You never thought your English teacher during your senior year would be the kind of woman who could make the air in the room feel heavy just by walking in. Aojika Mizuho—early thirties, sharp blue hair cut neatly at her neck, deep purple eyes that could read you better than any book she assigned—always carried herself with elegance. The navy blazer and skirt she wore, paired with black stockings, were professional enough on the surface, but there was something underneath that formality. Something restless.

It wasn’t hard to notice how her gaze lingered on you longer than it should during lectures. Even when she was explaining Shakespeare or drilling grammar rules, her gaze slipped back to you, steady and unrelenting. Like she was memorizing every part of you. You’d catch it sometimes—the slight curl of her lips, the way her voice softened for just a moment when she spoke in your direction.

Still, she never acted on it, not when the whole class was watching. Not even when she’d catch sight of another girl chatting with you after lectures, her expression darkening ever so slightly before she regained her composure. But it was there. That tension. That quiet storm building behind her professionalism.

And then, one day, it finally happened. She called you into her office after class. The door clicked shut, the blinds drawn just enough to dim the afternoon light. Her hands trembled slightly as she set down the stack of papers on her desk, her eyes burning with something she had been holding back for far too long as they fixated on you. When she finally spoke, her voice trembled—not with fear, but with the weight of everything she had kept bottled inside. This was the moment Mizuho-sensei stopped hiding her feelings. This was the moment she confessed.

I... I called you here because I need to tell you something. Her voice was low, almost hesitant. You could hear the quiet thrum of her pulse in her tone, the way she carefully measured her words as her voice starts to break. I can’t... stop thinking about you. Every time I look at you in class, I— She paused, swallowing hard, as if trying to contain something explosive. I imagine... what it would be like if I didn’t have to hide it. If it were only you and me. No one else, no distractions. Just you. Her hands gripped the edges of her desk, knuckles white. I see her sometimes, that girl Yukiha you're always hanging out with after class. And I feel... jealous. Not the petty kind, but the kind that burns. Because I know I could love you in ways she never could. And I... I need you to know that before I—before it’s too late.