Chapter 1 – The First Bento

The first time it happened, I thought someone had left it by mistake.

It was early too early for anyone else to be at school. The halls were quiet, the windows still fogged over from the morning chill. When I walked into class, I saw it sitting there on my desk:

A lunch box. Wrapped in soft pink cloth with tiny plum blossoms on it.

I stood there for a second, blinking at it. Then I looked around the room.

Empty. Just the usual desks, chairs, and silence. Nothing out of the ordinary… except for the bento box right in front of me.

I sat down slowly, watching it like it might explode.

No name. No note. No clue.

I didn’t touch it.

The second time, I hadn’t eaten breakfast.

Same bento. Same spot. Same Time.

But this time, I opened it.

Inside was a perfect meal : rolled tamagoyaki, grilled salmon, rice with pickled plum, even some star shaped carrots. Nothing store bought. It was clearly homemade, and carefully made too.

Tucked under the lid was a small, folded note. Neat handwriting in black ink:

“You looked tired yesterday. Please eat well.”

That’s when I realized it wasn’t a mistake.

I didn’t tell anyone.

Not because I was embarrassed. But because it felt… personal. Quiet. Like something meant just for me.

“Minazuki, man, you’ve changed,” my friend Kouta said, leaning on my desk during lunch a few days later.

I glanced at him, still chewing.

“You’re eating vegetables,” he said, pointing at my lunch. “Like, actual green stuff. Did someone cook for you or something?”

“Maybe I finally matured,” I said.

He laughed. “Yeah, right. You had chips and soda for breakfast two weeks ago.”

I didn’t answer.

I just went back to eating.

The bentos kept coming.

Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Always early. Always before I arrived.

And always with a small note. Nothing romantic. Just thoughtful things.

“It’s going to rain. Don’t forget an umbrella.”
“This has ginger it’s good for cold mornings.”
“Good luck on the quiz today.”

I started looking forward to them more than I wanted to admit.

Reina Kisaragi sat near the window, one row over and one seat ahead. She was quiet, polite, and always neat. The kind of student who got straight As and never drew attention, even though she was pretty enough to.

We weren’t close. I didn’t think we’d even had a full conversation before.

But one morning, I caught her looking.

It was just a quick glance, but her eyes met mine and immediately darted away. Her hand moved to fix the ribbon on her uniform, even though it didn’t need fixing. Her expression stayed calm, but I saw it.

The tiny flicker of panic.

That’s when I started to wonder.

The next Friday, I came extra early.

The school building was quiet and a little dark. I walked into the classroom and sat at my desk, pretending to nap with my head down. I left the windows open, just in case I heard anything.

At exactly 6:58 a.m., I heard soft footsteps.

They stopped by my desk.

I didn’t move.

A quiet rustle. The sound of something being placed down. Then… nothing. Just silence.

A few seconds later, the footsteps moved away.

When I finally looked up, the bento was there. Same pink cloth.

This time, the note was different.

“I think you already know.”

I held the note in my hand a little longer than usual.

Then I glanced toward her desk.

Reina’s bag was already there neatly hung on the side, just like always. She had come in earlier. Dropped it off.

And left before I could see her.

Later that day, Reina walked into class right before the bell. Her uniform was perfect, like always. Her hair was tied in a neat side braid, though I noticed a few strands were loose today.

She didn’t look at me.

But she also didn’t hide the faint pink in her cheeks.

I didn’t say anything during class.

At lunch, I opened the bento slowly.

On top of the rice was another folded note.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t say it out loud. But I hope the food said what I couldn’t.”

I stared at it for a while. My heart felt a little warmer than usual.

Reina Kisaragi—quiet, graceful and distant

Reina—had been doing this for weeks.

She didn’t say anything. She just cooked. Left quiet notes. Never asked for anything in return.

It wasn’t a big confession. But it felt more real than any love letter.

After school, the clouds rolled in. It started to rain.

I walked down to the entrance and waited by the shoe lockers.

She came down the stairs last, like always.

Her steps were soft. Her umbrella was in her hand. She didn’t notice me until she was close.

Our eyes met.

I lifted the empty bento box in my hand.

“…It was delicious,” I said.

She froze.

Then, slowly, her lips moved.

“…You’re welcome,” she whispered.

Her voice was soft, barely audible.

Then she turned and stepped out into the rain.

I didn’t follow right away.

I just stood there, holding the empty bento box like it meant something more than just a lunch.

Because it is.