By the second week of school, I'd learned a few important things. One: Japanese middle school lunch break was sacred. Two: most boys in my class only cared about soccer and snacks. And three: every time Miyu Sato smiled at me, my heart raced like it was late for a train.
She had a way of making even the dullest days brighter. During math, she always scribbled little stars next to her answers. During music class, her voice blended with the chorus so gently that I found myself staring instead of singing. Our seats were just two desks apart, and yet, each moment felt electric.
We didn't talk every day, not long conversations at least. But there were glances, shared jokes, and soft hellos. After class, she once waited for me by the shoe lockers.
"Wanna walk home together?" she asked casually, adjusting her shoulder bag.
I nodded. Maybe too fast.
The streets were lined with cherry trees still dropping petals, and the sky was slowly turning gold. We passed the bakery where we used to get melonpan as kids, the small park where our moms once had hanami picnics together.
"I still remember when you got lost at that park," she said, grinning. "You cried so hard, my mom gave you both her taiyaki."
"I was six!" I said, groaning.
She giggled. "You're still kind of dramatic."
Our walk ended all too quickly. We paused at the corner where our paths split. She looked down at her shoes.
"I'm glad we're in the same class again," she said quietly.
"Me too," I replied, trying not to sound too happy.
As she waved and walked away, I stood frozen in place. Something about her tone—soft, uncertain—made my chest feel warm and strange.
That night, I stared at my phone, wondering if I should message her. But what would I even say? I turned off the light and let her voice echo in my head instead.
"I'm glad we're in the same class again."
Maybe this year wasn't just about new textbooks and tougher exams. Maybe it was about second chances. About noticing things I hadn't seen before.
Like the way Miyu always smelled faintly of citrus shampoo. Or how she tilted her head slightly when she listened. Or how my heart wasn't just beating—it was changing its rhythm.