Vol.2 Will this year be same?

The year 2013 was a challenging period in my life. I was reassigned to an unfamiliar section, surrounded by unfamiliar faces. A whole year had passed, and I had completed my fifth-grade studies. In the sixth grade, I assumed nothing significant would change. I anticipated another year of solitude, preferring to remain unnoticed. However, as always, life had other plans for me.

On the first day of sixth grade, I entered the classroom and observed that most students had naturally gravitated towards the same seating arrangements as the previous year. This realization led to an immediate concern—my seatmate would be Youtskei. As I sat at an empty desk, waiting for his arrival, I noticed that a few students had yet to enter the classroom. The rest of the class was engaged in lively conversations, reinforcing my sense of isolation. Not that I minded; engaging in small talk had never been my priority.

Idle chatter, in my opinion, is an inefficient expenditure of energy. Yet, paradoxically, I lacked any meaningful alternative to channel this conserved energy. Thus, my attempts to rationalize my behavior through an abstract theory on the conservation of energy proved to be equally futile. As I immersed myself in this pointless introspection, a girl entered the classroom, immediately drawing everyone’s attention. The room fell silent as all eyes fixed on her. It was Himari Yui.

Himari’s eyes scanned the room, searching for an empty seat. When our gazes met, she greeted me with a warm, disarming smile and walked toward me.

“Taruo, you’re sitting alone. Can I sit with you?”

The entire class was momentarily stunned. Had she just addressed me by my first name so casually? I, too, was taken aback. While I had no particular preference for a seatmate, having Himari beside me was problematic. She was the kind of person who naturally drew attention, which was precisely what I wished to avoid.

“I—”

Before I could voice my reluctance, she had already sat beside me. Recognizing that I had been interrupted, she looked at me inquisitively.

“Is there a problem with me sitting here?” she asked, feigning innocence.

“...No.”

At that point, there was little point in protesting. The decision had been made. As I tried to ignore the hushed whispers and curious glances directed at me, I observed how relaxed Himari appeared. Unlike me, she was accustomed to being the center of attention.

A thought crossed my mind—where was Youtskei? It was nearly time for class to begin, yet he was nowhere to be seen. Before I could dwell on this further, the bell rang, signaling the arrival of our teacher. Entering the classroom with a stack of mathematics textbooks, she was none other than Akari Kazu, a familiar face from the previous year. She had always held a favorable impression of me for reasons I never entirely understood.

Following our routine greeting—one that I considered more of a monotonous chant than an actual greeting—she addressed the class.

“Good morning, everyone. Sit down. As you all know, I am Akari Kazu, and I will be your class teacher and mathematics instructor this year.”

Since she was already well-acquainted with the students, there was no need for an introduction round. That suited me just fine—I had no interest in formally introducing myself, nor did I care about learning the names of my classmates. The class proceeded without delay.

“First, let’s assign responsibilities for the year. We need class monitors, a cleanliness in-charge, and so on.” After gauging the students’ reactions, she continued, “Who were last year’s class monitors?”

As if rehearsed, the entire class pointed at me and Kushida.

“Then you two will remain class monitors this year as well. Is everyone fine with that?”

I internally groaned. Why did this responsibility always find its way back to me? Had I not suffered enough last year?

No one voiced any objections. Kushida, on the other hand, seemed pleased, casting frequent glances in my direction. I did my best to ignore her. As I contemplated a strategy to avoid the role, Himari stood up.

“Ma’am, I believe it’s only fair to let someone else take on the responsibility this year,” she asserted.

The teacher turned to her with interest. “Are you suggesting someone in particular?”

“Not someone else, per se...” Himari quickly glanced at me before continuing, “I would like to be the class monitor.”

Her words caught me off guard. If she genuinely wanted the position, she was welcome to it. I wholeheartedly supported the idea.

However, my relief was short-lived. Kushida promptly stood up and countered, “Ma’am, I wish to be the class monitor. I have more experience than her, which makes me the better candidate.”

Her argument was valid. Kushida and Himari were equally competent, but the former’s experience gave her an edge.

“She has a point,” the teacher acknowledged. “Experience is an important factor.”

Himari, unfazed, rebutted, “But how can I gain experience if I’m never given the opportunity?”

After a moment of consideration, the teacher proposed a compromise. “Himari, if you find Kushida failing in her duties at any point, you will have the chance to replace her. Does that sound fair?”

With no room for further argument, Himari conceded. “Yes, ma’am.”

With the monitor debate settled—unfortunately, still leaving me in the role—the remaining positions were filled. The teacher then deliberated for a moment before making another announcement.

“One more matter remains—seat assignments.”

This declaration was met with collective discontent. Most students had no desire to be separated from their friends. However, I welcomed the change. Sitting with Himari was a situation I preferred to escape.

The teacher rearranged the seating plan, pairing students with those they barely knew or disliked. Her method was deliberate to foster new bonds or minimize classroom distractions.

Just as I thought I had secured my escape from unwanted attention, the teacher’s next decision struck me as an unfortunate twist of fate.

“Himari,” the teacher announced. “You will sit with Kushida.”

Both Himari and Kushida appeared caught off guard. Reluctantly, Himari moved her belongings and took her new seat.

Finally, I was free.

Then, the teacher turned to me with a knowing smile.

“Taichi, you may sit wherever you like.”

While my classmates envied this privilege, I found it meaningless. Ultimately, I chose to sit alone. However, before I could do so, a boy spoke up.

“Teacher, I’d like to sit with him.”

It was a commoner—an ordinary student with some connections to the nobility.

“That’s fine,” the teacher responded. “Go ahead.”

So, the new seating arrangement was finalized and designed to instill discipline. With friendships temporarily set aside, the classroom became a more orderly environment—an unexpected benefit, considering my unfortunate role as a monitor.

For the remainder of the day, I pondered the intricacies of human relationships, the arbitrary nature of leadership roles, and the bizarre reality that circumstances always pushed me into the spotlight despite my best efforts to remain unnoticed.