Chapter 5: If I’m Just Background, Why Do I Feel This Much?

Monday arrived with a chill wind and the promise of a pop quiz.

Classroom 2-B stirred with low energy as students filtered in, yawning, groaning, and swapping weekend stories. The usual suspects were already in their corners of routine — Classmate A playing mobile games with volume way too high, Classmate B sleeping with his hoodie pulled over his eyes, and Classmate C, already halfway through a bag of shrimp chips.

_ stepped through the door like he always did: quiet, unnoticed, and fifteen minutes early.

He moved to his seat by the window, third row from the back, and settled into it with practiced precision. The spot had always been his sanctuary — close enough to pretend he was part of the class, far enough to be forgotten when it counted.

Today, though, something different happened.

Someone waved.

It was her.

She was already seated, just two rows diagonally across from him. Her hand lifted in an effortless, casual greeting — like they did this every day. Like this wasn’t unusual.

He blinked. His body froze in response.

Then, slowly, he nodded.

Small ripples started from that one gesture.

Classmate A leaned toward Classmate C. “Yo, was that a nod? Did I see that right?”

Classmate C squinted. “Wait. Did he just acknowledge someone? That guy usually looks like he’s communicating via brainwaves to another universe.”

Classmate B cracked open one eye. “Huh. Didn’t think he even had a vocal range.”

He heard it. Of course he did.

But he didn’t react.

What he noticed instead… was that she didn’t laugh with them.

⸻

Later that morning, homeroom teacher Mr. Takashima—an older man with a strict voice and a secret love for idol groups—announced the upcoming midterm seating rotation.

“Partners for exam prep groups will be assigned randomly today. Make friends or fail together!” he said with his usual too-bright smile.

A few students groaned. Others exchanged desperate glances, already praying not to get stuck with someone hopeless.

The names went up on the projector. And just like fate had started developing a strange sense of humor, there it was:

_ — partnered with her.

Classmate A with Classmate C.

Classmate B with the class rep.

Random chaos, or deliberate punishment. Hard to say.

As the students gathered their things to join their partners, she walked toward him with a lopsided smile.

“Looks like I’m stuck with you,” she said, dropping her math workbook onto his desk.

He stared at the open pages. “I can study on my own.”

“But you won’t,” she replied, voice light, but firm. “You’ll just sit in the library alone and pretend you’re working while you think too much.”

“…You’re oddly specific.”

“I’ve seen you do it three times now. Once under the clock tower. You didn’t even open your book.”

He flinched, only slightly. But she caught it. Of course she did.

⸻

They ended up sitting in the far corner of the library later that afternoon.

Books spread out in front of them, pages turning, highlighters uncapped.

At first, they studied in silence.

But then she broke it, again.

“Do you ever talk to anyone here?”

He didn’t answer.

“I mean, besides me?”

Still silence.

She sighed and leaned back in her chair, letting her pencil roll off the desk. “It’s weird. You’re here every day, but you feel like a ghost. The kind that only haunts this one hallway.”

“That’s… intentional,” he murmured, not looking at her.

“Why?”

He didn’t respond.

“Sorry,” she said quietly. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

But she had meant to. And she wasn’t sorry.

Because something about him hurt to look at for too long. Like watching someone breathe underwater—just barely keeping from drowning.

⸻

As the sun dipped low through the library windows, casting warm amber over the rows of desks and dusty shelves, she noticed something.

He’d stopped writing. Just sitting there, staring blankly at the textbook.

His hand trembled slightly, barely noticeable. But it was enough.

“…You okay?” she asked, voice dropping to a softer tone.

He didn’t answer at first.

Then he said, almost too quietly:

“I used to talk. Laugh. Be normal.”

She looked at him, not interrupting.

He closed his eyes.

“But when the same ending plays no matter how many times you rewrite the middle… you stop trying.”

Her breath caught in her throat.

There it was.

A crack in the surface. Just for a moment.

“I don’t get it,” she said gently. “But I want to.”

That made him look up.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because something in your eyes feels like I’ve seen it before,” she whispered. “Like I’ve felt it too, even if I don’t know why.”

The air between them thickened — not romantic, not yet. But something more honest. More human.

And in that still moment, something changed.

⸻

As they packed up and walked down the darkening hallway, Classmate A passed them and smirked.

“Well, well. Didn’t know quiet-boy had a study date.”

Classmate B added, “We placing bets now? This might actually become a thing.”

But she just rolled her eyes and kept walking, her pace unbothered.

He, however, slowed.

His gaze dropped to the floor.

But then he felt her hand brush his sleeve—light, barely there, like a thread tying him to the present.

“You’re not background anymore,” she said, not looking at him. “So get used to it.”

And for the first time in years, _ let out the smallest laugh. Barely audible.

But real.