The morning sun filtered through the cssroom blinds, casting slow-moving patterns across the desks. Dust floated zily in the air, like everything was moving in a dream.

  I was already at my seat—fifteen minutes early. Not because I had anything important to do, but because I couldn't stop thinking.

  About her.

  Saki Yamada.

  She was already there when I arrived, leaning slightly over her desk, sketching. She always did that. It was her ritual. Headphones around her neck, fingers dancing with smooth, confident strokes.

  But today was different.

  I watched her from the side—not out of curiosity, but something softer. Slower. The way her short auburn hair curled slightly at the nape of her neck. The fine freckles across her cheekbones that caught the morning light. Her oversized cardigan slipping slightly off one shoulder, revealing the strap of a dark tank top underneath. Not suggestive—just... casual. Real.

  She wasn't trying to impress anyone. That's what made her so magnetic.

  Her legs were folded beneath her on the chair, one sneaker dangling off her toes. She was completely in her own world. No mask. No performance. Just her and the pencil.

  And for some reason, I couldn't look away.

  Then, her hand paused.

  She turned slightly. "You're staring again."

  Crap.

  I blinked. "I wasn't— I mean, I just—"

  Saki smirked, closing her sketchbook slowly. "It's fine. I like when people notice the details."

  She tilted her head. "Not many do."

  Before I could respond, Haruto slid into his seat behind me like a bowling ball. "Ohoooo, am I interrupting something?"

  "Always," Saki said calmly.

  I tried to act normal, which of course meant looking anywhere but at either of them.

  Haruto leaned in and whispered, "You're doomed, bro. I give it two weeks before she's sketching your hands or something."

  I rolled my eyes. But my heart was still a little too fast.

  ?

  First period came and went. Math, or physics—something with numbers and symbols. I couldn't focus.

  I gnced at Saki again. She wasn't sketching anymore. Just resting her chin on her hand, staring out the window like the sky was trying to tell her something.

  Maybe I was just overthinking. But something about her today felt more... alive.

  ?

  By the time lunch arrived, the cssroom was buzzing. Everyone talked louder when their stomachs were empty. Haruto had already dragged half the css into a debate about the best convenience store fried chicken.

  I stayed behind, organizing my bag, when a voice called from the front.

  "Neo," Miss Aizawa said, stepping away from the board. "Could I borrow you for a moment?"

  Heads turned. I felt them.

  I stood, heart already tightening in my chest. "Y-Yes?"

  "In the faculty room," she said, smiling lightly. "If you don't mind."

  Haruto wiggled his eyebrows as I passed him.

  ?

  The hallway was quiet. Every footstep echoed a little too loudly.

  Miss Aizawa walked ahead, not rushed, not slow. Just... banced.

  In the faculty room, she led me to a shelf filled with dusty poetry collections.

  "I'm sorting out books for the club cabinet," she said. "Thought you might enjoy looking through them."

  I blinked. "Me?"

  She gave a small smile. "You read between the lines, Neo. Not everyone does."

  I looked at the books. Some titles were faded, others hand-beled. I picked one up. Midnight Verses.

  She watched me for a moment, then leaned against the table.

  "I saw your free write st session. The one about being seen."

  My throat tightened. "You read it?"

  "I did. It wasn't long, but... it was honest. Rarely do students say so little, yet mean so much."

  I swallowed. "I didn't think it mattered."

  Her gaze held mine—gentle but piercing.

  "It always matters. Especially when it comes from someone who usually stays quiet."

  The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was... heavy. Full of something unspoken.

  She stepped closer—not much, just a half-step—and reached for a different book behind me. Our shoulders brushed.

  I didn't move.

  She didn't apologize.

  "Thank you, Neo," she said quietly. "I think the club will be better with you in it."

  Then she turned and left.

  And I was left staring at Midnight Verses, my pulse louder than reason.

  ?

  Back in the cssroom, Saki was sketching again—but this time, not in her usual seat.

  She had moved.

  Closer.

  To me.

  No announcement. No reason. She just casually sat in the empty desk beside mine like it had always been hers.

  I slid into my seat, pretending it was normal.

  "Borrowed," she said before I could ask.

  I raised an eyebrow.

  "Your seat's got better lighting. I'm stealing it until you compin."

  "I'm not compining," I mumbled.

  She smiled without looking.

  ?

  After school, the Literature Club met in the now-familiar third floor room. The circle was smaller today—just five people. Haruto was at practice. The room felt quieter without him.

  Miss Aizawa entered a few minutes te, her hair tied in a low knot, gsses resting on her nose today. It did something strange to my chest.

  "We'll do a silent reading today," she said, pcing a book on each desk. "You don't have to analyze. Just read. Let it settle."

  We opened the books.

  But my eyes weren't on the page.

  Saki leaned a little closer than usual. Her knee lightly brushed against mine under the table.

  I froze. She didn't.

  After a few moments, she slid a small piece of paper over to me.

  A sketch.

  Of me.

  Or more precisely, of my hand holding a pen.

  She had captured every line, every tension in the fingers. It looked... thoughtful. Focused. Like I was doing something important.

  On the corner, she had written:

  "The way you write when no one's watching—

  that's when it's real."

  I looked at her. She wasn't watching me. Just reading, as if nothing happened.

  But the corner of her mouth was curved ever so slightly.

  ?

  When the session ended, I stayed a few minutes to pack up. Saki waited outside the door, arms crossed loosely.

  We walked together downstairs.

  "You draw fast," I said, holding the folded paper.

  "You inspire fast," she replied, not looking at me.

  We walked in silence for a while, passing the shoe lockers and the fading noticeboards.

  Then she said, almost casually, "You like her, don't you?"

  I stopped.

  She kept walking, then paused when she noticed I wasn't beside her.

  "Miss Aizawa," she crified. "You look at her like she's a storm you want to get lost in."

  I didn't know what to say.

  Saki turned back to me. Her eyes weren't angry. Just... honest.

  "It's okay," she added. "She's... hard not to notice."

  I looked down. "I don't know what I feel. Everything's just... messy."

  She nodded. "Feelings usually are."

  And then, with a small smile, she said, "For what it's worth—I like messy things."

  ?

  That night, I y in bed with the sketch still beside me.

  And the words from her paper echoed louder than anything else:

  "The way you write when no one's watching—

  that's when it's real."

  I didn't know who I was when no one was watching.

  But maybe I was about to find out.

  ?

  [To Be Continued...]