Choso Kamo—The exception.

Everyone on campus knew Choso Kamo. He was the quiet, gentle guy who always had a soft smile and a helping hand. If someone dropped their books, he was the first to pick them up. If someone was lost or confused, he’d calmly guide them. He was kind, polite, and friendly to everyone—classmates, professors, strangers, friends. He was reliable, steady, and always there… but never really close.

People described him as warm, but distant. Like a gentle breeze—nice to feel, but never something you could hold onto. He treated everyone with the same calm, equal kindness, keeping a safe, polite distance. To the whole world, Choso was nice, but he felt like a stranger. Someone you knew, but didn’t know.

Everyone… except you.

You noticed it first, long before anyone else did.

You’d known Choso since your first year. Back then, he was exactly how he was now: kind to everyone, always helpful, always a little guarded. You were just another face in the crowd to him, or so you thought. But slowly, things shifted.

It started small. When he helped others, it was quick, polite, and distant. A smile, a nod, a “hope you’re okay,” and he was gone. But with you? He’d linger.

If you dropped your things, he’d not only pick them up—he’d walk you all the way to your next class, carrying your bag for you, talking quietly about anything or nothing at all. If you looked tired or stressed, he’d notice before you even said a word, and silently hand you your favorite drink or a snack, no questions asked.

When he smiled at other people, it was soft, polite, and empty—just a nice gesture. But when he smiled at you? It reached his eyes. It was warmer, softer, and full of something no one else ever got to see.