The First Misunderstanding

The classroom felt louder than usual that morning, even though nothing about it had changed.

Sunlight streamed in through the tall windows, dust motes floating lazily in the air. Chairs scraped against the floor, laughter bubbled from the back rows, and someone argued about unfinished homework. Yet to Hina, every sound bit too late, slightly too sharp—like the world was out of sync with her heartbeat.

She sat at her desk by the window, fingers curled around her pen, staring at a page she hadn’t written a single word on.

Itsuki was laughing.

It was a soft laugh—barely there—but it existed, and that alone made it rare. He stood near the doorway, talking to a girl from Class B. Her name was Ayase, Hina remembered distantly. Tall, confident, hair tied neatly, smile practiced and bright.

Ayase leaned closer as she spoke.

Hina’s grip tightened. She told herself not to look, but she couldn’t help herself. Her eyes returned to them again and again, as if drawn by something painful yet impossible to ignore.

Itsuki listened silently as Ayase talked, his expression calm, attentive. The same expression he wore when Hina spoke to him. That realization settled heavily in her chest.

Of course, she thought. Why would I be any different?

She had no right to feel this way. No label, no promise, no clear definition of whatever existed between her and Itsuki. Just quiet conversations, shared walks home, and silences that felt warmer than words.

That wasn’t ownership. That wasn’t love.

Still, it hurt.

“Hina.”

She flinched slightly as her name was called. Mei slid into the seat beside her, dropping her bag with a sigh.

“You look like someone stole your soul,” Mei said bluntly. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Hina replied too quickly.

Mei followed Hina’s gaze without asking another question. Her eyes landed on Itsuki and Ayase, still talking. Mei raised an eyebrow.

“…Ah.”

“It’s not like that,” Hina said, though she wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince.

“Relax,” Mei said, resting her chin on her hand. “They’re probably just talking about class stuff.”

Hina nodded, but the knot in her chest refused to loosen.

At that moment, Ayase laughed – a light, musical sound and touched Itsuki’s arm.

It was brief. Casual. Meaningless.

And yet, something inside Hina cracked.

She looked away.

Later, during lunch break, Hina ate alone on the rooftop.

The sky stretched endlessly above her, pale blue and uncaring. She picked at her food without appetite, replaying the morning scene over and over in her mind. Each replay grew worse, sharper, her thoughts filling in spaces reality hadn’t confirmed.

Maybe they’ve known each other for a long time.

He probably likes confident girls.

And I’m just… convenient.

Footsteps echoed behind her.

“Hina.” Itsuki’s voice.

She stiffened.

He stood a few steps away, holding two juice cartons. He hesitated before sitting beside her, leaving a careful distance as always.

“You weren’t in the classroom,” he said. “So I thought you might be here.”

“…I wanted some air,” Hina replied.

Itsuki nodded and placed one of the juice cartons beside her. “You forgot this.”

She stared at it without touching it. Silence stretched between them, heavier than usual.

Itsuki frowned slightly. “Did I do something?”

The question was gentle. Genuine.

And that somehow made everything worse.

“No,” Hina said, a little too firmly. “Why would you think that?”

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he replied simply.

Her heart thudded painfully. She looked away, gripping her skirt. Words crowded her throat, but none of them felt safe.

Say nothing, and this feeling would rot inside her.

Say too much, and she might lose even this fragile connection.

“I just think…” Her voice faltered. She swallowed. “You don’t have to walk home with me today.”

Itsuki blinked. “Why?”

“You looked busy this morning,” she said, forcing a small smile. “With Ayase.”

The name hung between them.

Understanding flickered across Itsuki’s face—then surprise. Then something quieter.

“She asked me about last week’s notes,” he said. “That’s all.”

“Oh,” Hina murmured.

But the damage had already been done.

“I didn’t mean to bother you,” she added quickly. “I shouldn’t assume things.”

Itsuki studied her, eyes searching her face as if trying to read words she refused to say.

“You can assume things with me,” he said softly. “I’d rather you ask.”

Hina’s chest tightened.

“I don’t want to,” she whispered.

He looked confused now. Hurt, just slightly.

“…Okay,” Itsuki said after a pause. “If that’s what you want.”

He stood up, hesitating as if expecting her to stop him.

She didn’t.

As his footsteps faded down the stairwell, Hina finally let her shoulders slump. The rooftop felt colder without him, the sky suddenly too wide.

She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the ache settle in.

This was the first time she’d pulled away.

And somehow, she knew—It wouldn’t be the last.

The hallway felt longer than usual to Itsuki.

Each step echoed, measured, controlled yet his thoughts were anything but. Hina’s words replayed in his mind, not loudly, but persistently, like water dripping in a quiet room.

You don’t have to walk home with me today.

He hadn’t expected that. Not from her.

Itsuki paused near the stairwell window, watching clouds drift lazily past the glass. He told himself he had done nothing wrong. He knew he hadn’t. And yet, the faint sting in his chest refused to disappear.

He wasn’t angry.

He was… unsettled.

Hina avoided him for the rest of the day.

She left the classroom early. Took a different route between periods. Sat with Mei and two other girls during afternoon break, laughing at the right moments, nodding when expected. From the outside, she looked normal.

From the inside, she was unraveling.

Every time she felt Itsuki’s presence nearby, her heart reacted before her mind could stop it. She hated that. Hated how easily he affected her. Hated how a single misunderstanding could make her feel so small.

Mei noticed, of course.

“You’re overthinking,” Mei said as they changed shoes after school. “That’s literally your special skill.”

Hina smiled weakly. “Maybe.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“…A little.”

“And?”

Hina tied her shoelaces carefully. “I think I made things awkward.”

Mei sighed. “Hina. You can’t expect people to read your mind.”

“I know,” she whispered. “That’s why I didn’t say anything else.”

Mei stopped tying her shoes and looked at her seriously. “That’s also how misunderstandings grow.”

Hina didn’t respond.

Because she already knew.

Outside the school gate, Itsuki stood alone.

He usually waited for Hina near the old vending machine. Today, he stood there out of habit more than hope. Students passed by in pairs and groups, their voices blending into a distant hum.

Minutes passed.

Hina didn’t come.

Itsuki checked his phone. No messages. No missed calls. He slipped it back into his pocket and exhaled slowly.

If that’s what she wants, he reminded himself.

Still, his feet didn’t move right away.

That night, Hina lay awake, staring at the ceiling.

Her room was quiet except for the ticking clock on her desk. Each second felt too loud, too deliberate. She rolled onto her side, clutching her pillow, wishing sleep would come and take her thoughts with it.

Instead, memories surfaced.

Itsuki offered her his umbrella.

Waited beside her without a single complaint.

And listened—whenever she spoke.

And then—Ayase’s hand on his arm.

Her chest tightened again.

It shouldn’t matter, she told herself. He’s not mine.

But the truth was more complicated than logic allowed.

She turned her face into the pillow, biting back the sting in her eyes.

***

The next day passed with careful distance.

Itsuki didn’t approach her. Hina didn’t look for him. They existed in the same space, breathing the same air, yet something invisible had shifted between them.

During class, Itsuki found himself glancing toward the window seat more often than he intended. Hina sat there, focused on her notes, expression calm and distant. She didn’t once turn around.

So this is how it is, he thought.

He didn’t like it.

After school, rain began to fall.

Light at first, then steady—soft droplets tapping against windows and pavement. Students rushed for cover, umbrellas blooming open like flowers.

Hina stood under the eaves near the entrance, watching the rain. She hadn’t checked the weather. She hadn’t brought an umbrella.

A familiar frustration bubbled up.

“Perfect” she thought bitterly.

She was about to make a run for it when someone stopped beside her.

Itsuki.

He held an umbrella, unopened. He didn’t look at her right away.

“You’ll get soaked,” he said.

She hesitated. “I’ll be fine.”

A pause.

“…Do you want to share?” he asked.

Her heart skipped painfully.

This was the moment. A chance to fix things. Or to make them worse.

She looked at him. His expression was careful, guarded, but there was something else there too—uncertainty.

“I’m sorry,” Hina said suddenly.

Itsuki blinked.

“For yesterday,” she continued, voice trembling despite her effort to steady it. “I assumed things without asking. That wasn’t fair.”

Rain fell harder.

Itsuki studied her for a long second, then let out a quiet breath. “I should’ve explained without waiting for you to ask.”

Silence stretched—not heavy this time, but fragile.

“So…” Hina began, then stopped.

Itsuki opened the umbrella. “Let’s walk.”

They stepped into the rain together, close but not touching. The space between them felt charged, uncertain—but no longer cold.

The misunderstanding wasn’t gone.

But for the first time since it began, neither of them was walking away.