I walked into the house without ceremony, tossing my backpack into the corner like usual. The living room light was off, which already told me my mother hadn't returned from work. Nothing unusual.
I went straight to the kitchen. Opened the fridge, stared into the void for three seconds, and ended up grabbing the usual: two slices of bread, ham, and some plastic-wrapped cheese. While the sandwich toasted in the pan, I opened my notebook on the counter.
Look at me… studying of my own free will.
But it wasn't just that. There was something about those lessons with Ayumi that messed with my logic. It wasn't exactly her words—it was the way she corrected me, firm and unhurried, as if I were a real student. As if, despite everything, she believed I was worth the effort.
And just because of that… I was trying too.
—
The next morning, Keika carried the same suffocating atmosphere as always. Hallways polished to the point you could see your reflection, teachers standing rigid, and students silently competing to look the most exemplary. A battlefield disguised as an elite academy.
I found Yuji leaning against the classroom door, books in hand.
"So? How was your lesson yesterday?" he asked, adjusting his glasses.
"What?"
"The lesson. With the president."
"Oh. Normal."
He raised an eyebrow.
"You are, without question, the only guy on the planet who would call a private lesson with Ayumi Matsuo 'normal.'"
"She treats me like a student. That's all."
"Hm. If you say so…"
The bell cut our conversation short.
—
Math class began with its usual rhythm, until Professor Kirishima—the type who seemed to like tests more than teaching—dropped the eraser on the desk.
"Let's see if anyone here can properly solve a compound inequality. Miura."
The silence came before the muffled laughter.
A few faces turned, smiles barely hiding their anticipation of failure.
"He won't even stand up," someone whispered.
"He'll mess it all up. Wanna bet?" another chimed in.
"To the board, Miura," the teacher insisted, arms crossed, like he was already savoring the disaster.
I stayed still for a second. Not out of shame—I was used to being the subject of whispers. But because it was strange: he never called on me.
I stood, picked up the chalk, and walked to the board. Didn't look at anyone. My eyes stayed on the numbers.
Calm. Like she said… one step at a time.
I isolated the terms. Fixed the signs. Drew the line with steady hands.
When I finished, I stepped back. The room was silent. The kind of silence heavier than noise.
Kirishima approached. Read each line, brow furrowed. Then he muttered, almost swallowing his words:
"Correct."
I returned to my seat without a word. Yuji was staring at me, torn between laughing and congratulating me. The whispers resumed, but different this time—less mockery, more unease.
The teacher carried on as if nothing had happened. But something had.
—
That afternoon, in the library, the routine repeated itself. Ayumi kept the pace, the demands, the precise remarks. I kept up. Maybe out of pride. Maybe because, at least there, no one looked at me with pity.
At the end, while packing her things, she spoke as casually as if talking about the weather:
"Professor Kirishima came to me today. He complained about the tutoring sessions."
I raised an eyebrow.
"No surprise there."
"He said he doubted their effectiveness. So I asked him to test you personally."
I stayed quiet. Not exactly a compliment. But… she had bet on me.
"So you're the one who set up that ambush." I smirked faintly.
"I prefer to call it an evaluation method."
"Elegant, as always."
A short laugh escaped her before she regained her usual seriousness.
—
When we left, the sky was clear this time.
"Shall we walk back together?" she asked, adjusting her bag. "Since we live nearby, it already seems less awkward than pretending we don't know each other every day."
I was about to say yes. Almost did. But today was Thursday.
"Not today. I have something to do."
She glanced at me. Her face impassive, but her eyes… curious.
"All right. See you tomorrow."
She went her way. I went mine.
—
My footsteps echoed heavier than they should.
The silver plaque loomed larger than usual: Mizuhara Hospital.
The damp wind carried that bittersweet smell of disinfectant mixed with dry soil. A smell that clings to memory, impossible to ignore.
I climbed the steps slowly, that old knot in my stomach tightening again.
Every Thursday.
That was my commitment. And it couldn't be postponed.