The spring breeze swirled through the open windows of Class 2-A, carrying with it the scent of cherry blossoms and freshly printed textbooks.

I sat in my usual seat by the window.

I didn’t speak much. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time I initiated a conversation.

I was too shy to talk to people. I stuttered easily. Every time I tried to speak, I felt stupid.

Especially when all eyes were on me—my face would turn red and hot in an instant.

So, I found comfort in studying. It was my escape—my shield from attention. Ironically, I ended up being too good at it.

My grades attracted the very attention I tried to avoid. I was always the top student in the entire school.

Teachers constantly asked me to represent the school in quiz competitions. But my anxiety wouldn’t let me.

I had to decline anything that involved speaking in public—or doing anything that involved other people, really.

So they turned to the second top student: Mike Hayashi.

Mike's personality is the complete opposite of me.

He adjusted his glasses, brows furrowed, as he stood at the front of the class delivering announcements.

He was the class representative—sharp, strict, respected. He walked with purpose, spoke with clarity, and didn’t tolerate nonsense.

Rich, brilliant, and cold.

People admired me for my perfect scores, but I admired him. Even if he was just a fraction behind me in rank, our scores were often neck and neck.

The only reason I stayed at the top was because of cumulative percentages.

But that wasn’t the only reason I looked up to him.

He knew exactly what he wanted. What he liked, what he didn’t. What his goals were. He was so sure of himself.

I found myself sneaking glances at him during class, wondering—how does he stay so composed even when people hate him?

How is he so confident?

How does he handle the pressure of being class representative while still maintaining top grades?

Now that I noticed it… he always looked clean.

His shirt never seemed to wrinkle. While others saw him as a stiff nerd, I saw someone with incredible discipline.

He sure is gonna succeed in the future.

Most students found him annoying because of how strict he was.

How he assigned classmates to tasks they didn’t like.

How he forced them to submit their homework.

“I’ll start collecting the homework from yesterday. Completed or not, please hand it in,” Mike said, his voice firm and unwavering.

“Shit,” someone whispered under their breath.

Mike moved from the front row near the door, collecting homework one by one.

“Wait, just a litt—” one classmate muttered, still scribbling answers.

Without hesitation, Mike snatched the paper from his hands.

“Why are you being so rude? Does it hurt to wait?” the guy scoffed.

Mike stared at him with sharp eyes, then scanned the page. “ ‘just a little,’ huh? you clearly just started. You expect me to wait? ”

The student sneered. “Su..sure. Whatever helps you feel like a leader.”

Mike didn’t flinch. “Next time, learn to read the clock.” Then he moved on, ignoring the glare behind him.

Okay… now that I see it—he is kind of scary.

Soon it was my turn. As the “model student,” of course I had finished mine early. In fact, I’d completed it right after class yesterday. Nerd alert.

Wait.

My homework.

It’s… not in my bag?

Did I forget to bring it? I don’t remember taking it out…

Oh. I cleaned my bag last night.

Mike’s getting closer.

What do I do? Should I just tell the truth? What if he doesn’t believe me?

Ah... So embarrassing. My face was already burning.

“Your homework?” Mike asked, finally standing in front of me.

“Ah… sorry, I…” I stuttered.

“Are you having a fever?” he interrupted.

“Huh? N-no,” I replied, confused.

Then suddenly, as I looked down, avoiding eye contact, I felt a cold hand on my forehead. I was forced to look up.

Wait. Did he just… touch me?

We’ve never even talked before.

I froze, face heating up even more. But I couldn’t look away.

After awhile, he pulled his hand back and went to the last person for her homework.

Wait. Right. Homework.

Why didn't he ask for mine?

Did he… forget?

Right after he successfully collected everyone's homework (except mine), Teacher Hanazawa came in.

Mike walked to the front and whispered something to the teacher as he handed over the stack.

“Lissa?” the teacher called.

Oh no. He did sell me out. My heart sank. Everyone turned to look.

“Do you have a fever? Mike, take Lissa to the nurse’s office.”

Mike gave a simple nod and gestured me with his eyes implying me to follow him.

“Ah… right,” I mumbled, still stunned. Maybe this was a blessing in disguise. A chance to escape my shame. What a joke from a “top student.”

As I trailed behind him, I stared at his back.

I wonder if he has ever forgotten his homework.

If he did, what will he do about it?

I bet he’d say something confidently while adjusting his glasses like, “I will reflect on this incompetence. My apologies.”

I accidentally let out a giggle at the thought.

Mike suddenly stopped and glanced back, as if he could read my mind.

Then he kept walking.

God. He’s really good at giving people heart attacks.

We arrived at the nurse’s office—but it was empty. This is so awkward.

Now it was just the two of us in the room.

Mike glanced around, hands on his waist. I sat on the bed awkwardly. Then he took the contact thermometer and scanned my forehead.

So composed. A natural leader indeed. He almost reminded me of my dad.

…Wait, does that sound weird?

“39°C,” the screen read.

What? Was I really running a fever? Since when? Does my nerves rise my body temperatures?

Mike frowned slightly looking at the temperature. Was he…mad?

Well I made him skip class after all.

“Lay on the bed,” he said, his voice low.

“Hm?” I blinked.

He opened drawers, searching quickly for something.

It's just a fever though. I'm sure it will subside soon.

He found the medicine for my fever, poured a cup of water, and handed over the pill from his palm.

I took it obediently.

“Thank you,” I whispered, meeting his eyes.

Just then, the nurse walked in, cutting through the silence.

Thank God.

“Oh? Lissa? Are you sick?”

Mike gave her a small bow, then turned to me.

“Rest,” he said simply, then left.

The classroom was a mess.

Papers fluttered like fallen leaves. Voices clashed and overlapped. The scent of panic lingered in the air like stale perfume.

Mike stood at the front of the room.

Silent.

Unmoving.

His arms crossed, glasses catching the glare of the overhead lights. Even without saying a word, his presence swallowed the chaos whole.

He didn’t have to shout. He never did.

Everyone already knew—the moment Mike started talking, it wasn’t going to end well for them.

“W-We didn’t know the teacher changed the format!” one of the classmates blurted. “No one told us it had to be a live demo!”

Someone tried to laugh. “I mean, seriously, who actually reads the assignment sheet word for word?”

The room froze when Mike moved.

He stepped forward, picked up the crumpled assignment sheet from the desk, and held it up like evidence in a trial.

“Page two. Line six,” he said quietly. “‘Prepare a live demonstration for your solution.’ It's been there since day one.”

His tone was cold, not loud. Controlled, not angry. But every syllable cut with surgical precision.

I watched from my seat, holding my notebook close to my chest.

He wasn’t yelling. He didn’t need to.

And somehow, that made it worse.

“L-Look,” another classmate stammered, “we’ve all been busy with other assignments. We thought you’d… handle it. Like you always do.”

Mike walked to the whiteboard.

He picked up a marker.

One. Two. Three. Four.

He made four tally marks.

Then one more. Alone.

“Five people in this group,” he said. “Four didn’t read. One did. And you still expected a perfect result.”

No one breathed.

“You want credit,” he continued. “But not responsibility.”

The way he said it made my throat tighten.

He turned, his gaze sweeping the room like a blade.

“This project determines our term grade. If we fail, it’s on all of us. But if you think I’ll let your laziness drag me down—” He tapped the lone tally. “—you’re mistaken.”

Silence. Shame. Unease.

“I’ll redo the project myself. Submit it by Friday.”

A few of them opened their mouths in protest.

“You can write your own reports,” Mike added. “Explain why you did nothing.”

He packed his bag swiftly. Papers arranged perfectly, not a single corner bent.

At the door, he paused.

“If you want to act like children, don’t expect to be treated like adults.”

And then he was gone.

No slamming door. No drama.

Just... cold, echoing silence.

Everyone feared him more after that day.

Rumors spread fast.

Mike doesn’t need anyone.

Mike likes to work alone.

But the truth?

I believe Mike didn’t want to be alone.

He just didn’t trust anyone to care as much as he did.

Because every time he tried to depend on someone, they gave up halfway.

Or expected him to clean up their mess. And Mike had no tolerance for that.

He built his walls high and thick. Not because he enjoyed the solitude, but because disappointment hurt more than loneliness.

Most students had gone home by now, leaving the school grounds quiet… almost peaceful.

I clutched my notebook against my chest as I made my way toward the front gate, taking the long route through the courtyard.

My usual detour to avoid the crowd.

That’s when I saw him.

Mike.

Sitting on a bench under the sakura tree.

Alone.

His elbows rested on his knees, head slightly bowed.

His school bag sat beside him, untouched. No open books. No perfect composure.

He wasn’t reading. He wasn’t working.

He was… just sitting there.

Still. Silent.

Mike always looked so composed. So untouchable.

But now, with his shoulders slumped and the evening light softening his features,

He looked... tired.

Not just physically. But deeply, achingly tired.

A breeze stirred the sakura branches, and a few petals floated down, landing gently on his blazer.

He didn’t brush them off.

I stepped out from behind the pillar. Slowly. Quietly.

He didn’t move.

Was he asleep?

He didn’t look like the terrifying class president everyone feared.

He looked human.

Lonely, even.

I opened my bag, pulled out the strawberry milk I hadn’t touched at lunch, and walked toward him.

Then, I placed it on the bench beside him.

Why?

I don’t know either. Maybe it was just… impulse.

A form of cheering him on, I guess.

“You’ve worked hard,” I whispered softly.

Then I turned and walked away, heart thudding quietly behind my ribs.

Mike worked harder than anyone.

And I wished someone... anyone, noticed that.

Not just his grades. Not just his authority.

But the person underneath it all.

I noticed.

And every day…

I admired him more and more.

The classroom hummed with activity as the teacher stepped out, leaving Mike in charge of organizing the school’s annual Sports Day lineup.

“Let’s begin,” Mike said, standing at the front with a clipboard in hand, glasses catching the fluorescent light.

“We need representatives for every event. I’ll ask for volunteers first. If no one offers, I’ll assign it myself.”

That last line sent a ripple of nervous laughter across the room.

Mike didn’t smile.

I sat by the window, fingers tracing the edge of my notebook absentmindedly.

Sports.

Well, I didn’t hate it, but I wasn’t exactly excited either.

I preferred watching from the sidelines, not breaking a sweat under the sun.

Still, I wasn’t about to make a fuss. I trusted Mike to be fair about the assignments.

“100m sprint. Volunteers?” Mike asked.

A few hands went up.

“Relay?” he asked again, his tone matter-of-fact.

More hesitation this time. Mike tapped his pen against the clipboard slowly, his eyes scanning the room.

“No volunteers? Fine, Arata. You’re tall, you play basketball. You’re in,” he said.

“Wha—? But I—” Arata opened tried to protest but stopped when Mike raised an eyebrow.

“You can run. That’s all that matters,” Mike finished, his tone unwavering.

The list continued—Shot put. Jump rope. Obstacle course. Group cheer.

“Tug of war. Volunteers?” Mike asked, voice steady.

A few hands shot up, and the rest hesitated. Then, his gaze swept across the room, until it fell to me.

“Lissa, you’re on the team,” Mike called without missing a beat.

My heart stuttered in my chest. Tug of war? Of all things, why that?

I wasn’t exactly the best candidate. Not with my wrist injury.

Should I say it?

I hesitated, lips parting slightly to say something.

But the moment passed.

No one objected. The list went on.

And I just sat there, holding my breath.

Why didn’t I say anything?

Was it his confidence that silenced me? The way he spoke, so sure of what he was doing?

Or maybe it was the weight of the moment—the way everyone’s eyes seemed to land on me when he called my name.

Either way, I couldn’t bring myself to raise my hand.

Class ended shortly after.

People filtered out, laughing, chatting, some still complaining about their events.

I stood up slowly, gathering my books, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling in my stomach.

I should have said something earlier.

I knew it wasn’t a good idea for me to participate in a physical event like that.

I had injured my wrist years ago, and despite years of recovery, the pain still flared up when I exerted too much pressure.

But how could I explain that to Mike?

Would he think I was just making excuses?

But I couldn’t ignore the gnawing discomfort growing in my chest.

The classroom had mostly emptied.

I saw Mike was still writing something on the board.

This was my chance.

The hallway was quieter now.

I hesitated, then took a deep breath, gathering my courage.

“Um… M-Mike?” My voice was shaky.

He stopped writing, glancing back toward me with those piercing eyes.

“Yeah?” His voice was neutral, but there was something about it that made me feel like he was really paying attention.

I clenched my hands, twisting them nervously in front of me.

I opened my mouth but closed it quickly, unsure of what to say.

"I… about the tug of war match… can I change to something else?" I finally managed, my voice barely a whisper.

Mike’s eyebrow quirked. “Why?”

I hesitated, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze. My fingers played nervously with the hem of my shirt.

“I—I’m not sure I can do it,” I said, my voice quiet. “It’s just… I haven’t been able to—” I stopped, swallowing hard. “It’s my wrist. I had an injury when I was younger, and sometimes it still hurts when I put too much pressure on it.”

I felt the silence between us stretch, thick and heavy. I couldn’t bring myself to look him in the eye.

Mike didn’t say anything for a long moment, his gaze steady and unreadable. Then, he nodded.

“I see.”

I exhaled slowly, my shoulders sagging with a mixture of relief and regret. I didn’t expect him to be so… calm.

Then he looked at me with a hint of warmth in his eyes, but his voice was still all business.

“I’ll talk to the teacher. You don’t have to worry about it,” he said.

I opened my mouth, about to protest. “No, it’s not that. I just—there’s no need to exempt me. I can try something else that doesn’t—”

But Mike cut me off gently. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll ask someone else to switch with you.”

"Ah... Thanks. Sorry for causing trouble," I mumbled, not meeting his gaze.

Suddenly,

Mike’s hand landed gently on my head, like patting a kid.

I looked up, startled.

"Take it as a payback for the strawberry milk yesterday," he said with a small, teasing smile.

He... smiles?

Wait… he knew it was me? Since when? Does that mean he wasn't sleeping? That means… he heard it...

I felt heat rise in my face upon the realization.

I quickly pulled away, flustered. “T-thank you,” I stammered, suddenly desperate to escape.

Without another word, I hurried out of the classroom, my heart racing, my face hotter than it had ever been.

Was he teasing me? Where did the ruthless leader go? Why was he being so… playful?

I couldn’t stop the flush spreading across my face, and in that moment, all I wanted was to get home.

Away from the heat of my cheeks and the storm of thoughts that Mike had just stirred inside me.