Where Eyes Rest

Haru noticed it during lunch.

Mio was laughing.

It wasn’t loud—just the kind that lifted her shoulders slightly, her eyes crinkling as she leaned toward Ken and Kenta across the table. Her hair caught the light from the windows, and for a moment, Haru found himself watching without realizing it.

Then he realized something else.

Other people were watching her too.

He’d seen it before—how classmates greeted her easily, how they slowed when she passed, how teachers smiled without meaning to. But today, the awareness settled awkwardly in his chest.

Ken nudged her shoulder playfully.

Kenta said something that made her huff in mock offense.

Haru dipped his gaze to his lunch, fingers tightening slightly around his chopsticks.

Of course they like her, he thought.

Mio looked like she belonged anywhere she stood.

Later, in class, she leaned toward Haru to share notes when the teacher turned back to the board. Her handwriting was neat, careful.

“You missed this part,” she whispered.

He nodded, murmuring thanks—then paused when he realized something unsettling.

She was close.

Not in a way that felt invasive. Just enough that he could feel her presence fully—warm, attentive, grounded.

His heart beat louder than it should have.

That evening, he found himself standing by his window, watching the street below.

Why did it bother him that others noticed her?

Why did the thought of her laughter directed somewhere else linger longer than it should?

Haru pressed his palm flat against the glass.

You’re overthinking, he told himself.

But the feeling refused to leave.

It wasn’t jealousy. Not yet.

It was awareness.

And awareness, he realized, was the first step toward something he wasn’t sure he was ready for.