Yota Ayukawa

The morning sun's rays lazily flooded the schoolyard, warm and soft, raising dust in the air. From the gym came the sounds of running sneakers, laughter, and the soft thud of a basketball. Everything seemed so familiar and ordinary.

Yota Ayukawa stood by the vending machine, his sleeves rolled up and a can of iced coffee in hand. His tie was loose, his hair slightly damp from his workout—he looked unperturbed, as if the world revolved around him, not through him. He didn't notice the calm gaze from the second-floor hallway, which always found him even in a crowd.

She leaned against the railing, clutching her books to her chest, watching the sunlight trace the line of his jaw. He laughed at something his friend had said—quietly, fleetingly—and it struck her again how unfair it was to love someone who didn't even suspect they were adored.

The bell rang, sharp and clear, bringing her back to reality. She turned slightly, looking up at the sky for a second. Their gazes met across the courtyard, and her heart pounded wildly before she looked away too quickly.
And maybe only then did he notice.