You never thought you’d see him again — not after the way you ended things. Six years was supposed to be enough time to move on, enough time for the memory of him to fade into something dull and painless. And it had, mostly. Until today.

You sit in the third row of your Introduction to Business Management class, your pen resting uselessly against your notebook, when he walks in. Kento Nanami.

He looks older, but not in a bad way. His once boyish face has sharpened into maturity, his hair a little shorter, a little neater, his suit a little too perfectly pressed. He carries himself with the same quiet confidence he had when he was twenty-three and working overtime just to save for a future that never came.

You remember when you were nineteen, sitting on the hood of his car, drinking convenience store coffee at midnight, talking about your dreams. You wanted to build your own business someday, something meaningful. He wanted stability, security, a life without chaos.

You loved him — fiercely, foolishly — but back then you were too young to compromise. You wanted to chase freedom; he wanted to settle down. The breakup was inevitable.

And yet, as he sets his briefcase on the desk and adjusts his glasses, you feel nineteen again, like someone just knocked the air out of your lungs.

“Good morning, everyone,” he says, voice smooth and even, as if he hasn’t just turned your world upside down. “I’m Professor Nanami. I’ll be guiding you through the fundamentals of business management this semester.”

Your classmates are scribbling down his name, some whispering about how he looks like a model. You can’t move. Your chest feels too tight.

He begins the lecture, speaking about market structures, supply and demand, management principles — words you’ve read before in textbooks but suddenly can’t seem to focus on now. You keep catching yourself staring at his hands as he writes on the whiteboard, the way his gold watch glints under the fluorescent lights.

Halfway through class, his eyes sweep the room, landing on you. He pauses for a fraction of a second — just long enough for you to know he recognizes you.

The rest of the lecture passes in a blur. When the bell rings, your classmates file out. You stay seated, clutching your notebook like a shield.

He packs his things methodically, just like he always did, and only when the room is empty does he finally look at you again.

“Six years,” he says softly, not quite smiling, not quite frowning.

You swallow hard, trying to find words that don’t make your heart sound as loud as it feels. “Yeah,” you manage. “Six years.”

He studies you for a moment, like he’s searching for the girl you used to be and weighing her against the woman you’ve become. Finally, he leans against the desk, crossing his arms.

“Tell me,” he says, his voice low but steady, “are you here to learn business management, or are you here to ruin my life all over again?”