Chapter 2: Opening Moves

Kaito Sugiura was not a people person.

This was not an insecurity, not a quiet shame. It was a conviction. While others wasted hours navigating the emotional states of high school life—who was dating whom, which club was beefing with which, who liked who but wouldn’t say it—Kaito thrived in detachment. He watched the world unfold like a serialized drama: predictable, frustrating, and occasionally worth mocking. Preferably from a distance.

And yet here he was. Sitting next to Mio Hanazawa.

He glanced sideways at her for what had to be the twentieth time that morning. SHe sat like she always did—in profile to the window, eye drifting toward the falling cherry blossoms outside. A quiet figure. Bookish, Neatly kept. So unremarkable she might vanish if you blinked too long. Just like the background character she was written to be.

Just like she had been in Cherry Days: Our Secret Spring, where she smiled softly, supported the protagonist from behind, and was promptly discarded by volume six.

I can’t say I feel bad for her. A lot of people agree with me, so it’s not like I’m alone in this. Though to be fair, some go overboard and start hating her character entirely.

The childhood friend trope—ugh. It’s such a lazy cop-out. A quick and easy way to shove in another girl without actually giving her a real shot. Or worse, a flimsy excuse for not just writing a simple romance with one girl from the start.

The childhood friend never wins. She’s always late to confess. Always clinging to nostalgia. And always suddenly realizing her feelings the moment someone else threatens her invisible calm. It’s predictable. Pointless. Honestly, if she was going to lose from the start, why even bother including her?

But now… Mio’s here. Not a panel. Not a trope. A girl. Quiet. Real. And I can’t help wondering–-can I really blame her for something she never chose? She didn’t write the role.

She was just written that way.

He tapped a pen against his desk. Aphireia’s words looped through his mind like a curse—and, well, that’s what it was.

“You will help the heroines find closure—whether love, or acceptance.”

Right. Closure. Easy. Just help a fictional girl mend her fictional heart in a fictional world made real by a cosmic tantrum.

He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.

“Still not sure if this is divine punishment,” he muttered, “Or some kind of twisted rom-com parody.”

He’d spent the last hour jotting down ideas in his notebook, and now the page was littered with rejected tactics.

Option A: “You dropped this.”

Problem: requires her to drop something. Risk of staring at the floor like a lunatic. Cliche

Rating 8/10

Option B: Bump into her ‘by accident’

Problem: Obvious. Feels like a forced flag. High chance of both of them falling over and becoming lunchroom gossip.

Option C: Do nothing.

Problem: Eternal guilt. Possible divine smiting.

Kaito sighed and closed the notebook. His eyes flicked to the seat beside Mio–empty until just a few minutes ago, when he’d manipulated the sleepy class rep into switching seats with some nonsense about “needing a change of learning environment.”

It worked. Barely.

Now, he was within proximity. One step closer. But the question remained: what the hell did he do next?

Mio hadn’t so much as acknowledged him. She remained still, her body stiff with the kind of tension people wore when trying not to exist too loudly. Her fingers were folded neatly over her desk. SHe didn’t doodle in the margins or pass notes or whisper behind her hand like the other girls. She just… sat.

Waiting.

But for what?

The teacher’s voice was little more than white noise to Kaito as he stared at the back of Mio’s head. Then, like a gist from a lazy writer, an opportunity arrived.

“Alright, class,” the teacher announced, shuffling some printed handouts. “Pair up for this next assignment. You’ll be discussing the themes from today’s reading–present your thoughts at the end.”

A wave of groans filled the classroom. Desks screeched as students turned to whisper to friends. Kaito didn’t move. He didn’t have to.

Mio glanced at him, hesitating.

“Um… do you want to partner up?” she asked quietly, barely above a whisper.

He blinked. Was that hesitation… nervousness?

“Sure,” Kaito replied. Flat, simple. Safe.

And just like that, the story advanced.

The next fifteen minutes were spent in a strange silence, punctuated by bursts of stilted dialogue. Kaito asked a few questions, mostly out of obligation. MIo responded in the barest term. Her voice was soft, careful. As if every sentence needed editing before release.

When they stood to present, Mio froze halfway through the first line. Kaito, without thinking, picked up the slack. He summarized their thoughts in a dry, efficient tone, quoting the text, throwing in just enough interpretation to make it look like effort.

She followed. Tentatively. A few words, then a pause. Then a few more. Not confidence–just survival. But she did it.

As they returned to their seats, Kaito caught the faintest hint of a smile on her lips. Not joy. But relief.

It was a start.

The library was quieter than usual that afternoon.

Kaito sat in the farthest corner, near a window that filtered golden light onto his open notebook. He hadn’t written a word. His mind was still replaying the scene from earlier. The pause before she asked. The way she looked at him. The way she looked past him.

He was starting to see it.

The pain behind her eyes.

Footsteps broke the silence.

“Plot development already? I’m impressed.”

Kaito didn’t look up. “Don’t you have a love triangle to go meddle in?”

Aphireia shimmered into view, her glowing form settling just above the floor with the grace of a feather. She leaned casually against the nearest shelf, inspecting her nails.

“I was curious,” she said. “Hanazawa Mio speaks to no one. And yet she spoke to you.”

“She needed a partner,” Kaito said flatly. “That’s not exactly divine intervention.”

Aphireia smiled. “Oh, but it is. All threads of fate begin somewhere. You’ve tied one. Even if you don’t feel it yet.”

Kaito glanced out the window. “I’m not here to ‘tie fate,’ I’m here to not get punished.”

The goddess walked forward, her expression softening. “And yet, you helped her. You didn’t mock her. You stepped in.”

“Only because she froze,” he muttered.

“And you noticed.”

Kaito was silent.

Aphireia’s tone changed, gentler now. “She’s fragile, Kaito. Not weak—fragile. There’s a difference. One crack, one careless word, and she breaks a little more.”

He looked at her now, eyes harder. “And you think I’m the person to stop that from happening?’

“I think,” she said, stepping closer “that someone who sees how easily people pretend to love might be the only one who can show someone what love really looks like.”

Kaito scoffed. “That's poetic. Still reckless.”

Silence fell again.

Then Kaito muttered, “Do you even care what happens to her? Or are we just apart of some cosmic entertainment?”

Aphireia’s smile faded.

“I care,” she said quietly. “Far more than you realize.”

And just like that, she vanished.

The day ended without trouble.

Kaito walked around the school grounds, hands in pockets, mind buzzing like static. Aphireia’s words refused to leave him.

“You’re not just a guide, Kaito. You’re her lifeline.”

The absurdity of that sentence made him scoff under his breath.

But as he passed the front gates, he caught sight of Mio again. She stood with two other girls—background characters from the manga—but her expression was disconnected. She smiled when prompted, nodded politely, but her eyes wandered elsewhere. Like always.

Kaito kept walking.

No destination. Just forward.

“Her lifeline, huh?” he muttered. “This is going to suck.”

But maybe—just maybe—he didn’t hate the idea as much as he wanted to.