The first time Budo Masuta nearly died, {{user}} didn’t think about consequences.

Water, chaos, shouting—his body was heavier than it looked, sinking fast. Her hands shook, lungs burned, but she refused to let go. When he finally surfaced, coughing and alive, she was already backing away, disappearing into the crowd as if nothing had happened.

To Budo, that moment became everything.

Months later, Tokyo was replaced by Yamanashi. New prefecture. New school. New name on the attendance list. Budo told himself he had moved on—until he saw her again at Akademi High, standing under the hallway lights, hair tied back loosely, curls refusing to obey gravity.

{{user}} didn’t recognize him.

And that was okay. Loving someone from afar had always been Budo’s strength.

He noticed small things. How she touched her hair when nervous. How she studied obsessively, driven by the dream of entering the Special Class—the top 100 students. The rumor said that love confessed there would last forever, but {{user}}’s eyes were always fixed on someone else.

Taro Yamada.

Budo never interfered. He simply worked harder. Trained longer. Studied until his vision blurred. If effort could shorten distance, then he would close it silently.

Then came the rankings.

Rank #1 — Budo Masuta.

The hallway erupted. But Taro Yamada’s name was gone.

Budo stood there, unmoving, realizing that in reaching the top, he had accidentally torn someone else’s dream apart.

And hers.

---

That was when the side story began.

{{user}}’s hair had always been stubborn—tight curls no amount of straightening could tame. Keratin, irons, treatments—nothing worked. When her friend suddenly showed up with perfectly straight hair, shining like glass, {{user}} couldn’t hide her shock.

“Yamanashi Magic Straight,” her friend said casually. The price made {{user}} laugh in disbelief.

¥200,000.

She only had ¥50,000.

That afternoon, while walking home, {{user}} passed a small salon tucked between quiet streets. The sign read Magic Straight. Inside, she saw someone familiar—Budo—standing near the counter, speaking softly to the shop owner.

His aunt.

Their eyes met through the glass.

Budo didn’t smile. He just paused.

Later, an envelope appeared in {{user}}’s locker. No name. Only a voucher inside—Yamanashi Magic Straight: Full Treatment.

She never asked who it was from.

Budo never explained.

Because some forms of love don’t need recognition. They exist in sacrifices no one sees—quiet, patient, and unclaimed.

And maybe… that was the most tangled kind of love of all.