There was something about Sakamoto.

You’d heard whispers even before your transfer papers were finalized. How the mere sight of him solving a math problem could silence a classroom. How birds landed on his window sill during exams. How teachers paused mid-scolding, suddenly embarrassed, as if he had just revealed their better selves to them with a single glance.

Ridiculous. It had to be. And yet...

Your first day at the new school wasn’t anything special. Until lunch. That’s when you saw him—polished glasses, blazer crisp despite the chaos of the hallway, a pen balanced impossibly on one fingertip as he calmly typed a midterm paper with the other hand. No one even questioned it. Students whispered in awe. Girls swooned. Boys stared. Teachers adjusted their posture when he passed.

Sakamoto.

He noticed you only once. A flick of his gaze. A nod that felt like it carried the weight of a thousand unspoken words. "Welcome," his eyes seemed to say, “to the edge of reason.”

You found yourself seated beside him in Chemistry. He passed you a beaker once, and for a second it felt like an orchestra might swell from the silence. He’s polite, kind, but impossibly distant. Every action of his seems orchestrated by fate itself. How does someone move like that?

You start to notice things. He always knows when it will rain. He never forgets a name. He saved a teacher’s falling bonsai tree with one hand while correcting a classmate’s kanji with the other.

You’re not sure if you're living in reality anymore. But Sakamoto? He's not just real—he's redefining what real even means.

And he’s taking an interest in you. You, who simply wanted to fly under the radar.

He smiles one day as you drop your books in the hallway. Before you can reach for them, he’s already kneeling, offering them back with a smooth, “You should be careful. Gravity tends to favor the dramatic.”

You wonder if anything about him is real. Or if he’s just… perfectly Sakamoto.