The classroom fell into a hushed silence as the exam papers were distributed. The rustle of paper and the soft scratch of pencils were the only sounds.
Masao picked up his pencil. He didn't bother with any special strategy, simply starting from the first question and working his way down.
The answers came to him with effortless clarity. Multiple-choice questions were solved in a glance; the longer problems unraveled in his mind before his pen even began to move. It felt less like solving and more like writing a text only he could see.
In under thirty minutes, he was done.
He leaned back, a surge of quiet triumph running through him. So this is what it's like to be at the top. This is power.
Feeling like a king granting a cursory glance to his subjects, he let his eyes wander the room.
A boy two rows over was scratching his head so fiercely he wondered if he'd draw blood. 'Give it up. The answer isn't buried in your scalp.'
Another student was grimacing, his face a mask of pained concentration. 'He looks like he's trying to pass a kidney stone. Is it really that difficult?'
The spectacle of universal struggle quickly lost its charm. His gaze drifted forward, settling on Kawasaki Saki.
Her silver-blue hair was a familiar sight. She was a diligent student, he knew, and her posture was ramrod straight, her focus absolute as she filled in her answers.
Bored, Masao returned to his own perfect paper.
A soft tap near his foot broke his concentration.
He glanced down. A white eraser sat on the floor.
Ahead of him, Kawasaki Saki was craning her neck, looking under her chair. Masao bent down, retrieved the eraser, and placed it on the corner of his desk.
He then reached out with his pen and gave a gentle, discreet poke to her back.
She half-turned, her hand snaking back to sweep the eraser from his desk without a word. From the teacher's podium, a single, knowing glance was cast in their direction, then just as quickly withdrawn.
It was a minor infraction, harmless, and beneath the teacher's concern in this informal setting.
When the exam time finally ended, the teacher called for pens down.
"Pass your papers forward."
And, as if dictated by some unbreakable law of academia, one student always kept writing, desperately scrawling one last letter until a sharper reprimand from the teacher forced them to stop.
To be the focus of the entire class's judgmental stare in that moment was a special kind of social hell in a Japanese classroom.
The moment the teacher left with the stack of completed exams, the room erupted in a chorus of shared anxiety.
"That was impossible!"
"Tell me about it. I'm doomed."
"How do you think you did?"
"Survived, I guess."
As Masao stood to leave, Kawasaki Saki turned in her seat.
"Thank you," she said, her voice low and even. "For the eraser."
Masao froze for a second, caught off guard.
"It was nothing," he managed, the words coming out automatically.
An awkward silence hung between them. He scrambled for something, anything, to say. His mind was a perfect blank.
'Ask her about the exam, you idiot! Talk about the next subject!' But all that came out was a stiff, "Good luck with the rest of your exams."
She nodded once. "You too."
And with that, she turned away, their moment of connection severed.
Masao suppressed the urge to groan. 'Idiot. You had an opening and you blew it.'
He mentally replayed the scene, crafting witty, engaging dialogue where in reality there had only been painful brevity. Still, a small part of him preened. He had spoken to the aloof Kawasaki Saki. Twice. Based on his observations, he was likely the only person in class besides a teacher to have achieved that today. It was a start.
Maybe he could make a habit of saying "good morning" and "see you" to her.
—
The first day of exams concluded with a collective sigh of relief.
Five subjects down. Masao packed his bag, his brain feeling pleasantly drained. He saw Kawasaki Saki sling her own bag over her shoulder, ready to leave.
Taking a breath, he seized the moment. "See you tomorrow, Kawasaki."
She paused, glancing back at him with a flicker of surprise. There was a brief hesitation, then a slight, almost imperceptible nod. "Yeah. See you tomorrow."
As she walked away, Masao allowed himself a small, victorious fist pump.
The eraser incident had been the perfect in. He was now, officially, on speaking terms with her.
He might not be a friend, but he was certainly her most familiar acquaintance in this class.
—
Meanwhile, down the hall, Kawasaki Saki frowned slightly to herself.
'What was his name again?' She ran through the possibilities, 'Masue? Mashita? Mazutsu...?'
She let out a soft,frustrated sigh.
"I'll have to pay attention next time," she muttered, resolving to figure out the name of the boy who kept talking to her.
—
With exams in session, all club activities were canceled for the day. Not that the Service Club had been particularly active anyway.
At the school gate, Masao found Yukinoshita waiting, as had become their recent routine.
A soft breeze played with the ends of her long, black hair. She lifted a hand, tucking the stray strands behind her ear with an effortless grace that made the simple gesture look elegant.
Masao's imagination supplied a more perfect scene: Yukinoshita, standing under a shower of cherry blossoms, a classic anime heroine introduction.
'A shame it's late May,' he thought with a twinge of regret. 'The sakura are all gone. I'll have to wait until next spring.'
"Good afternoon, Yukinoshita."
"Good afternoon. Masao-kun"
Their greetings were brief, formal, and they fell into step beside each other, heading away from the school.
He had half-expected some classic school drama by now—a rival confronting him for daring to walk home with the renowned Yukinoshita. But it never happened.
The students had grown accustomed to the sight, it seemed. The disappointment was minor, but real.
The reason was simple, though Masao didn't fully grasp it. Yukinoshita Yukino existed on a different plane. She was admired from a distance, a subject of whispered conversations, but her chilling beauty and sharp intellect erected a barrier few dared to cross.
To confront Masao would be to acknowledge her in a way that risked social standing. It was safer, easier, to just let them be, a silent consensus to leave the isolated queen and her unexpected companion to their walks.
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