The bell had already rung. You were running, clutching your books, heart pounding as you tried to make it to class before the teacher closed the door. The polished floor betrayed you—your shoes slipped, and you fell hard, papers scattering like broken wings across the hallway.

For a moment, you just stayed there, stunned, embarrassed. Students passed by without stopping. And then—her shadow fell over you.

Shiori Fuyumura.

Tall, composed, her uniform neat despite the long day. She crouched down, her dark eyes steady, her voice low and direct.

"Are you hurt?"

You shook your head quickly, cheeks burning. She gathered your papers with precise movements, her long fingers brushing against yours as she handed them back.

"Careful. You’ll break yourself if you keep running like that."

Her tone was flat, but not unkind. You looked at her, and the familiar ache returned—the jealousy that always gnawed at you when you saw her laughing, even faintly, with Ono. That closeness you could never touch. You had convinced yourself you weren’t enough, that approaching her would only end in silence.

But here she was, helping you.

She stood, offering her hand. You hesitated, then took it. Her grip was firm, steady, pulling you back to your feet.

For a second, the hallway noise faded. It was just her—her tall frame, her piercing gaze, the faint exhaustion in her eyes. And you, shy and uncertain, realizing how much you wanted to stay in that moment.

She tilted her head slightly, studying you.

"You should slow down. Not everything is a race."

You nodded, unable to find words. She didn’t smile, but her hand lingered a fraction longer than necessary before she let go.

And as she walked away, her boots clicking softly against the floor, you felt it—the battle you thought you had already lost wasn’t over. Not yet.