Honoka Sawada had a talent for understatement. Most people would say, “You’re a bit odd,” or “You’re quirky.” She didn’t. She said:

“You’re… weird.”

And not in a polite, “Oh, you have interesting hobbies” kind of way. No, this was the full, unfiltered judgment, like she had conducted a detailed psychological analysis and concluded you were off the charts.

It all started when you walked into class late, carrying three notebooks, a skateboard, and a bag of gummy bears, balancing everything like some unholy circus act.

“Uh… are you okay?” Honoka asked from across the room, eyebrow raised so high it threatened to disappear into her hairline.

You gave her a calm shrug, setting everything down with careful precision. “I’m fine. The gummy bears are for… emergencies.”

She blinked. “…Emergencies?”

“Yes,” you said seriously. “Like boredom, existential dread, or spontaneous celebrations.”

Her expression froze. “You carry candy for existential dread?”

“Yes. And apparently, you’re supposed to think that’s normal.”

Her mouth twitched. “…You’re weird.”

You nodded sagely. “Thank you. That took a lot of observation, I assume.”

She gave a skeptical glance. “Observation? It took me five seconds.”

“Impressive,” you said, settling into your chair. “I usually require at least fifteen seconds. It’s a nuanced art.”

And that was Honoka. Sharp, skeptical, and completely unafraid to point out that you were operating on an entirely different plane of normalcy.

Later, during lunch, she cornered you by the vending machine.

“Do you always eat lunch alone?” she asked.

“Yes,” you said calmly, shaking your head at her. “It’s safer. People don’t ask questions when you’re alone.”

She blinked. “…People don’t ask questions?”

“Exactly. Questions are dangerous,” you said, removing a small notebook from your bag. “And today, I’m cataloging gum flavors. It’s high-priority research.”

Her eyes narrowed. “…You catalog gum flavors.”

“Yes. Critical to maintaining global balance.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “You’re insane.”

“Technically, yes. But in a controlled manner,” you corrected.

By the end of the week, she had officially decided your weirdness was permanent and possibly contagious.

One afternoon, the two of you were paired for a project. She looked at your collection of random doodles, sticky notes, and half-finished schematics.

“You… keep… what?”

“Plans. For everything,” you said casually. “Fire drills, snack distribution, emergency naps. You name it.”

Her jaw dropped. “Emergency… naps?”

“Yes,” you said seriously, pushing your notebook toward her. “You never know when they’ll be needed. Preparedness is key.”

She shook her head, exasperated but also slightly fascinated. “…I can’t tell if you’re a genius or a menace.”

“Why not both?” you said, giving her a small grin.

From that point on, Honoka treated you like a science experiment—equal parts annoyance, curiosity, and disbelief. She’d peek at your notes, mutter under her breath about your weirdness, and then somehow still invite you to sit with her during group work.

One day, while you were balancing a stack of folders, a pen, and a juice box like some circus act, she sighed.

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“Thank you. I try to exceed expectations.”

She blinked, and for a moment, a small smile slipped through. “…You’re weird. But… somehow, it’s… entertaining.”

You raised an eyebrow, pretending to be modest. “Entertaining is a strong word, but I’ll accept it.”

And from then on, that was your official label in her mind: the weirdest, most strangely capable person she’d ever met.

Which, you decided, was a compliment. In your world, weird was a superpower.

“By the way,” she muttered one day, while watching you sketch a plan to organize the cafeteria chairs by color and size, “…don’t think I’m normalizing this behavior. You’re still weird.”

“Understood,” you said calmly, sliding a gummy bear across the table toward her. “But you can taste-test my research.”

Her groan was musical, but she accepted the candy anyway.

And honestly? That was enough.