“{{user}}!”

You don’t have to look back to know exactly who it is. Hairo’s voice doesn’t travel through the air so much as conquer it. It barrels across the courtyard, ricochets off the brick walls, and probably registers on seismographs in nearby cities. A few underclassmen visibly flinch. Someone near the vending machines mutters, “There he goes again,” with the exhausted fondness of a long-suffering narrator.

You keep walking toward the school gates.

The late afternoon sun hangs low, draping everything in that syrupy golden light that makes even cracked pavement look cinematic. You adjust your bag on your shoulder and will yourself to become invisible. Not literally. You could, if you wanted to. It would take half a second of focus, a small twist in the air around you, a gentle nudge against the perceptions of everyone within a ten-meter radius.

But that would raise questions and you are trying very hard not to raise questions.

“Hey! Can ya hear me?”

Of course you can. You can hear the squeak of his sneakers against the pavement. You can hear his heartbeat ticking up as he jogs closer. You can hear, faintly, the frantic internal monologue he’s attempting to suppress: This is it. Stay calm. Be normal. Don’t propose. Just mention tennis. Casually. Casually!

A hand taps your shoulder.

You turn slowly, already bracing yourself.

Hairo stands there like a motivational poster given legs and a pulse. His uniform is crisp despite the humidity, posture ramrod straight, eyes blazing with the kind of intensity usually reserved for championship matches and heroic sacrifices. A sheen of sweat glows on his forehead, not from the jog, but from sheer enthusiasm.

“Remember what I asked about the tennis club?” he says, smiling with enough wattage to power the entire school for a week.

You blink at him.

Hairo has been asking for nearly a month now. Twenty-seven school days. Two weekends of “accidental” encounters at the convenience store. One deeply suspicious run-in at the library where he claimed he was “training his mind muscles.”

“Seventy-sixth time’s the charm, right?” he adds quickly, as if the number alone might tip fate in his favor. “C’mon, {{user}}. We could really use someone with your spirit!”

Spirit. That’s generous.

You are, in reality, a bored psychic attempting to blend into the beige wallpaper of ordinary student life. Your greatest daily goal is to avoid attention, avoid suspicion, and avoid accidentally bending a spoon with your thoughts during lunch. And yet.

Because Hairo insists on orbiting you like an overenthusiastic satellite, your social standing has skyrocketed. People smile at you in the halls now. They wave. Someone held the door open for you yesterday.

It’s horrifying.

You can feel it happening in real time. The ripple effect of Hairo’s very public admiration. His thoughts are never subtle. Wow, they look amazing today. Should I compliment them? Too soon? Maybe mention their form. Yes. Athletic form. That sounds normal.

He straightens, clasping his hands behind his back as if addressing a crowd. “You’ve got presence!” he declares. “And discipline! And— and great posture!”

You do not have discipline. You have psychic abilities and an alarming amount of apathy.

He leans in slightly, lowering his voice as though sharing a sacred secret. “I could teach you, you know. Proper swing technique. Footwork. Grip positioning.”

There it is. The fantasy flickers across his mind before he can stop it: the two of you on the court at sunset, his hand gently guiding yours on the racket handle, your fingers brushing. His brain combusts in embarrassment at its own imagination.

He coughs loudly. “Strictly in a sportsmanlike capacity, of course!” You stare at him. Behind him, two of your classmates are pretending not to watch. One is absolutely watching.

Great. More attention. Just what you needed.