Imperfect Spot To Have Lunch

after that awkward exchange with Ami. The day dragged on, but my thoughts kept circling back to her. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because she didn’t care to give me more than a one-word answer, or maybe it was how perfect she seemed compared to this imperfect new me. Either way, I had a feeling I hadn’t seen the last of her.

By lunchtime, I was outside, sitting on the steps behind the school. It was quiet out there, which was exactly what I wanted. I had my pathetic excuse for a sandwich—a couple of pieces of bread with something vaguely resembling meat between them. I wasn’t trying to impress anyone with it.

As I sat there, the door creaked open. I didn’t look up at first, assuming it was just another student trying to escape the chaos of the cafeteria. But then I heard footsteps approaching. When I finally glanced up, I saw her.

Ami Suzuki. Miss Perfect herself.

She didn’t say a word. Just calmly walked over and sat down on the step across from me. She had her neatly packed bento, of course—perfectly arranged food, just like you’d expect from someone like her.

I stared for a second, not sure what to make of it. Did she even know I was here? Or did she just happen to pick the same spot?

Before I could figure it out, she spoke, her voice clipped and proper as always. “Is this your usual lunch spot?”

I blinked, still not sure why she was talking to me. “Uh… yeah. It’s quiet here.”

She nodded, not even looking at me as she carefully unwrapped her chopsticks. “It’s efficient.”

Efficient? Who describes a lunch spot like that? I couldn’t help but smirk a little.

“So, efficiency’s your thing, huh?” I asked, taking a bite of my sad sandwich.

“It’s practical,” she replied, not even glancing my way.

She was so… cold. I couldn’t get a read on her. Most people would at least make some effort to talk or acknowledge the person sitting two feet away from them, but not her.

Still, I wasn’t about to let her sit there like I didn’t exist. “So, what brings you here? This isn’t exactly the kind of place someone like you would hang out.”

That got her attention. Her chopsticks paused, and she finally turned her head to look at me. Her expression didn’t change, though—still as unreadable as ever.

“If by ‘someone like me’ you mean someone who values peace and quiet, then yes, it’s precisely the kind of place I’d choose,” she said, her tone just as sharp as before.

Okay then, I thought. So much for small talk.

I let out a small laugh, more to myself than to her. “You don’t seem like the type who appreciates imperfection.”

Her eyes flicked up at me again, cool and unbothered. “I appreciate order and discipline. Anything less is… unnecessary.”

Yikes. So she was just as uptight as she looked.

“Well, I guess that’s where we’re different,” I said, stretching out my legs. “I’m done with order. It’s overrated.”

Ami didn’t respond. She just went back to her perfectly organized bento, eating with quiet precision, as if my words were nothing more than background noise. But for some reason, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this wouldn’t be the last conversation we’d have.

I didn’t know what it was about her. Maybe it was the contrast—her rigid, polished perfection against my new-found imperfection. Or maybe it was just that, for the first time in a long time, I felt like I had met someone I couldn’t figure out.

As I finished my lunch and stood up to leave, I threw one last glance at her. She was still sitting there, perfectly composed, not a hair out of place. I shook my head and walked off, but I knew this wasn’t the end of it.

Not by a long shot.