People often talk about gravity as a forceful thing—something that crushes or pulls violently. But in my experience, gravity is quiet. It is the subtle, undeniable law that dictates where you stand in a room, who you look at when a joke is told, and who the light seems to find, even on a cloudy day.
My name is Kazuya Renju. And for as long as I can remember, my gravity has been tethered to Ken Tsukishiro.
"You're overthinking it, Kaz," Ken said, leaning his chair back on two legs. The afternoon sun cut across the classroom, catching the dust motes dancing around his messy, ink-black hair. He was grinning, that easy, disarming grin that seemed to suggest the world was a joke we were both in on.
"I'm not overthinking it," I replied, staring down at my textbook. "I'm just saying that if you lend your umbrella to a girl you barely know, you're going to get wet walking home."
"It was raining, though." Ken shrugged, the chair legs clacking back onto the linoleum. "And she looked like she was having a bad day. Besides, I can just run. I'm fast."
He was fast. He was athletic without trying, smart without studying, and kind without an agenda. It was that last part that was the most dangerous. If he were calculating, I could despise him. If he were vain, I could ignore him. But Ken was simply, frustratingly, good.
"Ken!"
The voice came from the doorway. We both looked up.
Standing there was Hina Arai. She was the class representative—organized, sharp-tongued, and usually terrifying to the male population of Class 2-B. But right now, she was clutching a wrapped bento box against her chest, her knuckles white.
"Arai-san?" Ken asked, tilting his head. "What's up?"
I watched the scene unfold with the practiced detachment of a museum guard. I knew the blocking of this scene.
"I... I made too much today," Hina said, her voice unusually high. She refused to look at me. Her eyes were locked on Ken like he was the only source of oxygen in the room. "My mother, she just... kept cooking. It's a waste to throw it out. So, take it."
She thrust the box toward him.
It was a lie, of course. A transparent, fragile lie. No mother accidentally cooks a gourmet, three-tiered bento wrapped in a cloth with a pattern that matches the recipient's eyes.
Ken blinked, genuinely surprised. "Whoa, really? Are you sure? I was just going to buy melon bread."
"Melon bread is barely food, idiot," she snapped, though there was no heat in it. "Just take it before I change my mind."
"Thanks, Arai-san! You're a lifesaver." Ken took the box, his fingers brushing hers.
She flinched, her face turning the color of a ripe persimmon, and then she spun on her heel. "Don't get the wrong idea! It's just leftovers!" She fled the classroom before he could say anything else.
Silence returned to our corner of the room. Ken looked at the bento, then at me.
"That was lucky," he said, already unwrapping the cloth. "She's actually really nice, huh? People say she's scary, but she's always looking out for others."
He didn't see it. He truly didn't see the hours of preparation, the courage it took to walk through that door, or the specific affection behind the gesture. To Ken, the world was just a friendly place that occasionally offered him lunch.
"Yeah," I said, my voice steady. "She's nice."
"Want half?" He held out a meticulously shaped octopus wiener with his chopsticks.
I looked at the offering. I was hungry, but eating that felt like a sacrilege. It wasn't meant for me. It was an offering to the sun, and I was just a rock orbiting nearby.
"No," I said, closing my book. "I'm good. You eat it. You're the one she gave it to."
"Suit yourself." Ken happily bit into it. "Man, this is amazing. Kaz, you sure? There's tamagoyaki."
"I said I'm fine."
I looked out the window. The school courtyard was filling up with students. I could see the track team warming up, the gardening club tending to the hydrangeas. It was a normal Tuesday for everyone else.
But I felt a familiar, heavy ache in my chest. It wasn't jealousy—not exactly. I didn't want Hina Arai's affection. I didn't want the drama or the pressure.
What I wanted was to not feel so... transparent.
When you stand next to someone who burns that brightly, you start to wonder if you have any light of your own, or if you're just reflecting theirs. I was Kazuya Renju. I had good grades. I liked photography. I had a sister in college. I existed.
But in moments like this, when the universe seemed to bend itself to accommodate Ken Tsukishiro, I felt like I was fading at the edges.
"Hey, Kaz," Ken said with his mouth full.
"What?"
"You okay? You've got that 'existential dread' face on again."
I turned back to him. He was looking at me with genuine concern, the bento forgotten for a moment. That was the other problem. He noticed me. He saw me. He was my best friend, and he cared about me more than he cared about the girls who threw themselves at his feet.
That made it impossible to leave him.
"I'm fine," I lied, forcing a small smile. "Just thinking about the math test."
Ken groaned, his head dropping onto the desk. "Don't remind me. I'm gonna fail. You have to help me study later. Please? I'll buy you ramen."
"You already owe me three bowls," I reminded him.
"I'm good for it! Come on, Kazuya. I'm helpless without you."
He grinned again. The sun shifted, and the light hit me square in the face.
"Fine," I said, opening my book again. "I'm getting extra chashu."
"Deal!"
I looked down at the text, the words blurring slightly.