My alarm shrieks like a dying cicada.
I hit snooze. Twice. Reality wins on the third round.

“Fine, I’m awake,” I announce to the void like it’s going to clap.

The room looks like a crime scene: laundry, empty cups, manga towers built by a sleep-deprived architect. Evidence from last night’s stock-checking marathon.

Sink. Toothbrush. Cold water. Existential crisis.

In the mirror: bed hair, pillow crease, dark circles—a masterpiece of poor life choices.

My red glasses don’t help—they just frame the wreckage from too many late nights.

The uniform doesn’t help; everything feels tighter than it did before break—a personal attack from the universe.
Why won’t these things stop growing already? Some of us just want to blend in, not headline the fanservice episode.

I grab my cardigan instead of the vest—it hides more, feels safer. Layers make invisibility easier.

The sun hits like punishment. I sprint to the station like the protagonist of a slice-of-life opening no one asked for.

Entrance ceremony morning. Third year. The world’s about to start again, whether I’m ready or not.

The gym smells faintly of floor wax and collective boredom. The principal’s saying words like “discipline” and “spirit.” Translation: stay out of trouble so he can retire in peace.

It’s the same speech every spring. Most students stopped paying attention after the first minute; the rest are just pretending out of muscle memory.

Next to me, someone yawns. Another checks their phone under their sleeve. Somewhere in the back, a cough tries to start a rebellion. Classic first-day energy.

Then the principal starts reading the list of club achievements, and Ishida Kaito’s name comes up. Captain of the judo club. Two-time national competitor. Top of the honor roll. Probably rescues stray cats on weekends. Basically the definition of please stop making the rest of us look bad.

And if he’s the prince, then Mayumi Yamada is the school’s queen—
the kind who rules with charisma, lip gloss, and perfect timing.

She’s full gyaru without the overdone tan:
long blonde hair threaded with faint pink highlights,
light amber eyes that shine like they already belong on a billboard,
and glossy nails that flash every time she moves.

Her uniform fits perfectly—
blazer loose, blouse neat, skirt short enough to show a clean line of thigh above her black thigh-highs.

My heart stumbles every time our eyes meet.
She’s just—cool.
Really cool.

The kind of girl you can’t help but stare at for a second too long before pretending you weren’t.
Everyone at school thinks the same way.
Or maybe that’s just what I tell myself.

Everything about her is too precise, too balanced—
like someone accidentally dropped a model into homeroom.

She doesn’t walk so much as glide, chin tilted,
half bored, half waiting for someone to realize she doesn’t belong here.

She talks about Tokyo like it’s calling her—the lights, the crowds that would finally get her.

And when I look at her,
it really does feel like she’s just passing through—
like the rest of us are background...

But sometimes, I catch myself wishing I could follow her into it.

Her two constant satellites—Nami Kurosaki and Rika Shionome. I call them Friend A and Friend B; my social brain runs on low storage mode.

Nami’s the cool one—sleek bob, sharp eyeliner, voice so calm it feels rehearsed. Rika’s the opposite: pastel streaks, loud laugh, nails covered in stickers.

Together they look like they stepped out of a Shibuya after-party and accidentally enrolled in high school—popular, polished, untouchable.

Sadly for the Ishida × Mayumi shippers, these two barely acknowledge each other.
The vibe’s like a dating sim where someone picked the wrong choice ages ago and now the route’s just… locked.
Pretty to look at, guaranteed to explode on contact.

The ceremony drags to its merciful end. My legs are numb, my will to live questionable, but at least it’s over. Everyone shuffles back to their classrooms, half awake, fully done.

Same faces, same chatter, same sunlight spilling across the desks. 

The seating chart’s new, technically—but everyone’s already drifted back to their comfort zones like NPCs returning to idle animation.

Desks scrape, chairs squeak, sunlight hits the floor in neat rows.

I ended up in the back row, one seat away from the classic protagonist spot by the window—still waiting for someone with main-character stats to claim it.
To my left, a fellow NPC’s already unpacking their pencil case; we’ll probably never talk.
Not that I wanted to end up next to Ishida or anything. That’d be way too high-difficulty for my route.

From my seat, I can see Mayumi two rows ahead, sunlight catching the gold in her hair—and Ishida on the opposite side, sitting like the game just rendered him on “perfect posture” mode.
Same classroom, new season, same main cast.

I’m a background prop—space junk orbiting their perfect little constellation.

The class fills with low chatter and the sound of chairs scraping the floor. Everyone’s doing the annual ritual of pretending we missed each other.

Our teacher finally walks in, coffee mug in hand, expression powered entirely by caffeine and regret. “Alright, everyone, settle down,” he says, flipping through a file like it personally offended him.

The chatter dips to a simmer. He scans his notes.

“Before we start,” he says, “we have a transfer student joining us today.”

A pause. Every head turns toward the door.

The whole class holds its breath.
Even me—which is stupid, because transfer students don’t look for background characters. Still, my heart didn’t get the memo.

Next episode: The Prince Appears Again (in My Classroom)

Thanks for reading Episode 2!

We’re only getting started—it’s all uphill chaos from here.

New episodes every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday 💫