A new school year. Same classroom. Older, maybe wiser. But something had changed.
For Hiroki, that change was subtle but seismic.
No—not just for him. For everyone in Class 2-3. (Yes, they were Class 1-3 last year.)
Even today, like clockwork, it should have been Ryusei leading the class in greeting the teacher. Yet it was Yuna who stood up instead.
"Everyone, stand."
Homeroom teacher Ms. Sakamoto stepped inside as voices echoed in polite unison. Her gaze swept across her students with a warm smile before she made her way to the podium.
"Something seems a little different, don't you think?" she said, adjusting her glasses as she leaned slightly on the desk.
Buzz filled the room. Whispers flared up, theories bounced from desk to desk. Was there a major school event? A hidden couple exposed? A mysterious transfer student?
But soon, everyone noticed it: a desk sitting strangely empty.
"Where's Ryusei?"
"Is he sick? Injured maybe?"
"Did something happen to him?"
The speculation didn't stop. Everyone's eyes locked onto that single empty seat, the former domain of the class idol. Hiroki leaned back in his chair, brows furrowed. He never cared much for Ryusei's over,the,top energy, but even he couldn't help wondering.
Ms. Sakamoto tapped the board loudly with her pointer, snapping the room to attention.
"Yes, that was Takahashi,kun's seat. But... unfortunately, he won't be sitting there this year."
Gasps.
Last year, Ryusei had been everything: top student, football star, dream boy for half the girls. And now? Gone.
Even Hiroki sat up straighter.
"That's right. He transferred to another school. So Ikeda,san, will you step up as class president in his place?"
Yuna rose slowly, eyes wide with disbelief. She glanced toward the seat to her left—Ryusei's old desk—and couldn't mask her reluctance. The girls cheered her on, excited but not surprised. It made sense. Yuna was already vice president, top performer among the girls, the model student. Of course it would be her.
From behind her, Hiroki couldn't help noticing the hesitation in her expression. Last year, she and Ryusei had always been side by side—as class reps, but also something more. A pair not yet official, but undeniable. No one saw this sudden split coming. Maybe not even Yuna.
"Now, we still need an academic rep. Any nominations?"
Hiroki snapped out of his thoughts. The room fell quiet. Eyes darted, murmurs floated.
He felt a strange unease rising in his chest. His hands curled into fists on his lap. He swallowed hard.
And then—
"Hiroki-san! Miss, I nominate Hiroki!"
"Yes! He's perfect for it!"
He wanted to disappear.
Class rep? Really?
But when he looked up, Ms. Sakamoto was smiling that kind smile that made refusal impossible.
"Mamoru,san, I'll count on you."
At that moment, Hiroki knew: there was no running.
….
After that fateful morning, Hiroki was introduced to a word he hadn't known before: responsibility.
Managing a group was terrifying. He thought of quitting, of passing it to someone else. But Ms. Sakamoto had made herself clear:
"I chose you because I believe in you, Mamoru,san."
And so he fell, not into fate, but into her conviction. Hiroki had always been a lone wolf, a quiet boy focused only on himself. Was this burden too heavy?
At lunch, Hiroki sat alone on the school rooftop, where the breeze was cool and the city spread out far below. He popped open his lunchbox, revealing a neatly arranged meal he had made himself. Gazing into the distance, his thoughts were interrupted by voices from below.
"That quiet 'blonde'? As class rep? Miss Sakamoto must be blind."
"Girls voted, what do you expect."
"He doesn't fit the job at all."
"Just because he's smart and looks okay? Only someone like Ryusei belongs beside Yuna."
Hiroki was used to whispers. Since elementary school, he always had been too quiet, too invisible for any leadership role. The shock of being chosen didn't fade. It gnawed at him, a fear he had never had to face.
The wind stirred. The warm scent of rice and fried meat lingered in the air. Hiroki stared at his lunchbox for a long moment, as if absorbing the quiet beauty of the meal he'd made. Rice, greens, tamagoyaki, golden fried meat—a small but tidy array.
He picked up his chopsticks.
"I'm gonna eat now—"
Pause.
What was that sound?
He froze. Set the chopsticks down.
Creeping to the edge, he peeked over the rooftop.
The door creaked open. A girl slipped through, closed it behind her like she was sneaking in, eyes darting.
Hiroki recognized her instantly—short hair with light blue highlights glinting in the sun.
But what was she doing here?
Their eyes met. He flinched like a cat caught mid,theft.
"Ikeda-san...", his voice fluttered in the wind.
Yuna blinked, then smiled warmly, striding toward him."So this is where Mamoru-san eats. I figured.", she climbed up with ease, settling not too close, hugging her knees as she gazed at the blue sky.
"It's nice here. Cool, too."
Hiroki sat, dazed. Why was she here? Why now? Should he keep eating?
"I always see you sneak up here," Yuna said, tilting her head. "Honestly, it's way better than eating in class, right?"
He nodded slightly, unsure. His lunchbox still sat open.
"Don't you have a bento?" he asked.
"Nah. Just grabbed some orange juice. Not that hungry lately. I think I gained weight."
"…"
"Your lunch looks really good! Did your mom make it?"
Hiroki paused. Cross-legged, he lifted the box onto his lap.
"I made it myself."
"Seriously?! That's amazing. These egg rolls look perfect. You even fried meat? Must be crispy."
He turned away, unmoved. Before he could gather his thoughts, her breath was already close to his shoulder, her face leaning near.
"Smells amazing," she murmured, peeking into his box.
"You... should eat something."
"It's fine, really."
"Are you sure?"
"Mhm."
But her eyes lingered. A strange flutter rose in his chest. Not hunger, but something really strange, really uneasy…
"Ikeda,san."
"Hmm?"
"You..."
He tightened his grip on the chopsticks. Everything had gone lukewarm. But did not she just was not in the mood to eat?
"Go ahead. I don't mind.". He hadn't planned to say it. It just slipped out. Embarrassed, he turned away.
"Eat what?"
Suddenly, Yuna seemed to catch on to what Hiroki meant. A mischievous smile curled on her lips. Without a word, she reached for his hand—the one holding the chopsticks—and gently wrapped her fingers around it. Her gaze met his, soft and questioning, like she was asking for silent permission.
Hiroki froze, unable to look away from her. He let his body follow her lead.
Still holding his hand, Yuna guided the chopsticks to pick up a rolled omelette. She kept her hand on his the whole time—even as she brought the bite to her lips and popped it in. The soft, savory flavor filled her mouth instantly.
"Delicious!", She let out a muffled exclamation, her cheeks still puffed with egg. "Just like my mom makes."
She let go. A sun-dappled smile played on her lips, her eyes gently squinting in delight under the summer light.
Hiroki stared at his hovering hand, still trembling. A tangle of emotions churned inside him. He should be annoyed. But all he felt... was heat in his face.
He bowed his head, as if weighed down by a quiet, unspoken turmoil. That hunger in his stomach… somehow, it had been replaced by something else—something tender, unsettling, and impossible to define.
Beside him, the girl stretched her legs and leaned back, breathing in the lazy calm of the noonday sky. The summer sun still poured down, a soft breeze brushing between them.
Golden light danced over Hiroki's gently tousled hair, as if even the sun itself made that moment shine a little brighter.
....
The following days proved to be particularly challenging for Hiroki Mamoru. He still hadn't wrapped his head around the fact that he was now the class vice president—let alone managing an entire classroom or handling responsibilities that seemed far beyond his comfort zone.
In class, Ms. Sakamoto had always paid attention to him, but now that attention had tripled. She assigned him tasks left and right: simple ones like carrying teaching materials, handing out school newspapers and subject outlines, as well as more significant duties such as attending student council meetings or club gatherings.
Still, most of these were entry,level tasks—manageable for someone like Hiroki. Ms. Sakamoto likely understood that Hiroki's reserved nature wouldn't handle high-pressure roles right away. She had once said he'd learn gradually by watching Yuna.
Hiroki didn't know much about Yuna Ikeda, nor did he really care to. Their frequent interactions were simply born of necessity. While she took care of class discipline and decorum, Hiroki handled cleanliness and student headcounts—tasks that also made him something of a labor officer by default.
As class president, Yuna was the polar opposite of Hiroki. She adapted quickly, worked smoothly with teachers, and held herself with a quiet but firm authority. Her approachable personality mixed with a touch of sternness made her highly respected among faculty—perhaps even more than the former class president, Ryusei Takahashi. She was sociable, always surrounded by other girls, yet Hiroki couldn't help but notice something different about her.
Lately, she'd been drifting apart from her usual group. Sometimes she'd sit alone in the classroom. When that happened, it would just be the two of them—Yuna and Hiroki—sharing that silent space.
In those quiet moments, Hiroki couldn't help but notice the subtle signs: how she stared at the empty seat to her left, rested her head on the desk, or absentmindedly tapped a pen against her scalp.
She was thinking about him. Takahashi Ryusei.
Hiroki knew it. The real question was: how could someone who left a year ago still hold such sway over her? Why had Ryusei transferred so suddenly in the first place?
Spinning his pen in boredom, Hiroki slouched on his desk, hoping for a quick nap—until he heard hurried footsteps.
Yuna rushed out of the room like a gust of wind, her head lowered. Pens clattered to the floor from her desk. Her footsteps and shallow breaths echoed down the hallway, then fell into silence.
Hiroki sat frozen, eyes lingering on the doorway and her now,empty seat, weighed down by an emotion he couldn't name. Slowly, he got up, picked up her scattered pens, and noticed a faint inscription: "For T-R."
Glancing at her English workbook, he spotted two smudged ink marks—his fingertips brushing over a faint dampness.
...
Holding a feather duster, Hiroki swept the bookshelf gently. The tall wooden shelves groaned under the weight of aging books. Spines faded, covers torn, pages curled and yellowed with time. Dust irritated his eyes and nose, but Hiroki paid no mind, steadily brushing memories loose from every corner.
This humble shop belonged to old man Takumi—a book lover, music enthusiast, and green tea addict. Each morning, he lounged in a creaky armchair outside the store, sipping tea and soaking in the daily paper.
From behind the wooden divider came soft guitar melodies, drifting into the air, blending with the calm.
After a month of working part-time, Hiroki had grown fond of this slow rhythm—school by morning, chores by noon, and the bookstore by evening. Though the tasks were simple, the peace they brought was profound.
Mr. Takumi rarely got involved but was always kind. He had once taught Hiroki's father, and through that connection, Hiroki landed his first part-time job—to earn a little money and learn how to connect with people.
The store sat quietly on a backstreet in Osaka, dwarfed by tall buildings, like a forgotten treasure chest. Its sign, faded and wooden, read Antique Library. Customers were few—elderly folks, broke students—but to Hiroki, the place was alive. He even loved the smell: old paper, dusty wood, and a faint trace of green tea.
Each afternoon, a girl around his age came by. She never said hello—just slipped into the back room, Mr. Takumi's private space.
At first, Hiroki didn't care. But the routine repeated, and curiosity grew. Perhaps she was someone Mr. Takumi was waiting for—his eyes always seemed to scan the door before she arrived.
One day, she broke her routine. Instead of heading straight to the back, she stopped in the shop and began rifling through bookshelves, searching intently for something. Sunlight poured through the window, catching her chestnut hair and setting it aglow like a thin veil of honey.
Hiroki, watching from the counter, set his math book aside and leaned on the glass. Something about her—her focus, her stillness—pulled at him.
She tiptoed to reach high shelves, failing again and again. Finally, Hiroki stood, hesitating, then approached.
"Um… looking for something?"
Okay, not as hard as I thought.
She didn't respond. Just moved on. Still, Hiroki followed quietly.
At last, she turned, and their eyes met. Hers were impossibly wide—distant, unreadable.
Her voice was soft. "Anything on music theory?"
It was clear and gentle, like the call of a woodland creature.
"Advanced Music Theory? This way."
He guided her through the maze of tall shelves and stacked books. Navigating them felt familiar now, muscle memory built from long days dusting. They stopped in a shadowed corner, seemingly cut off from the rest of the store. Hiroki grabbed a wooden stool, climbed up, and reached high.
This was a trove of old musical wisdom. Manuals, instrument guides, and vintage sheet music coated in dust. He picked out a thick Japanese music theory volume and handed it down.
"Here you go."
She didn't thank him, just opened the book and flipped through. Hiroki didn't mind.
Only then did he notice her uniform—not from his school. Likely from a higher,level academy far from this sleepy town.
Book in hand, she vanished behind shelves. Hiroki trailed after her, wandering like a lost child.
Something inside him stirred—an urge to reach out, to grasp something just beyond the veil. He didn't know what to call it. He didn't need to.
"What's your name?"
Wait—did I just—
The world seemed to pause. Time stilled.
She turned back. Her eyes, vast like a quiet tide, locked on his.
Cradling the book to her chest, wind tousled the bangs across her brow.
"...Jun."