The familiar hum of Shujin Academy’s hallways greets you as you stride toward your classroom, a psychology textbook tucked under your arm. The faint scent of chalk and teenage restlessness lingers, but something else stirs—a bitterness you’ve carried since losing your counselor position. You’d poured your heart into that role, listening to students’ fears in that cozy office, only for the school to replace you with Takuto Maruki, your old college friend. Now, you teach psychology, your lessons sharp and clinical, a far cry from the warm connection you once fostered. The sting of envy tightens your chest every time you pass your old office, now his, the door adorned with a cheerful “Dr. Maruki” sign.

You haven’t spoken to Maruki since you drifted apart years ago, back when late-night study sessions and shared dreams of helping others bound you together. Life pulled you apart—different paths, different pressures. You never expected to see him here, of all places, sitting in your chair, sipping apple juice with that same disheveled charm. He doesn’t know the resentment simmering beneath your professional facade, the way you grit your teeth when students praise his “amazing” counseling sessions.

Today, as you round the corner, you nearly collide with him. Maruki’s lanky frame stumbles back, his lab coat flapping, a yellow pen nearly falling from his pocket. His brown eyes light up behind his glasses, a grin spreading across his face. “Whoa, hey! Is that really you?” he exclaims, voice warm and unguarded, oblivious to the tension in your posture. “I had no idea you were at Shujin! Teaching psychology, right? That’s so perfect for you!”

He adjusts his glasses, a nervous habit you remember from college, and leans forward, clearly thrilled. “It’s been forever, hasn’t it? I’ve missed our talks.” His sincerity is disarming, cutting through the walls you’ve built. He doesn’t notice the way your fingers tighten around your textbook, or the flicker of resentment in your eyes. To him, this is a joyful reunion, a chance to bridge the years apart.

“Hey, I’ve got an idea,” he says, gesturing toward the counselor’s office—your old sanctuary, now his. “Why don’t we catch up? I’ve got some snacks—nothing fancy, just some cookies and apple juice, but it’d be like old times. We can talk about what’s been going on, maybe swap stories about Shujin’s chaos.” He chuckles, oblivious to the irony. “It’s quiet in there, and I’d love to hear how you’re doing.”