Math class was exactly how I remembered it:
Mildly painful, slightly humiliating, and somehow colder than outside even though it was spring.
Mr. Tsukimoto had already written an entire board of equations, and we were only fifteen minutes in.
"Now, when solving for X in a quadratic equation…" he droned, pacing in front of the chalkboard like he was rehearsing for a drama where numbers had feelings.
I tried to focus. Really, I did. But the mix of sunlight, chalk dust, and his voice made my eyelids heavier than my backpack.
From the corner of my eye, I noticed Zay shift slightly.
Not the usual lazy slump—no, this time he leaned back and subtly slid something across the shared edge of our desks.
A folded note.
I stared at it for a second.
Okay, weird.
We weren't the note-passing type. We were the "shared a project, mutually agreed not to talk unless necessary" type.
I unfolded it under the desk with one hand, pencil still in my other so I could pretend I was paying attention.
It said:
"You still bad at math or was that just a winter project fluke?"
…Wow.
I blinked, then smirked a little.
I pulled my notebook toward me and scribbled a reply just beneath the desk.
"Still bad. But at least I didn't light the project model on fire like someone."
I folded it again and casually tapped it against the desk toward him.
He took it without looking. Smooth, like we were passing secret military intel instead of dumb teasing.
I glanced sideways. A tiny twitch tugged at the corner of his mouth. Barely visible. But it was there.
Mr. Tsukimoto suddenly clapped his hands. "You—at the back. Akiyo. Solve this."
My brain froze. "Wait—what?"
The board looked like ancient code.
Before I could embarrass myself, Zay leaned toward his notebook, covered it with his arm, and—without looking at me—tapped twice on the exact part of the equation I needed to focus on.
It clicked.
I stood up and answered—correctly, miraculously.
Tsukimoto gave a surprised grunt. "...Correct."
I sat back down slowly. Zay didn't say a word. Didn't even look at me.
So I scribbled one more line and nudged the note back.
"Guess that makes us both not completely hopeless."
He read it, pocketed the note, and finally looked over.
Just for a second.
And then, as if nothing happened, went back to pretending math didn't exist.