School Miyu vs. Store Miyu

The classroom buzzed with chatter as students swapped homework answers and weekend gossip before the teacher arrived. I slid into my seat, still half-asleep, and glanced toward the window.

My brain was operating at about three percent power. Maybe two.

And then I saw her.

Miyu Takahashi.

At school, she sat by the window, posture perfect. Her long black hair framed her face neatly. She was quiet. Polite. Answering the teacher’s question in a soft voice that barely carried across the room. No smirk. No teasing. Just… composed.

My half-asleep brain struggled to process it. Is this the same girl who teased me for dropping instant noodles yesterday?

At school, she blended in. Not popular, not ignored—just… background character. Like a potted plant in the corner of the room.

Meanwhile, at the store? She was the final boss. Sarcastic one-liners, teasing me any chance she got.

Was she two people? Did she have a twin? Was this some convenience store conspiracy?

Before I could unravel the mystery, Youichi plopped into the seat next to mine, grinning more than usual.

“Bro,” he whispered, eyes following my gaze. “Why are you staring at Miyu like she owes you money?”

“—I’m not!” I said, a little too quickly.

He smirked. “Sure. Definitely not. Totally normal amount of staring. Very casual. Not weird at all.”

The teacher walked in, before I could defend myself further, Miyu sat perfectly still, already ready with her textbook open like the model student she was.

My brain kept circling the same thought like a dog chasing its tail:

Which one is the real Miyu?

By lunchtime, the classroom emptied into the courtyard, leaving only the sound of crinkling bread wrappers and the faint hum of a nearby vending machine.

I sat with Youichi, who was already demolishing a stack of bread rolls like he hadn’t eaten in days.

“Hey,” he said through a mouthful, “you’re staring at the window seat again.”

I froze mid-bite. “N-no, I’m not.”

But I was. Because there she was—Miyu—eating quietly by herself, flipping through a paperback novel. No one bothered her. No one teased her.

At the store, she was sharp, commanding, and even playful. Here, she was… wallpaper.

So which one was real?

Was the store version the mask? Or the school version?

My brain offered helpful commentary: Maybe she has a third version. Street Miyu. Wears leather jackets. Leads a biker gang on weekends.

“Dude,” Youichi said, snapping me out of it. “Steam’s gonna start coming out of your ears if you think any harder.”

“Thinking so hard won't help me solve this,” I muttered.

"Solve what?"

“The… uh… science homework. Yeah. That.”

“Right.” He gave me a look like he knew I was lying, but was too busy eating to care.

The automatic doors chimed as I stepped into the store that evening. And there she was—same girl, different Persona.

Her blazer was off, her sleeves rolled up, and her hair was tied back. She looked up, smirk already forming like she’d been saving it just for me.

“You’re late.”

I checked my watch. “I’m five minutes early!”

“Exactly. Late.”

Somewhere in the back, Manager Sato slurped noodles like this was a dinner theater.

“Kid,” he said between bites, “time’s relative. Don’t fight it.” Then he vanished again, probably to nap standing up.

Just like that, the quiet schoolgirl was gone. In her place stood the teasing, terrifying store senpai. Was this magic? Did the store uniform come with superpowers?

The evening rush hit like a tsunami. People poured in—salarymen grabbing beers, kids buying candy, an old lady demanding lottery tickets.

A middle-aged man stormed to the counter, frowning.

“You don’t have the new magazine issue? What kind of store is this?”

My brain short-circuited.

“Uh—uh—maybe tomorrow?” I squeaked.

His frown deepened. My soul was prepared to leave my body.

Then Miyu appeared, calm and professional, bowing slightly. “We’ll restock tomorrow morning, sir. If you’d like, I can set one aside for you.”

The man grumbled but left satisfied.

I stared at her like she’d just tamed a wild lion.

Was there anything she couldn’t handle?

When the rush finally slowed, I leaned against the counter, still replaying the scene in my head.

“You’re… different here,” I said quietly.

Miyu raised an eyebrow. “Different how?”

“At school, you’re quiet. Here, you’re…” I hesitated. “You’re yourself.”

For a second—just a second—her smirk faltered. Then it was back.

“Maybe I just like the uniform better,” she said lightly.

“That’s not it,” I muttered before I could stop myself.

She smirked again. “What’s wrong? Do you not like this version of me better?”

I sputtered like an idiot while she calmly started counting the till.

That wasn’t it. But she wasn’t going to tell me more. Not yet.

We locked up the store, the neon sign humming behind us. The cool night air smelled faintly of asphalt and ramen—probably Sato’s fault.

“See you tomorrow,” Miyu said, adjusting her bag strap.

I nodded, watching her disappear down the street..

As I walked home, one thought refused to leave my head:

School Miyu. Store Miyu. Which one is real?