Early spring carried a gentler breeze into the halls of the school, rustling posters on corkboards and swaying curtains against sunlit windows. With it arrived something unexpected—a new presence that unsettled the fragile balance Takashi and Mizuki had built.
The substitute teacher's name was Shun Hayama. Young, sharp-dressed, and carrying himself with a warm but confident ease that made both staff and students warm to him quickly. He'd been called in to help cover part of the language arts curriculum and occasional homeroom duties when teachers were busy.
From Takashi's seat by the window, it was impossible not to notice how easily Shun spoke to Mizuki-sensei in the hallway. Or how, after meetings, they sometimes lingered outside the faculty room, talking in low, friendly tones.
To everyone else, it seemed harmless. Ordinary.
But to Takashi, it felt like someone gently but deliberately tapping at a fragile wall he'd helped build.
---
One afternoon, Takashi stayed late in the art room, finishing shading on a delicate drawing of falling petals. Through the open door, he caught sight of Mizuki and Shun walking down the hall together. They paused outside the staff room, Mizuki smiling politely at something Shun had said.
Takashi's pencil stopped mid-line.
Shun gestured animatedly, clearly retelling some anecdote. Mizuki laughed lightly, covering her mouth with her hand—something she rarely did with students.
A quiet ache unfurled in Takashi's chest.
He didn't want to feel this way. He knew Mizuki had her own life, her own circle. But logic and feeling seldom moved in unison.
When Mizuki turned slightly, her gaze passed over the art room door. For the briefest second, their eyes met. Her smile faded into something softer, almost guilty, before she quickly looked away and excused herself from Shun's conversation.
She walked off in the other direction.
Takashi stared down at his drawing, the unfinished petal now looking oddly stark against the others.
---
Later, in class, Shun Hayama occasionally stepped in to co-teach or observe. Takashi couldn't help but notice how easily Shun navigated the classroom, complimenting Mizuki's lessons, adding comments that made the students laugh.
Mizuki seemed at ease around him, though more composed than when they spoke privately. Still, every shared glance between them struck Takashi like an unexpected cold wind.
That same afternoon, Takashi's friend Kenta nudged him at lunch.
"You've been glaring holes in the new guy's back. What's up with that?" Kenta asked, voice teasing.
"Nothing," Takashi muttered, but his tone was sharper than he intended.
"Uh-huh," Kenta said, unconvinced. "Looks like you've got competition, huh?"
Takashi shot him a warning glance, and Kenta dropped it—but the words stayed lodged under Takashi's skin.
Competition.
He hated that it felt true.
---
That evening, Takashi stayed behind under the pretext of cleaning paintbrushes. When he finally packed up to leave, he passed the teacher's lounge and stopped, unseen, by the doorframe.
Inside, Shun and Mizuki were talking again. Shun's voice was animated, his smile warm. Mizuki stood opposite, arms loosely crossed, her expression more guarded than before, but her eyes still softened around the edges.
"You always stay so late, Ayane-sensei," Shun teased lightly. "Don't you ever get tired of paperwork?"
"It's part of the job," Mizuki replied, voice calm but tinged with quiet amusement. "I'm sure you'll learn soon enough."
"Or maybe you're just too dedicated," Shun countered.
Mizuki didn't respond immediately. Then, quietly, "It matters to me that I do it right."
Takashi swallowed, guilt mixing with jealousy. He felt as if he were intruding on something unspoken, yet undeniably there.
Before he could slip away, Mizuki's eyes flickered toward the doorway, catching sight of his figure in the corner of her vision.
Their eyes met. The room seemed to shrink around that look.
Mizuki's gaze softened for a moment, then turned quickly back to Shun.
"I should finish this up," she said, voice gently dismissive.
Shun hesitated, then nodded, offering a polite bow before leaving.
As he walked past Takashi, Shun nodded at him too. "Evening, Arata. Didn't see you there."
Takashi murmured a greeting, barely meeting his eyes.
When the door closed, Mizuki stepped closer. "You stayed late again?"
"I was finishing a sketch," Takashi said, the words coming out more sullenly than he meant.
Mizuki tilted her head slightly. "Something wrong?"
He hesitated, then shook his head. "No. Just... tired."
She studied him quietly, as if sensing the undercurrent. But she didn't push.
"Get some rest," she said softly. "Tomorrow's another day."
He nodded, turning to leave.
At the door, he paused, glancing back. "You... and Hayama-sensei seem to get along well."
Her expression changed, just slightly—a flicker of surprise, then something careful. "We work together. That's all."
Takashi nodded, trying to sound casual. "Right. Goodnight, Sensei."
"Goodnight, Takashi," she replied.
As he stepped into the corridor, Takashi's chest felt tight with words unspoken. The ache of wanting, and the sharp stab of realizing he wasn't the only one who could make her smile.
---
That night, at home, Takashi sat at his desk, staring at a half-finished drawing meant to capture Mizuki's calm, steady gaze. But every time he tried, the image blurred, overshadowed by the memory of her laughing softly at something another man had said.
He set down his pencil, exhaling a shaky breath.
"I don't want to feel this way," he whispered to himself.
But jealousy had a shape now. And it was sharper than he had expected.
In the quiet of his room, Takashi wrestled with what it meant to love someone enough to want them to be happy—even if part of him dreaded that their happiness might come from someone else.
And as the night deepened, he promised himself to watch. To wait. But he could not promise himself it wouldn't hurt.
Because sometimes, love wasn't just about what you felt.
It was about what you feared losing—even before you had it at all.