The leaves always fell louder than people.
At least, that was how it felt to Chizuru.
Dry reds and oranges scraped softly across the stone path as she walked, their edges whispering against her sneakers. The late afternoon sun slanted through the maple branches that lined the Tokyo University campus, turning the air a muted gold. Groups of students spilled out of nearby lecture halls—laughing, complaining about professors, waving at friends. Their voices layered over each other into a comfortable noise.
Her long black hair was tied into a low ponytail, a few strands slipping free and brushing her cheeks when the wind picked up. The oversized cream sweater she wore swallowed her frame just enough to make her look even smaller from a distance, dark skinny jeans and white sneakers completing the picture. Heads turned when she passed. People noticed her. She knew that. It wasn't arrogance. Just fact.
No one ever stayed looking for long.
A group of three girls sat on a bench under a gingko tree up ahead, textbooks open but mostly ignored as they watched the flow of students. One of them nudged the other with an elbow when she spotted Chizuru, whispering something. The second girl snuck a glance and raised her brows, impressed.
Chizuru kept her eyes ahead, focusing on the way the sunlight collected in tiny pools on the stone path.
A gust of wind swept through, sending a flurry of leaves spinning around her ankles. One caught in her ponytail and she reached up, gently plucking it free. For a moment, she let herself enjoy the sound of the leaves scraping along the ground, drowning the distant laughter.
Then the path emptied into the main science building entrance, and she stepped into the noise.
The hallway was a different ecosystem entirely—fluorescent lights humming overhead, shoe soles squeaking on the waxed floor, snippets of conversation bouncing off the walls. Posters advertised circle activities, part-time jobs, and upcoming university festivals.
Chizuru adjusted her hold on her tote bag and kept her head down, weaving around clumps of students.
"Chizuru chan!"
The call snuck up from her right. She flinched internally before she turned.
Two girls from her department stood by the windows, clutching notebooks and highlighters, faces bright. A third leaned against the wall, scrolling through her phone, but looked up when she heard the name.
The girl in front stepped closer, smiling.
"We're making a study group for the midterm," she said. "Wanna join us this week? We're thinking the café near the station."
The words were light, harmless. The kind of everyday invitation that floated around campus a thousand times a day.
Chizuru's throat tightened anyway.
"I…" She stared at the floor somewhere between their shoes and hers. Her fingers dug into the canvas of her tote strap, knuckles pale against the cream. "Uhh… no. Sorry. I think I'll just study at home."
"You sure?" the girl asked. "It's more fun together. We can share notes and stuff. "
"It's fine," Chizuru cut in, softer than she meant to. "I'm… good at studying alone."
There was a brief pause. She felt the weight of three pairs of eyes, heavy and curious.
"Okay," the girl said finally, forcing a smile. "Maybe next time."
"Yeah," one of her friends muttered under her breath, not quietly enough. "She's always like that…"
They drifted away as a group, their conversation picking back up as though a tiny, awkward detour hadn't just happened. Someone laughed. Someone complained about the exam. Their voices faded into the general hallway hum.
Chizuru exhaled slowly and made herself move again.
If I say yes, I have to keep smiling, she thought. If I stop, they'll ask what's wrong.
Her next lecture was up on the second floor. She took the stairs at a steady, unhurried pace, counting each step in her head like a metronome. When she reached the classroom, she waited at the doorway for a brief moment, letting her eyes adjust from the brightness of the hall to the softer-lit interior.
The room was already half-full. Small clusters of students had conquered sections of seats—two here, three there, someone leaning over to show a meme on a phone, someone else laughing too loudly. The front row was almost empty, as always. The window seats near the back, where the light was kindest, already had a few people scattered there.
Chizuru walked past the center clusters, ignoring the occasional glance and murmur, and chose a desk along the side near the window. She slid into the chair, placed her tote on the hook, and pulled out her notebook and pen with practiced care.
The murmur of the room washed around her without touching her. She stared at the blank page for a moment.
A memory tried to crawl up from somewhere she'd packed it away—the feeling of a desk pressed against the back of her legs, the dizzying sting of a wrist held too tight under the wooden edge where no one could see.
"Don't look at other guys when we're talking," a voice had said, low and cheerful. To everyone else, he'd always sounded cheerful.
Her fingers tightened around her pen. The edges of the classroom blurred for a second.
The door banged open, and the professor strode in with a stack of notes. The spell broke. Chizuru sat up straighter, pen point poised over the paper.
Roll call. Slides flicked on. Words began to appear on the projector, and she chased them with ink, line after line. It was easier. Easier to copy. Easier to hide behind something she was supposed to care about.
When the lecture finally ended and the bell chimed, the room erupted into the same patterns as always. People stretched, started talking about dinner, part-time shifts, club practice. A couple of seats ahead, someone asked, "Are you going to karaoke tonight?"
Chizuru waited.
She let the first wave of bodies rush out, notebooks snapping shut, chairs scraping. Only when the voices thinned did she slide her things back into her bag and stand.
If I leave after everyone else, there's less chance of anyone asking me to stay.
She stepped out into the hallway again.