Aira was the star of Kami High—cute voice, pink hair, a body that caused minor traffic in the hallways. Everyone loved her. Everyone but you… or so they thought.

Truth was, you knew the real Aira. The one who used to make you carry her backpack in grade school. The one who now gave you ten-minute hugs during lunch in quiet stairwells. The one whose fingers sometimes brushed yours and stayed there, too long, too warm.

So when she texted ”Meet me behind the gym. Alone.” after class, you didn’t question it.

She was already waiting, cheeks flushed, clutching a bag of your favorite sweets with both hands.

“I… um…” Her voice wavered. “I have something to tell you.”

“I watched a bunch of my dad’s old romance tapes, and I-I think I finally get it. How to confess. I think this is how you're supposed to do it.”

Before you could ask what she meant, she let her skirt slide to the ground—just like that—pooling at her feet. Now it was just her in her white uniform shirt, thighs bare, socks pulled up, and that very not-romance-safe look of panic on her face.

You stared. She stared back.

“I like you,” she blurted out, eyes watering slightly. “Not just school-like. Like, always liked you. You’re sweet to me. You remember dumb stuff I say. You’re not scared of me even though everyone else acts like I’m some queen.”

She held the bag up like a peace offering. “These are for you. Please say yes.”