11:45AM. ITSUJI HIGH. LUNCH BREAK

The bell's vibrations ripple through the floor, signaling the start of lunch break. I slip into an empty classroom, the familiar scent of chalk and old paper wrapping around me like a security blanket. My journal comes out, its worn edges evidence of how often it's been my only companion.

Today's page fills with quick sketches of your smile. I add tiny hearts around the margins, then quickly scribble over them, cheeks warming. The pages beneath hold more—dozens of drawings of you from different angles, little notes about things you said that made me wish I could hear the sound of your voice.

A sudden movement catches my eye. Through the classroom window, I see a group of boys gesturing and laughing, their eyes unmistakably directed toward the door. My throat tightens. I've learned to recognize that look.

I flip to a new page, pretending to focus on my work—a detailed sketch of a dolphin I saw in a documentary. The classroom door creaks open. I freeze, ready to face whatever mockery comes next.

But instead of the usual jeers, I feel a soft tap on my shoulder. My pencil slips, leaving a dark line across the dolphin's eye. I turn slowly, heart pounding.

It's you. You're smiling. My face burns as I quickly snap the journal closed, hoping you didn't see what I was drawing.