(I am Yuta Takeichi. Seventh grade, section A.

Same school building. Same hallways. Same lifeless routine. I walk the corridors like a programmed script, and predictable patterns. I’m not miserable or anything. I’m just… here. Existing.  

It’s not like I hate school. I have good friends and I am quite a popular figure in my school. That is because I am GOOD LOOKING and Tall. And I cannot deny that fact. I am quite a charmer and tall for my age. But I cannot help but feel this boring feeling inside my heart. 

Whatever. Doesn’t matter. )

I was walking in the corridors just like usual with my friend- Nen Cipaji. (His family is totally influential like his crush's. He is like that mysterious guy with short pitch black curly hair who is the prime suspect in a suspense movie because of his sketchy behaviour and networking skill.)

By the way, when I heard someone say,

[

"Hey have you heard?"

"YES! You are talking about that stalking incident aren't you?"

 "Yes, that is insane."

 "Totally. I never thought Hoshino - Kun was that kindda guy. "

 "Same, I am on the same class as him, Ughh, makes me feel nauseous."

]

I turned to my Nen, “What are they talking about?”

“You really don’t know?” he scoffed. “You live in your own little world.”

“Stop it, jeez. What’s this ‘stalking incident’ everyone’s whispering about? I’ve heard people mention it in class too. Who even is this Hoshino guy?”

“Ah, let your big bro enlighten you. Be grateful.” He puffed up like he was proud to have gossip.

“Okay, fine. Don’t tell me—”

“So,” he interrupted smugly, “there was a fight last week. Section B. A group barged into class and started beating this guy—Miho Hoshino. The teacher tried to stop them. School guards came. It calmed down for a bit… but then they cornered him again during break and screamed at him in front of everyone.”

“Whoa—what? Why?” I was invested now.

“They say Miho was stalking a girl from Section C. Turned out her boyfriend was in the gang that jumped him. She even confronted him publicly and called him out.”

“That’s… seriously messed up. Sounds like this Miho guy was trouble.”

Nen suddenly turned serious. “But that girl—she’s a real beauty. Honestly, I can understand why someone would stalk her.”

“Ugh, seriously? Get away from me, creep.” I recoiled with full-body disgust.

He just laughed. “Relax. I’ve already got someone I like. Besides,guess what? I’m not interested in dudes, duh.”

I didn't think much of it and thought that he totally deserved the beating. Then the bell rang. Time for class. “Isn’t today our joint sports class with Section B?” I asked.

“Yep. Try not to bump into that ‘stalker’ now,” he teased.

“OKAY, BOSS!” I saluted sarcastically.

Basketball. My favorite. We were waiting our turn at the outer court when—

*Bam*

A ball came flying and smacked me right in my GOOD LOOKING face.

“Jeez! Can’t you guys watch where you're throwing?!” I snapped.

“Sorry, Yuta-kun! Forgive us, please!” they pleaded..

(Well, it's not that I got woun- )“Ah, its bleeding” Nen said calmly.

“Oh” I said calmly too, touching my face.

“SOOOORRY!!” My classmates panicked harder. “It’s fine. I’ll head to the infirmary,” I said. Nen offered to come with me.

“Nah. Stay. But do me a favor—make whoever threw that ball bleed too.”

He grinned, “Noted.”

At the infirmary, the doctor was missing. (Weird… I should just head back.) I turned to leave when—

Hugh...hugh... 

A faint, shaky breath from behind the curtain. I froze. (A g-ghost?!) I hid behind the door, heart racing. A breeze from the open window lifted the curtain just slightly—and that’s when I saw it.

(A GHOST.)

I bolted. Back to the court, breath ragged. “Huh? You’re back fast. And still bleeding?” Nen blinked.

I dragged him off the court. “I—I saw a ghost!” I hissed.

“Huh?” he was dumbfounded. He squatted and I followed his lead since I was too tired to stand up. (I... really bolted huh.)

“Yes!! In the infirmary! It had golden hair, golden eyes, bruises all over its face—and...” I stopped and recalled that face, "it was..."

(Crying...)

I could not say that out loud.

Nen snapped his fingers. “Oh! That must’ve been Miho Hoshino. He’s blond, and you said he was beat up. Makes sense.”

“Him?” I tilted my head. (So that was him...)

“I asked around. No one in Section B knows where he’s been. And get this—the girl who accused him? Transferred schools.”

“What?” I blinked. (Maybe there is something more to this story...)

“Yeah. Weird, right? You’d think he would be the one to leave. Also, the gang that attacked him? Suspended for six months.”

“Ohhh?” I was still recalling his face, heads down, staring at the floor, "But they deserve the suspension though. How could they beat someone up so badly!"

"Ohh, what am I seeing here. Yuta. CARING. ABOUT. SOMEONE. ELSE!?" He dramatically leaned closer to my face.

"Shut up!" I slammed his arms hard. "You would be worried too if you had seen him."

“Hey, that hurts!" He frowned, "but anyways, I’m gonna dig deeper, I feel like something is fishy here.” Nen said casually, stretching.

But all I could think about was that crying face.

(Was it because his would hurt? Or because that girt transferred school? Or because of something else?)

(I can’t point it out, but I am curious. I feel like I have just found myself something fun to get out of my boredom for a while.)

I smirked.

***

A few weeks later,

(I’d been watching him. Miho Hoshino.

He didn’t come to class for weeks. But when he finally did, the wounds were mostly gone. Still, he had no one. He sat quietly in the corner. Not ignoring others—just being ignored.)

Then one day, during joint class, a ball flew his way. His classmate snapped, “Hey, pass it back!" (So rude...) I thought.

Miho picked up the ball, smiled politely, and passed it back.

That smile... it stunned me. It was obviously fake—but it looked beautiful on him. And I couldn’t help but wonder…

(What does his real smile look like?)

Just like that I found myself wanting to go have a look at him every time I was in school.

Then, one day—

In the corridor, I saw him. He was crouched near the floor, picking up a piece of paper. I was far away, but I could clearly tell—he hadn’t even glanced at what was written on it. He just held it for a second.

And then, a girl stepped out of the classroom next to him—Grade 7, Section C. She saw him holding the letter.

Maybe she misunderstood, or maybe she didn’t care about the truth. But her eyes welled up instantly. A moment later, she ran off crying, telling her friends that he had read the love letter she meant to give to someone else. (She is literally making a scene.)

(What the hell is wrong with that girl?) I stood frozen, both dumbfounded and furious. But then I looked at him.

He didn’t argue. Didn’t try to explain. No panic. Just that same blank expression. He quietly handed the paper back… and walked away.

I was about to step in—ready to yell, to defend—but then he passed by me.

And I saw them.

Tears.

He was trying to hold it in, pretending it didn’t matter. That empty look on his face remained, but his eyes betrayed him. They gave up. (He wiped his tears so that nobody would notice it but— SURE HELL I DID.)

(What should I do..?) 

I Was totally flustered.

After he left, I finally walked up to the girl—still crying in front of her friends—and said what had to be said.

"Hey. I saw everything earlier. That guy just picked up a piece of paper from the floor. You came out of the class, saw it in his hand, and immediately started blaming him. Don’t you think that’s... dumb and unfair?"

I didn’t care that my voice was sharp. I was furious.

"Why didn’t you just ask him first? Ask if he actually read it before accusing him of something he didn’t do?"

I didn’t wait for a reply. I turned and walked away. Her friends whispered behind me, calling me rude.

(But her expression said it all—she knew she messed up.)

As I walked toward my classroom, my steps slowed. My thoughts didn’t.

(Is he really the guy everyone’s been accusing of stalking?)

(He didn’t even defend himself… Doesn’t that mean he’s already given up on explaining anything?)

(And he cried again…)

Just like that day.

(How many times have you cried like that?)