Chapter 1:

Chapter 1: The First Bell of Spring

Campus Confessions — Volume 1: The Secrets We Keep

Chapter 1: The First Bell of Spring

“Kazuki! You’re late again!”

Rurii’s voice hit me before the morning sunlight did.

I turned just in time for a rolled-up club flyer to thump my chest. The cherry trees along the main quad tossed petals like confetti; somewhere, someone’s portable speaker was already promising that this semester would be different.

“Morning to you too,” I said, peeling the flyer off. “New year, new violence?”

Rurii grinned like she’d just won something. With her ponytail high and a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, she looked like a track star who’d taken a wrong turn into the orientation fair.
“Violence? This is gentle encouragement. Now help me carry banners before the senpai committee yells at me again.”

“You are the one who gets yelled at,” I said. “I merely observe and take notes.”

“You’re my senpai for the sports club—same difference.” She hooked my sleeve and marched me toward the event hall. “Also, you promised—”

“I promised I’d try to be on time,” I said. “Which I did.”

“Five minutes after the time is still after,” she said. “Mathematically, tragically, after.”

It’s spring. She’s exactly the same. Thank God. Petals stuck to her sleeve; she didn’t notice. I did what I always do: flick problems off her before she could see them. The petal, the dust from the banner tube, the stray thread on her bag strap. Habit is a quiet thing. It feels like care when no one’s watching.

Inside the hall, orientation chaos had already bloomed. Tables lined the walls with signs—Film Circle, Literature Club, “Meditation & Matcha,” and our modest Athletics & Rec banner currently collapsed like a defeated tent.

“See?” Rurii said, triumphant. “Tragically after.”

“Right,” I said, grabbing the other end. “On three.”

We lifted. The banner sagged in the middle, then held when I wedged a chair under the crossbar. Across the way, a tiny storm was forming at the registration desk.

“Uh-oh,” Rurii said. “Twins are here.”

Hina and MeiMei had identical faces and opposite settings. Hina held a clipboard with a pen aligned exactly along the margin; MeiMei was teaching the pen to spin like a baton and nearly skewering a stack of name tags.

“It’s a simple matrix,” Hina said, without looking up. “We group new club members by interest, then by time availability.”

“Or by vibes,” MeiMei said. “Imagine a speed-run friendship bracket.”

“It’s orientation, not a boss raid,” Hina sighed, then finally met my eyes. “Good morning, Kazuki.”

“Morning,” I said.

“Late,” MeiMei sang, pointing like I was on trial. “Rurii’s fault?”

“Obviously his fault,” Rurii said simultaneously. They high-fived over my head.

Before I could defend my honor, a familiar click of heels cut through the chatter. Haruka walked in, a hairpin glinting in her dark hair—the quiet poise of an upperclassman who never needed to raise her voice to be obeyed.

“Kazuki,” she said, smiling slightly. “You made it.”

“I always make it,” I said. “Just… through creative timing.”

Her gaze flicked to Rurii’s hand still hooked to my sleeve. A heartbeat. Then she released it, smiling that practiced neutrality older students master.

“We’ll have freshmen at ten,” Haruka said. “Make sure the athletics table doesn’t look like a garage sale, please.”

“On it,” I said.

“On it,” Rurii echoed, already knocking over a stack of cones.

From the side door, a girl slipped in—short bangs, careful steps, like she didn’t want to bother the air. Yuki pressed her bag to her chest and mouthed sorry at the world before bowing slightly.

“Good morning,” she said softly. “Is the orientation desk… open?”

“For you?” MeiMei said. “It’s a VIP lane. For everyone else, chaos.”

Hina slid a form toward her. “Name, major, and whether you’re a morning person or a regretful night owl.”

Yuki glanced at me, eyes like quiet punctuation. I shrugged.

By eleven, the hall throbbed with the friendly panic of new beginnings. We handed out flyers nobody would read, explained that yes, you can try clubs before deciding, and no, there’s no prize for joining eight.

Haruka drifted past like a supervisor in a movie, straightening a sign here, fixing a smile there. When a table leg wobbled, she crouched to tighten it without a word. When a first-year spilled a drink, she was already there with tissues and a quiet, “It’s fine, don’t worry.”

Rurii collapsed into a chair, fanning herself with a brochure.
“I’m dying,” she said.
“You’re dramatic,” I said, handing her a water bottle.
She drank, stared at me over the rim. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” I didn’t say.

“Roof?”
Her face lit up. “Roof.”

The rooftop door stuck, then yielded with a sigh. The city spread below—low hum of traffic, silver river, sky like polished glass.

Rurii leaned into the wind, hair snapping like a flag.
“I love it up here,” she said. “Feels like you can tell the truth and it’ll blow away before it hits the ground.”

“Convenient for cowards,” I said.
“Convenient for honesty practice, senpai.”

We stood like that for a while, watching petals drift past at roof height.

“You were going to yell at me about being late,” I said.
“I was going to yell at you about being you,” she said. “You always show up, and you’re always careful. It’s like you’re allergic to making anyone uncomfortable. Even me.”

“Is that a bad allergy?”
“It’s a lonely one.”

I didn’t answer. She smiled like she knew anyway.
“Anyway, we have two hours before afternoon sessions. Wanna race to the vending machines? Loser buys lemon tea.”

“You only ask when you’re sure you’ll win.”
“I like the taste of victory,” she said. “And lemon.”

We shoved the door open again, laughing, our echoes tangled in the stairwell. Halfway down, we almost collided with Yuki—balancing a stack of forms.

“Oh!” she gasped. “S-sorry, I was just—Haruka-senpai asked me to—”
“It’s okay,” I said, taking half the stack. “We’ll help.”

She hesitated, clutching one form tighter.
“You can keep that one,” I said. “We have a printer.”
“It’s not—” she flushed. “It’s mine. I signed up for Athletics & Rec. If that’s okay.”
“Of course it’s okay,” Rurii said. “We’ll make you fast and terrifying.”
“Maybe just less slow,” Yuki said shyly.

On the ground floor, Haruka materialized like an answer.
“There you are,” she said to me, then to Rurii, “You look windblown,” then to Yuki, “Thank you,” all in one breath.
She took the stack from my hands; her fingers brushed mine—polite, cool, brief.

“Eat something,” she said.
“After the vending machine race,” Rurii said, jogging backward. “Kazuki’s buying!”

Haruka smiled faintly. “She’ll drag you into trouble.”
“She’d call it cardio.”
“And you’d call it…?”
“Convenient honesty practice,” I said.

She nodded, approving. “Good. Learn quickly.”

And then she turned to help someone else, and I was left in the bright hum of the hall, wondering if this was what arrival felt like.

It was the first bell of spring. I wasn’t late. I was just—finally—arriving.