Kaori Watanabe
Power only matters if people remember who holds it.
And lately, too many eyes are drifting where they don't belong.
So this morning, when I walk into class, I don't just walk. I enter. Like the room was built to frame me. Like every step is choreography. Because it is.
And everyone notices. They always do.
"Kaori-chan, your hair looks amazing today!"
"You're glowing, seriously—what's your secret?"
Compliments flood in, practiced, eager. They're not about me—they're about staying close to the flame.
I smile just enough to make them think they've earned something. I tilt my head, let the laugh escape like crystal. It's effortless. It's perfect.
But my gaze slides past them. To her.
Sayuri Misaki.
She's at her desk already, sweatshirt sleeves swallowing her hands, eyes down on her notebook. Trying to look invisible again. But she isn't. Not anymore.
And I hate that she doesn't even try to meet my eyes.
That indifference is a blade sharper than any whisper.
So I turn. And I aim for Souta.
Control in Motion
"Good morning, Souta-kun."
I say it like silk, letting his name linger just a beat too long. I lean across his desk, brushing my hand against his arm like I've done a hundred times.
He stiffens. Not much. Barely there. But I see it.
And worse—he doesn't look at me.
He looks past me.
At her.
The crack inside my chest widens, but my smile doesn't falter. I know how to bleed without showing red.
"You didn't text me back yesterday," I say lightly, twisting a strand of hair. "I waited."
It's not true. I never wait. But he doesn't need to know that.
"Sorry," he mutters, voice low. "I was busy."
With what? With who?
The answer blooms in my head before he says it.
And I feel the burn of it down my spine.
But I just laugh. Sweet, high, dismissive. Loud enough that people turn.
Because if they see me laughing with him, they won't see what he isn't giving me.
At Lunch
The courtyard is buzzing, and I make sure I'm the center of it. Yumi and Ayaka flank me like handpicked ornaments. I throw my laugh like confetti, touch Itsuki's sleeve, tilt my chin toward the sunlight. I've done this a thousand times.
And yet—his eyes still flick toward her.
I see it.
Everyone sees it.
And that's the problem.
So I rise from the bench, smooth my skirt, and walk across the courtyard like I own the ground.
I don't stop at her tree. Not yet.
Instead, I cut closer, just near enough for everyone to watch where my shadow falls.
"Sayuri-chan," I say, sugar dripping from every syllable. "You should join us. It must get so lonely sitting here all the time."
Her head lifts, slow, steady. Our eyes meet, and I feel it—the weight of her refusal, even before she speaks.
"No, thank you," she says softly. Calm. Unshaken.
The words are polite, but the rejection rings louder than if she'd shouted.
And suddenly, the whole courtyard is holding its breath.
I smile wider. Brighter. Crueler.
Because if she won't fold, I'll make her regret standing at all.
That night, I don't lock myself in the bathroom. I don't stare at the mirror and wait for cracks.
I sit at my desk, notebook open, pen poised.
And I write.
Names. Plans. Weaknesses.
Every thread I can pull to remind Sayuri Misaki that the crown was never hers to touch.
I don't do this because I'm afraid of her.
I do it because I won't let her story rewrite mine.
Tomorrow, I'll make her see.
I'll make everyone see.
Because Kaori Watanabe doesn't lose.
Not to shadows.
Not to silence.
Not to girls who don't know how dangerous it is to be noticed.