about making a joke. Asking a question. Saying anything.
Instead, he choked.
"Oops."
Mari blinked once, then turned away.
His internal monologue howled something about missed chances and social ineptitude.
> "Drop it again tomorrow: 61% chance she notices. 12% chance she says something first."
He logged the numbers at lunch in a private doc full of comforting stats:
> "Yui's ramen invite = 100% chance she cheers up."
"Short route to school = 47% chance of arriving on time, 90% chance of arriving sweaty."
Useful. Predictable.
But this wasn't survival.
It was strategy.
---
The third day, Haruki didn't drop the pen.
His hand twitched, hovering over the edge of the desk. Then stopped.
It felt off. Like a trick repeated too often.
He glanced at Mari. She was already writing—elbow tucked in, brow furrowed. Sharp green ink slicing through the page.
Instead, he clicked his pen. Once. Twice.
Mari looked over, brow raised.
"Sorry," he said. "Thinking."
She nodded, already turning back.
But something in her glance lingered. Not curiosity. Recognition.
He wasn't sure if that made him feel better or worse.
---
On the train home, Haruki sat with his earphones in, music playing something soft and forgettable.
He scrolled through his notes app.
There it was: pen drop strategy.
It didn't feel harmless anymore.
It felt like cheating. Like skipping the real game.
He thought about Mari's face—the way her expression had gone flat. Not confused. Just... closed.
He deleted the note.
Maybe she hadn't thought anything of it.
But maybe she had.
---
The next day, he didn't drop the pen.
He tapped it once against his notebook and said, "Hey."
Mari turned. "Yeah?"
"Your notes are really clear," he said. "Way better than mine."
She paused.
"I recopied them last night," she replied. "Helps me think."
"Oh." He nodded. "That's smart."
Mari looked at him for a second. Then more softly: "You want a photo of this page?"
He didn't check the numbers.
Didn't need to.
"Sure," he said.
She slid the notebook toward him.
---
The picture was crisp. Her handwriting even crisper. Sharp arrows, perfect spacing. Two colors—black and green.
She'd drawn her own margin lines, just inside the printed ones. Perfectly straight.
Not just notes. A system.
He wondered what she was trying to hold together.
---
Later, passing the music room, Haruki paused.
Someone was playing piano. Simple chords. Slow. Careful.
He stood just outside the door.
Mari.
He didn't enter. Didn't interrupt.
Just listened.
No shimmer. No numbers.
Just curiosity.
---
That night, lying in bed, Haruki stared at the ceiling fan spinning in slow, lazy circles.
The numbers hadn't lied.
Mari had handed the pen back. Every time. The chances had been right.
But connection wasn't math.
It wasn't "drop this, she says that, and then you walk home before the credits roll."
It was awkward silences. Half-finished sentences. Long pauses.
He opened his phone and typed:
> "A real moment with 31% honesty feels better than a fake one at 97%."
"Don't trade sincerity for strategy."
---
The next morning, in homeroom, Mari dropped her eraser.
It rolled behind her chair and landed near Haruki's foot.
He picked it up and tapped her shoulder.
"Hey," he said. "Yours."
Mari turned. A flicker of surprise. Then gratitude.
"Thanks."
No numbers. No prediction.
Just a real smile.
---
At lunch, Yui dropped her bag next to him and opened her bento halfway before speaking.
"You're weird lately," she said, stabbing rice. "Not bad-weird. Philosopher-weird."
Haruki shook his head. "No student council plans."
"Okay, Mr. Deep Thoughts," she said, grinning. "What's with the upgrade?"
He hesitated. "You ever do something that works, but feels wrong?"
"Like brushing your teeth with soda?"
He laughed. "Exactly."
Then: "Sometimes it's not about what works. It's about what feels like you."
Yui paused mid-chew. "That's weirdly wise for a math guy."
"Don't tell anyone."
She smiled. "Your secret's safe."
---
After school, Haruki lingered by the bike racks.
The sky folded into sunset—orange and gray, smudged like brushstrokes.
He hadn't seen Mari beyond homeroom. That was fine.
He pulled out his phone and typed:
> "People aren't puzzles. You can't solve them by dropping things."
"If you want something real, you have to be real first."
A breeze tugged at his sleeves. A soccer ball rolled past.
Haruki smiled.
The numbers were still there.
But quiet now. Background noise.
Not the voice in charge.
---
At home, he opened his pencil case and took out the pen.
Plastic. Cheap. Overused.
It had meant something yesterday.
Today, it didn't need to.
He placed it back inside and went to wash up for dinner.
---
That night, lying in the quiet again, he asked himself one last thing:
Would he talk to Mari tomorrow?
Yes.
Would he drop the pen?
No.
Maybe he'd ask about the piano piece.
Or her margin lines.
Or why she used green ink.
And if she didn't answer?
That would be okay.
No shimmer appeared.
But something settled in his chest.
Not certainty.
Just honesty.
And tonight, that was enough.