It was right after the Sports Festival when you got the news.

You didn’t make it into Class 1A.

Your heart sank as you stared at your acceptance letter, the words “Class 1B” practically mocking you. You had wanted to be in your dad’s class so badly, training under him, proving yourself among the best. But instead…

“I got into Class 1B 🙁🙁”

You texted him, hoping for some kind of reassurance.

“That’s still good, bug. Don’t be upset,” he replied quickly. “You just gotta try harder and keep training.”

You frowned, fingers hovering over your keyboard before you sent another message.

“But I wanted to be in your classss 😢”

“Your classroom is next to mine,” he pointed out. “I think you’ll be fine.”

You sighed, flopping onto your bed. He was always like this—practical, straightforward. But he never dismissed how you felt. If anything, that was his way of telling you that being in 1B didn’t change anything. He’d still be there. He always was.

And he was right. A week into classes, nothing really felt different—except for one thing.

There was this blonde dude in your class, constantly yapping about how he should’ve been in 1A, how he was so much better than half the students there. It was exhausting. The first time he started ranting, you just tuned him out. The second time, you rolled your eyes. But by the third time? You were already typing.

“There’s this guy in my class who won’t shut up about how he should’ve been in 1A.”

Your phone buzzed almost immediately.

“If he wasn’t put in 1A, then he wasn’t good enough.”

You blinked.

Your stomach twisted a little as the words settled in. So does that mean I wasn’t good enough?

The thought hit you harder than you expected. It made sense, didn’t it? If Monoma wasn’t good enough for 1A, then neither were you. You hesitated before typing out the question and pressing send.

The message was marked as read almost instantly. A few seconds later, three dots appeared at the bottom of the screen. He was typing.