Chapter 2 — Lunch Beneath the Wisteria Tree

The second week of Mizuki’s arrival passed quietly.

Or perhaps not so quietly — at least, not for Himari Akane, who had begun to notice the soft rhythm of footsteps echoing behind hers.

Mizuki followed her everywhere.

To the library, to the courtyard, even to the restroom sometimes — always a few paces behind, always pretending she’d “just happened” to be going the same way.

At first, Himari thought it was simply admiration.

She was used to that — classmates asking her for notes, underclassmen praising her poise, teachers relying on her perfection.

But this was different.

Mizuki didn’t ask for help or praise her. She just watched.

When Himari turned, she’d find those grey-blue eyes already on her, patient, calm, waiting for her to speak first.

---

One afternoon, as the spring sun poured through the classroom windows, Mizuki appeared at Himari’s desk with a lunchbox wrapped in a pastel handkerchief.

“Let’s eat outside today,” she said.

Himari blinked. “Outside?”

“The weather’s nice.” Mizuki’s smile was small but firm. “I’ll show you something.”

There was no refusing her. Mizuki’s tone was gentle, but threaded with something like quiet insistence — the kind that made Himari feel she’d be cruel to say no.

---

They crossed the courtyard and stopped beneath the wisteria tree, the same one Mizuki had admired on her first day. The petals were falling softly, covering the ground like violet snow.

“See?” Mizuki said. “It’s prettier up close.”

They sat together under the drooping blossoms, the air thick with sweet fragrance. The petals brushed their hair, their shoulders.

Mizuki opened her bento box.

Inside were misshapen rice balls, tamagoyaki that looked slightly burned at the edges, and a single strawberry cut into a heart.

“I made it this morning,” Mizuki said, smiling shyly.

Himari stared for a moment, then smiled back. “It looks delicious.”

She took a bite of the rice ball. It was too salty, the seaweed slightly torn. But she nodded anyway, pretending to enjoy it.

Mizuki’s eyes lit up, soft and grateful. “I’m glad.”

Something about that expression made Himari’s chest tighten — not out of affection, but guilt.

Guilt that she was lying. Guilt that her kindness was performance.

She watched Mizuki eat slowly, her movements neat and quiet. Every now and then, a petal would land in her hair, and Himari would reach to brush it away.

“You’re delicate,” Himari said.

“Delicate?”

“Like these flowers. If I touch you too roughly, you’ll fall apart.”

Mizuki smiled, but didn’t look away.

“That’s a strange compliment.”

“It’s not meant to be,” Himari said. “I think it’s… beautiful.”

---

They ate in silence for a while. Birds chirped somewhere above, the sound mingling with distant laughter from the field.

Himari thought of how quiet it felt here, how removed from everything — as if this little corner of the school didn’t belong to the world at all.

Mizuki wiped her hands on a napkin. “You always have people around you,” she said. “You must be used to it.”

Himari tilted her head. “Used to what?”

“People liking you.”

She laughed lightly, unsure whether to take it as a compliment or a statement. “It’s not like that.”

Mizuki looked at her for a moment — a little too long.

“I think it is.”

Her tone wasn’t jealous. It was simply matter-of-fact, like she’d observed something Himari didn’t want acknowledged.

To distract herself, Himari asked, “Do you like it here so far?”

Mizuki nodded. “It’s quiet. I like quiet places.” She paused, then added, “And people who don’t ask too many questions.”

“That sounds lonely.”

Mizuki smiled faintly. “It’s easier to be lonely than to be disappointed.”

Her words sank deep, brushing something raw inside Himari that she didn’t know existed.

---

The bell for afternoon classes rang faintly in the distance. Neither of them moved.

Mizuki looked up at the sky, pale sunlight filtering through the petals. “You know,” she said, her voice almost playful, “you can trust me, Himari.”

Himari blinked. “Trust you?”

Mizuki’s eyes turned toward her, bright and sharp, though her smile stayed gentle.

“I’ll never hurt you.”

For a moment, neither spoke.

The wind rustled through the branches, shaking loose more petals that drifted across their laps.

Himari tried to laugh, but it came out too soft.

“That’s a strange thing to say.”

“Is it?” Mizuki asked. “I just thought you should know.”

Her gaze lingered a heartbeat too long, like she was searching for something in Himari’s face — permission, fear, maybe both.

Himari forced another small smile. “Then I’ll trust you.”

Mizuki’s lips curved. “Good.”

---

They walked back together slowly, their shadows stretching long on the cobblestones. Mizuki carried the empty lunchbox close to her chest as if it were precious.

“Let’s eat there again,” she said suddenly. “Under the wisteria. Tomorrow.”

Himari hesitated — she had club duties, assignments, plans — but she found herself nodding anyway.

As they reached the classroom door, Mizuki brushed her fingers lightly against Himari’s sleeve.

The touch was brief, almost accidental, but it left a warmth that lingered long after they parted.

---

That night, Himari sat at her desk, her diary open again.

> “She said she’d never hurt me,” she wrote.

“But why did it sound like a warning?”

Outside, the sea wind rustled through the trees.

In the dorm window across the courtyard, a single light burned long past midnight.

Inside that room, Mizuki Sera replayed the moment under the wisteria tree again and again in her mind — the way Himari had smiled, the way her lips had touched the rice ball she’d made, the way her voice had trembled when she said ‘I trust you.’

Her fingers traced invisible lines in the air, as if sketching that expression.

Then, softly, almost tenderly, she whispered to herself:

> “I’ll never hurt you… as long as you don’t lie to me.”

The wind carried her words away, swallowed by the quiet hum of the night.