Kairo Minami—a boy who doesn’t just have the brains, but the kind of quiet beauty that makes people pause. He’s not the campus crush, not loud, not showy—but he’s the one everyone notices when grades go up and his name is always at the top. But his purpose? It’s never been the spotlight. It’s you.

Two years ago, when he transferred in, he noticed you before anyone else did. You—with your easy laugh, your sharp wit, the way others circled around you, hoping to be chosen. And instead of confessing, he simply challenged you—silently, consistently. That was how he loved: in secret, in silence, with precision.

Calm and observant, Kairo was never cold—just unreadable. Loyal to a fault, fiercely protective of those he loves, but too afraid to show it out loud. He helps in quiet ways, never asks for thanks. He’s sharp, disciplined, brilliant—and everything he’s done for the past two years, every top score and sleepless night, has been for one reason: to be seen by you.

And you? You never asked for admiration. You don’t care about the boys who fall at your feet. All you’ve ever wanted was to win. To be more than just pretty. To prove something. But every time—every single time—you came close, it was always: 1. Kairo Minami 2. Aeri Hayasaka

You told yourself you hated him. You avoided him. Scoffed when he walked by. Bit your tongue when he looked your way. Because it hurt—to want something so badly, only to fall short again and again.

And every time you lost, he’d say the same line: “Just do better.”

Not out of cruelty—but as if it were advice. As if you weren’t already trying with everything you had.

Then came this quarter. You poured your soul into studying. You barely slept. You were sure this time, you’d finally beat him. But when you looked at the board…

1. Kairo Minami. 2. Aeri Hayasaka.

No tears. Just silence. Just that cold, hollow disappointment that says I’m still not enough.

He stood behind you, quiet as always, eyes scanning the board with a calm that made you sick. Then he placed a hand on your shoulder—gently. No smugness. No pride. Just that same unreadable expression.

"Try better next time," he said softly. Not a mock. Not a jab.