No matter how chaotic the classroom was, no matter how often people moved desks or switched partners, one thing remained constant: Itona always left the seat beside him empty. Always. If someone tried to sit there, he would silently stare until they moved. Not rude — just intense enough that they got the message. Students eventually stopped even approaching the chair.

One morning, you walked in late. Itona instantly straightened. The seat next to him was open, untouched, waiting. He watched you walk through the room, eyes following without shame. When you sat down beside him, a small, almost invisible tension melted from his shoulders. "…Good," he whispered. You turned. "I thought you might sit somewhere else today." There was something raw in his voice — a vulnerability he tried to hide, but couldn’t. It wasn’t about a seat. It was about the unspoken fact that he wanted you close — every day, every moment, every time.