~ CHAPTER 1 – The Ones She Takes ~

{ Yasuko Aikawa’s POV }

I was born second. Two years, four months, and sixteen days after her.

That was the beginning of everything I never got to have.

Masumi has always been the kind of person people notice — not because she tries, but because she doesn’t need to. She walks like she owns the path. Speaks like she’s already been heard. Even here, at university, professors know her by name, classmates defer to her without question, and internship recruiters seem to orbit her naturally.

Me? I slip in and out of rooms without anyone knowing I was there. And I’m okay with that.

Mostly.

She didn’t mean to take everything from me.

She just did.

Our parents’ approval. The space to make mistakes. Their attention.

And over time — the boys I tried to love.

Today’s lecture ends early — something about the guest speaker being stuck in traffic. I stay seated as the large auditorium slowly empties, students rustling backpacks and whispering weekend plans. I glance toward the back of the room, where someone still sits — alone, as usual.

Shoichi. Third-year architecture major. Left-handed. Sketches constantly, even during lectures.

He’s quiet. Calm. Not uninterested — just always in his own world.

I don’t know much about him, but I’ve watched him enough to know that his world looks peaceful.

He looks up from his sketchbook — and our eyes meet.

I pretend to be looking behind him and lower my gaze. My face warms.

The breeze outside is soft and smells like warm pavement and sakura petals. The student commons are crowded with noise: upperclassmen in suits, clubs handing out flyers, someone practicing guitar badly under the stairs. Masumi stands under the quad's tallest tree, surrounded by three boys and two girls. She's laughing — effortless, confident, untouchable.

She hasn’t seen me. She usually doesn’t.

“You dropped this,” someone says behind me.

It’s Shoichi, holding out a folded paper.

My student planner.

“Oh.” I take it from him quickly. “Thanks.”

“You take good notes,” he adds. “Clear margins. Nice spacing.”

I blink. “You… noticed?”

Shoichi gives a tiny shrug, like it’s nothing.

“I sit behind you sometimes.”

Then he nods once and walks away, slipping his hands into his pockets like the conversation was perfectly normal.

Across the quad, Masumi tilts her head, just slightly. Her eyes are on me.

No — on him.

She smiles politely at the people around her, but for a second… her gaze lingers.

And I already know.

She saw him too.

*

*

*

I walk faster after that — not because I’m in a hurry, but because I don’t want to see the look on Masumi’s face if she decides to follow.

Shoichi’s words loop in my head:
“You take good notes.”
Simple. Kind. Real.
And maybe that’s what makes it feel dangerous.

People don’t usually say things like that to me. Not unless they’re on their way to noticing Masumi next.

Back in the dorms, I spread my planner and textbooks across my desk. Shoichi’s voice still hasn’t left. Neither has the soft heat in my chest.

I open my notes, pretending to review the lecture. But I’m not really seeing the words.

What would Masumi even say if she found out I liked someone again?

She never mocks me. She doesn’t have to.
All it takes is one glance — the kind that makes people question everything they thought they wanted.
It’s not her fault. It never is.

But it still hurts.

A soft knock at the door startles me. I rise halfway from my chair before it creaks open without waiting.

Of course. Masumi never knocks twice.

She steps in like she owns the air between us — long black hair braided loosely over one shoulder, her heels barely making a sound on the floor.

“You’re back early,” she says, eyes flicking to my open planner. “Lecture got canceled?”

“Guest speaker didn’t show,” I mumble.

She walks past me to my bookshelf, fingers trailing across the spines of novels she’s never read. “I saw you talking to someone. That boy. Shoichi, right?”

I freeze.
She saw.

“Nothing important,” I lied.

Masumi’s lips twitch — not quite a smile, but close. “He’s cute,” she says casually. “Seems like the quiet type.”

I try not to react.
I failed.

She turns her head, eyes narrowing slightly in that way she does when she’s interested. Not in him. In me.

“I’ve seen him around,” she says. “He keeps to himself.”

And then, softer:
“Be careful, Yasuko.”

She doesn’t say why.

But she never has to.

*

*

*

The library is quiet this time of day — late enough that most students are at dinner, early enough that the night owls haven’t come out yet. I come here when I need to disappear.

I’m at the far wall, flipping through a psychology textbook that isn’t even on the syllabus. I don’t hear footsteps, just the shifting of someone behind me. When I glance up —

It’s Shoichi.

He’s standing near the design section, one shelf over. Holding a thick architecture book with sketches bleeding off the corners of the pages. He’s wearing a charcoal hoodie, sleeves pushed to his elbows, pencil tucked behind his ear.

He doesn’t notice me at first.

I turn back to my book quickly — then freeze when I hear his voice:

“You’re here a lot.”

My heart does that stupid stutter thing again. I close my book carefully, like it’ll help me act normal.

“I like the quiet,” I say.

He steps closer — not too close — and holds out the book he picked. “You might like this. It’s not psych, but the way it explains structure… it feels a little emotional.”

I blink. “Architecture books have feelings?”

He laughs softly. “Good ones do.”

I took the book from him. Our fingers brush — just barely. He doesn’t flinch. Neither do I.

“I’m not sure I’ll understand any of it,” I say.

Shoichi tilts his head, watching me.

“I think you’d understand more than most people.”

The compliment lands too gently to brush off. I look down, trying to hide the flush rising in my face.

We end up sitting at the far corner table — no one else in the row. He opens his sketchbook, not speaking, just sketching lines that seem random until they become shapes. A stairwell. A railing. A hand holding on.

I pretend to read, but my eyes keep drifting.

Shoichi breaks the silence.

“Your sister’s famous, huh?”

My heart jumps again — not in a good way this time.

“She doesn’t try to be,” I say quietly. “It just happens.”

He doesn’t ask more. He just nods and keeps sketching.

Then — softly — he says, “You’re nothing like her.”

I brace myself. I’ve heard that sentence before. It never ends kindly.

But Shoichi doesn’t continue. He just leaves it there — simple, like a fact.

Like it isn’t an insult. Like it might even be a good thing.

*

*

*

We sat there in silence for maybe twenty minutes. Maybe longer.

Shoichi doesn’t fill the air with noise. He doesn’t ask me personal questions or glance at his phone. He just sketches — slow, steady lines. Focused. Comfortable.

I pretend to read, but I’m not absorbing a single word. My eyes trace the edge of his wrist, the curve of his pencil, the way he presses gently with his thumb when he shades.

I wonder if he notices small things about everyone. Or just me.

Eventually, he speaks.

“Do you ever wish you were someone else?”

The question catches me off guard.

I look up from my untouched book. “What do you mean?”

He leans back in his chair slightly, looking up at the ceiling like the words are written there.

“Not because you hate who you are,” he says. “Just… because being you feels like a fight sometimes.”

I don’t answer right away. My fingers tighten on the page.

Masumi’s face flashes through my mind — her laughter echoing behind me like a warning.

“Every day,” I finally say.

Shoichi looks at me. And it’s not pity in his eyes. It’s something gentler. Something like understanding.

He reaches into his bag and tears a small page from the back of his sketchbook. Fold it once, then twice. Hands it to me.

“I’m not great at talking,” he says. “But if you ever feel like being quiet next to someone — I usually sit by the third floor window, right side.”

I take the paper. It’s warm from his hand.

“Thanks,” I whisper.

He stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He doesn’t wait for me to say more. He just nods, soft and simple.

“I’ll see you.”

And then he’s gone.

I wait until he’s completely out of sight before I unfold the paper. It’s a sketch — loose and delicate. A bench under a tree. Two cups of something warm. And a girl sitting alone.

Except the shading suggests a second person… just barely beginning to appear beside her.

I stare at it for a long time, heart quiet, throat tight.

Maybe this time…

Maybe he won’t leave.