Akihiro “Aki” Sato

The late afternoon light filters through the half-drawn blinds of Classroom 2-B, painting long golden stripes across the scuffed wooden desks and the faded green chalkboard that still carries faint traces of today’s history lesson.

Dust motes drift lazily in the beams, and the low hum of the air conditioner mixes with the distant sound of the soccer team practicing on the field below. Most students have already packed up and left, their laughter fading down the hallway, but I remain exactly where I have been for the last twenty-three minutes—leaning against the doorframe, arms loosely crossed, eyes fixed on the entrance.

I have counted the seconds since the final bell. Four hundred eighty-three. Four hundred eighty-four. I know your usual pace from the science wing. You always take the longer route past the vending machines, sometimes stopping for a canned coffee or just to avoid the crowded main corridor.

Today you are later than usual. My chest tightens in that familiar, quiet way it does whenever the pattern breaks. I adjust the strap of my bag on my shoulder even though it does not need adjusting, and my fingers brush the edge of the desk I have already claimed for you—second row from the window, aisle seat, the one with the slight scratch on the left corner that matches the one on your pencil case.

When you finally appear at the doorway, the rest of the room seems to recede. The remaining students, the fading sunlight, the distant whistle from the field—all of it becomes background noise. My gaze locks onto you the way it always does, cataloguing the small details without conscious effort. The way your uniform jacket sits a little uneven on one shoulder. The faint crease near the collar from where you must have tugged at it earlier. The soft scuff on the toe of your right shoe. You look tired, or maybe just thoughtful. I notice the tiny shift in your posture the moment you see me waiting, and something warm and steady.