It’s Sunday.
3:02 PM.
Second semester starts tomorrow.
And I—Yuuji Kazama, 16 years of age, average student, full-time dumbass—have done exactly zero of the seven assignments due in the morning.
I glance at the clock again. Maybe time’s moving slower just to mock me.
Or maybe the universe is trying to give me a fighting chance. Either way, I’m not fighting. I’m lying face-down on the floor, wondering how I’ve failed this hard at existing.
My phone buzzes.
[Daichi (Idiot Friend #1): Yo u ready for the new girl tomorrow??? Heard she’s cute.]
New girl?
That’s right. Fujishiro-something. Transferring in from some school in Tokyo. People have been talking, but I’ve been a little more focused on not failing out of high school. Clearly.
I roll over and stare at the ceiling.
"Maybe if I fake a coma, I can skip the whole week..."
I made it to exactly six and a half minutes into pretending to be in a coma before my mom kicked my door open with the fury of a thousand disappointed ancestors.
“You haven’t started your homework yet, have you?”
She’s got the Look. Capital L.
The kind that could reduce a grown man to ash. I, unfortunately, am not yet a grown man and am still very much flammable.
“I was just... mentally preparing,” I lie, sitting up so fast I pull a neck muscle. “Strategizing my academic comeback.”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
“You’re strategizing on the floor?”
“Yes,” I say. “It’s more grounded this way.”
She doesn’t laugh.
She also doesn’t leave.
Instead, she crosses her arms and tilts her head.
“You know you have seven assignments due, right?”
“Technically,” I mutter. “If you think about it, seven is just a very dramatic number.”
Her eyebrow twitches.
I swear the temperature in the room drops five degrees.
“Do. Your. Homework.”
“Yes, General.”
3:47 PM.
I've cracked open a textbook. The air smells like despair. I’ve read the same sentence four times and have no idea what it says. Why do math problems start with "If Ken has five oranges..." anyway? Why is Ken hoarding citrus?
Just as I'm contemplating becoming a farmer to avoid this academic disaster, my phone buzzes again.
[Daichi: Bro. New girl’s name is Aika Fujishiro. She's transferring to Class 2-B.]
Wait.
That’s my class.
I blink.
Then blink again.
Oh no.
This isn’t just a rumor anymore. This is a setup. This is fate trying to hand me something, and I’m pretty sure it’s a flaming bag of social anxiety.
New girl. Tomorrow. Sitting near me.
I haven't even emotionally recovered from the time I spilled juice on myself during the welcome assembly.
I flop back onto the floor.
This semester’s gonna be the end of me.
The next morning.
I make it to class with five minutes to spare and one (1) completed assignment. That’s a personal best. My reward is walking into a classroom that’s already buzzing with curiosity and whispers.
They’re all looking at the front.
She’s standing there—tall-ish, calm, not smiling but not frowning either. Black hair tied neatly. Uniform perfect. Posture straight. Like she belongs on the front cover of a teen drama.
But something’s... normal about her.
Not in a bad way. Not boring. Just... real. Like she didn’t rehearse her whole personality the night before like I did.
“Please welcome our new student,” the teacher says. “Go ahead and introduce yourself.”
She bows slightly. “Aika Fujishiro. I transferred from Minami High. It’s nice to meet you.”
Short. Simple. No fluff. Confident, but not arrogant.
I look away too quickly and knock my pencil case off the desk.
Of course.
Of course that happens now.
As I scramble to pick it up, the teacher says something that makes my soul leave my body:
“Fujishiro-san, you can sit in the empty seat beside Kazama.”
Beside me.
No.
Yes.
NO.
To be continued...