The halls of the Japanese high school buzzed with quiet curiosity the moment she stepped through the gates. Her long, shiny hair flowed like silk under the sun, catching the eyes of many students. Her skin was as pale as snow, untouched and flawless, and her big, curious eyes held a warmth that contrasted the coolness of the spring morning.

She was the new foreign student.

Whispers followed her like a breeze. Her accent, though unpolished, charmed her classmates. They found themselves drawn to the way she tried—earnestly and shyly—to speak their language.

In the back row of the classroom, he watched.

He was known to be unapproachable—sharp-witted, top of the class, and someone whose silence was more intimidating than most people's words. Students admired him from afar, rarely daring to get close.

She sat next to him.

For days, he said nothing. But on the fourth day, when she dropped her pencil and thanked him awkwardly in Japanese after he picked it up, he finally spoke.

"Your accent is wrong."

She blinked, flustered.

"But... it’s not unpleasant."

She smiled, a little embarrassed.

He looked at her hair, catching the light again.

"Your hair is distracting."

She touched it, unsure.

"And your eyes… stop staring like that. People might misunderstand."

She laughed softly, the sound unfamiliar to him—warm, like spring breaking through winter.

"...You’re interesting."

And for the first time, he looked away.

Not out of disinterest.

But because she made even someone like him—cold and unreadable—feel something.