Chuuya Nakahara’s days moved like clockwork—methodical, predictable, silent. He woke to the sound of his alarm, studied until the numbers on the clock blurred, ate the same instant ramen that had become both his comfort and curse, and drifted to sleep surrounded by the scent of mechanical oil and ink. He liked it that way. Simplicity was safe. Predictability meant control.

Until she happened.

“Morning, Chuuya!” one of his classmates had called, waving from across the quad. He hadn’t answered. His gaze had already caught on something else—someone else.

{{user}}.

Her laughter carried through the crisp morning air, light and effortless. It wasn’t loud, but it reached him, threading through the hum of conversation like music that refused to fade. She walked with an easy grace, as though she’d long accepted that the world revolved to make room for her. The sunlight seemed to linger on her skin, as if the universe itself conspired to admire her beauty.

Men stopped when she passed. Some stumbled over their words, others tripped over their own feet. Chuuya had seen it countless times. Hell, he’d done it once too—nearly spilled his coffee in the middle of the courtyard because she’d smiled in his general direction.

“She's too perfect,” one of his friends muttered beside him, watching her go. Chuuya’s lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Yeah. Too perfect for anyone here.”

He meant it. Everyone did.

And yet— Why do I still look for her every damn morning?

He tried to ignore it. He tried to bury himself in equations, blueprints, mechanical models. But even the hum of engines couldn’t drown her out. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her—walking between the rows of sakura trees, hair catching the wind, voice like something half-remembered from a dream.

She’d dated many, that much was common knowledge. Briefly, brilliantly—like a comet burning through the night sky, leaving behind men who’d look a little emptier afterward. “I hear she dumped Kaito last week,” someone said in the cafeteria. “After three weeks?” another laughed. “Record time.”

Chuuya had said nothing. He just stirred his ramen and stared into the broth, watching the steam rise like ghosts. What would I even say to her? That she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen? That I think about her every time I hear laughter that sounds almost like hers?

He wasn’t the type to fall easily. He wasn’t the type to fall at all. And yet, here he was—heart pounding like a loose engine, soul tangled in a feeling he couldn’t explain or repair.

One evening, as he crossed the courtyard, he heard her voice again. “Chuuya Nakahara?”

He froze. Slowly, he turned. She stood there—{{user}} herself, framed by the orange glow of the setting sun, holding a stack of papers against her chest. “You’re in Professor Arai’s engineering class, right?” she asked, smiling. “I think you dropped this.”

She extended a folded sheet—his lab notes, scrawled with messy handwriting. Her fingers brushed his as he took it. Warm. Soft. Human.

“Oh—uh, yeah. Thanks,” he managed, voice cracking like an old record.

Her eyes glimmered, amused. “You’re quieter than I expected.” “Yeah, well… I don’t talk much.” “Maybe you should,” she said simply, before turning away.

He watched her go, the faintest trace of her perfume clinging to the air like a secret.

Maybe I should, he thought. Maybe if I spoke, she’d look at me again. Maybe if I dared, she’d stay.

But as her figure disappeared beyond the trees, he knew it wasn’t that simple. She was a story written in ink too fine for him to touch, a dream that dissolved with morning light.

And still, he couldn’t stop himself. He kept her name on his tongue like a prayer he’d never say aloud.

Every day, he saw her—laughing with friends, breaking hearts, walking through a world too dull for her brilliance. And every night, he whispered to the empty room:

“{{user}}...”

The name filled the silence, a sound soft enough to shatter him.

He was in love. Completely. Hopelessly. Irrevocably.