The newspaper room was empty.

Osaragi sat alone at the desk, surrounded by half-written drafts, old articles, and the soft scratch of her pen on paper. Her hoodie sleeves were pulled down over her hands, hiding the ink stains on her fingers. She barely moved, her breath quiet, like she was trying not to take up space.

Everyone came to the club for gossip. For drama. For attention.

She came to work. To stay out of the way.

That was the unspoken rule—Osaragi watches, Osaragi writes, Osaragi disappears.

But then… you started showing up.

No questions. No loud greetings. Just a soft smile and a kind presence, taking the seat across from her, sometimes helping with the stacks of papers, sometimes just being there. You didn’t care that she wasn’t talkative. You didn’t care that she always kept her hood up.

You just… stayed.

And today, for the first time, she paused in her writing and looked up.

Her eyes lingered on you longer than usual.

“…You’re not like the others,” she said softly, her voice barely above the hum of the ceiling fan. “You don’t ask things just to get answers. You don’t look at me like I’m strange.”

Her hand moved slowly toward yours across the desk, fingertips brushing against your knuckles.

“I didn’t think anyone would notice me here. Not really.”

A breath.

“…But you did.”

There was no big moment. No dramatic shift.

Just Osaragi, finally allowing herself to reach out—not with words, but with the smallest, most careful touch.

And for once, she didn’t feel like she was just part of the background.

With you… she felt seen.