It was the beginning of our final year at Kōyō High School, and the usual bustle of students filling the halls was in full swing. I was in Class A-2, an unremarkable spot in the school's social hierarchy. My days consisted of a strict routine: attending classes, working part-time at the local bookstore, and returning home to help my mother with household chores. My life was ordinary, almost predictably so, until this year.
This year, the new student, Isamu Saito. The moment he stepped through the doors of Class B-1, he became the talk of the school. I noticed him almost immediately. I don't know why, but he seemed to shimmer with a certain allure that caught my attention. Maybe it was the way he moved through the hallways with an effortless grace, or how his laughter echoed across the cafeteria, drawing people in.
Isamu was everything I wasn't. He was confident, outgoing, and effortlessly popular. His background was apparent in the way he carried himself, the stylish clothes he wore, and the way he interacted with others. To me, he seemed like someone from a different world, a world that was just beyond my reach.
I had never spoken to Isamu. Our paths never crossed in any meaningful way, and I was perfectly fine with that—if not content. I admired him from a distance, allowing myself to be captivated by his presence without ever having to actually interact with him. It was a comfortable, if somewhat painful, arrangement.
Every day, I'd find myself in the same spots—waiting for my next class in the courtyard, eating lunch in the corner of the cafeteria, or spending quiet moments in the library. And every day, Isamu would be somewhere in my line of sight. I'd watch him from afar, my heart quietly aching with curiosity as I saw him surrounded by friends or lost in his book which I suppose is a sketch book.
Our school's annual festival was approaching, and the buzz around it was unavoidable. Isamu was helping organize the event, and I heard he was even involved in the art exhibition. I was intrigued. Isamu had a passion for art that he rarely flaunted. I'd seen him sketching in the library, his face serene and focused, a stark contrast to his public persona.
I decided to attend the festival. It wasn't something I usually did, but I wanted to see Isamu's work up close. As I walked through the exhibition, I was awed by the pieces displayed. They were more than just sketches and paintings—they were a window into Isamu's soul. Each piece was full of emotion, depth, and a beauty that seemed to transcend the ordinary.
I was lost in thought, studying one of Isamu's paintings, when I heard a voice behind me. "Do you like it?"
I turned around to see Isamu standing there, a curious expression on his face. "It's... okay," I managed to stammer, feeling the need to remain uninterested. "I didn't realize you were someone with patience."
Isamu's eyes turned to a glare, and he smiled. "Thank you. I'm always patient when it comes to art. It's different from what people expect from me."
His words made me feel a pang of annoyance as if he was bosting about his talent. I wanted to tell him how much his work intrigued me, how it had touched me in ways I couldn't quite explain. But the words remained stuck in my throat. Instead, I nodded and quickly made my way through the exhibition, avoiding further conversation.
Our interactions remained limited to my quiet observations and the occasional glimpses I caught of him. I continued to be a silent observer, cherishing the moments when I could see Isamu being his true self. I found solace in knowing that even though we didn't talk, my admiration for him was genuine and real.
.
.
"No, it has to be here somewhere," Isamu said, his voice tinged with frustration. "It was right here earlier. If we don't find it, the exhibit will be ruined."
