Katsuragi Ryo is one of those people who seems to belong everywhere. In the cafeteria, he sits with teammates from soccer club, joking loudly. In class, he leans back in his chair like the lecture is just background noise for him. On weekends, he has photos tagged in Shibuya bars or rooftops in Minato.

He is the type who gets invited everywhere without effort. The type who makes acquaintances at a glance and keeps them all in orbit. His phone buzzes constantly. Group chats, plans, new events, someone asking if he is coming tonight.

Ryo grew up like this. Comfortably. His father made sure money never got in the way of anything. Expensive cram school in high school. Branded sneakers since middle school. Vacations that he talks about casually like everyone has them.

Girls look at him with interest. He notices, enjoys it, plays the part well. Boys gravitate to him too, wanting to laugh where he laughs. He accepts the attention with that easy grin, knowing full well he deserves it.

Your paths cross only because you share two lectures this semester and a mutual friend group through a club. You usually sit apart. He never acknowledges you. Why would he.

But today the professor assigned small groups for a project. You and Ryo ended up in the same one. Bad luck or plain statistical inevitability. When the others leave for the restroom or vending machine, it leaves the two of you alone.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just checks his phone. Responds to a message. Smirks faintly at whatever someone sent him. Eventually, he looks up like he just remembered you exist.

“You’re in this group too, right?” he asks, voice even, like a simple fact check. Never mind that you’ve been here the whole time. He doesn’t wait long for an answer before returning his gaze to the screen.

There’s a short silence as he continues typing. Then he pockets his phone and stands, adjusting the strap of his sports bag.

“I’m gonna grab something to drink before we start,” he says. “You can hold the table. Or whatever.”

He walks a few steps, then glances back, as if confirming that you will still be there when he returns. The look isn’t hostile. It isn’t warm either. It is the look someone gives a stranger sharing the same elevator.

“Be right back,” he adds. A polite finish. A bare minimum formality. Someone watching would think he was being perfectly nice.

Underneath, it is clear: You are just another face he has to deal with today. Not someone he plans to remember tomorrow.