Morning, alarms, and the first chime of chaos.

My alarm screams like a dying cicada.
I hit snooze. Twice. Reality wins the third round.

“Fine. I’m awake,” I tell no one. The void stays quiet.

The room’s a crime scene—laundry, empty cups, manga towers built by a sleep-deprived architect.
Evidence of last night’s “stock-check marathon.”

Sink. Toothbrush. Cold water. Existential crisis.

In the mirror: bed hair, pillow crease, dark circles.
A masterpiece of poor life choices.

The red glasses don’t help.
They just frame the wreckage.

Uniform’s worse.
Feels tighter than last semester—
a personal attack from the universe.

Why can’t these things stop growing already?
Some of us just want to blend in, not headline the fanservice episode.

I grab the cardigan instead of the vest.
Hides more. Feels safer.
Layers = invisibility.

The sun hits like punishment.
I sprint to the station like the protagonist of a slice-of-life opening no one asked for.

Entrance ceremony. Third year.
The world resets whether I’m ready or not.

The gym smells like wax and collective boredom.
The principal’s talking about “discipline” and “spirit.”
Translation: don’t make trouble so he can retire in peace.

Same speech every spring.
Half the students stopped listening after the first minute;
the rest pretend out of habit.

Someone yawns.
Someone scrolls under their sleeve.
A cough tries to start a rebellion.
Classic first-day atmosphere.

Then comes the club achievements.
“Ishida Kaito — judo club captain, national competitor.”
Top grades. Probably rescues stray cats for fun.
Basically the human embodiment of “stop making the rest of us look bad.”

And if he’s the prince, then Mayumi Yamada’s the queen.
Charisma, lip gloss, perfect timing.

Full gyaru—without the orange tan.
Blonde hair streaked with pink.
Amber eyes that belong on a billboard.
Glossy nails catching every bit of light.

Her uniform fits too well.
Loose blazer. Neat blouse. Skirt just short enough to make a point.

My heart stumbles every time our eyes meet.
She’s just… cool.
The kind of cool that freezes you mid-blink.

Everyone thinks the same.
Or maybe that’s just what I tell myself.

She moves like she’s not really here.
Like she’s waiting for the story to notice her.

Talks about Tokyo like it’s calling her name—
crowds, lights, the real stage.

When I look at her, it feels like she’s passing through.
And I’m just background.
But sometimes… I wish I could follow her.

Her two satellites—Nami Kurosaki and Rika Shionome.
Friend A and Friend B in my head.
Social memory: low capacity.

Nami’s the composed one—bob cut, sharp liner, voice like a script.
Rika’s the loud one—pastel streaks, laugh that echoes, sticker-covered nails.

They look like they wandered out of Shibuya and got lost in a classroom.
Polished. Popular. Untouchable.

The Ishida × Mayumi shippers will be disappointed.
They barely look at each other.
Wrong route selected years ago.
Now it’s just locked content—pretty, but doomed.

The ceremony finally dies.
My legs are numb. My soul’s buffering.
At least it’s over.

We shuffle back to class.
Same faces. Same sunlight. Same everything.

The seating chart’s “new,” but everyone gravitates back to their zones like NPCs idling after dialogue ends.

Desks scrape. Chairs squeak.
The sunlight lands in neat squares across the floor.

I end up in the back row.
One seat away from the classic protagonist spot by the window.
Still vacant.

To my left, another NPC quietly unpacks a pencil case.
We’ll never talk. That’s fine.
I wasn’t built for main routes anyway.

From here, I can see Mayumi two rows ahead—gold hair in the light.
And Ishida, across the room, sitting on “perfect posture” mode.
Same class. New season. Same cast.

I’m space junk orbiting their perfect little constellation.

The chatter fills the room again.
Everyone performing the annual “pretend we missed each other” ritual.

Then the door slides open.

Our teacher walks in—coffee mug, dead eyes, hope long gone.
“Alright, settle down,” he mutters, flipping a file like it personally offended him.

The noise dips.

He looks up.
“Before we start,” he says, “we have a transfer student joining us today.”

A pause.
Every head turns toward the door.

The room holds its breath.

Even me.
Which is dumb—transfer students don’t notice background characters.

Still, my heart didn’t get the memo.

Next episode: The Prince Appears Again (in My Classroom)