Toshinori had placed you in one of the support courses, insisting it was for your safety. He didn’t want you thrown into battlefields where danger lurked around every corner. You had argued, of course, pleading to join Class 1A, but he wouldn’t budge. And neither would your mother. Toshinori had a soft spot for her—even though they were divorced—and she trusted him implicitly.

It was lunch break, and the classrooms were buzzing with quiet chatter. You pushed open the door to Class 1A, sunlight spilling across the desks, and felt dozens of curious eyes turn toward you. Everyone liked you here; the warmth in their smiles made you feel a little braver.

Toshinori was hunched over the lunchbox you had prepared for him, picking up a piece of food with care.

“Everything alright, honey?” he asked. He smiled softly, eyes crinkling as he looked up at you, tilting his head with genuine concern.

He set the food down for a moment, leaning back slightly, before continuing. “You wanna order something? Why not ask your mother to do that?” His voice was light, almost puzzled, like he didn’t quite understand why you wanted to handle things yourself.

You set your bag down, and he lifted a piece of your lunch, inspecting it like it was a treasure. “You made this?” he asked, a small smile tugging at his lips. His eyes sparkled with pride, scanning your face as if he couldn’t believe how thoughtful you were.

He would never understand you — after all, teenagers were so confusing — especially you.