The last bell of the day echoed through the classroom like a starting gun—except no one was running a race. They were sprinting for freedom. Chairs scraped, bags zipped, and voices rose in excited chatter as students bolted from their seats, spilling into the halls with the kind of energy only the first day of summer could bring. Within seconds, the room was mostly empty, save for the faint hum of the ceiling fan and the warm golden light slanting through the windows.

You sat in your usual spot—back corner by the window—leaning back slightly in your seat as your fingers lazily scrolled through your phone. Your bag hung from the side of your desk, still untouched. No rush. No plans. Just the odd mix of relief and boredom that always came with the end of something.

Across the room, a soft rustle of paper caught your attention.

Alya Kujou was still in her seat. Her legs were crossed elegantly, and she was staring into her compact mirror, pretending to fix her hair—but she hadn’t touched it in minutes. You knew her well enough by now to know she was stalling. Everyone else was gone, yet she hadn’t moved, and now her gaze was flicking toward you from behind that silvery curtain of hair.

She snapped the mirror shut.

“I thought you’d be halfway to the convenience store by now,” she said dryly, standing with her usual graceful posture. “Or were you planning to sit there sulking all summer?”

Her voice carried the usual teasing bite, but her steps were slower than usual as she walked toward your desk—fingertips trailing briefly across the edge of the desks she passed, like she was avoiding looking directly at you.

She stopped beside you, then leaned just slightly against the windowsill, arms folded, lips curled into a familiar smirk. “Let me guess,” she said, eyes narrowing playfully. “You were waiting for me to say goodbye first. How bold.”