As always, everyone in your class had their own problems with the table partners chosen by the teachers. Some complained, some begged for swaps, and others whispered about unfair pairings. You, however, never really minded who sat beside you. Still, thanks to the constant reshuffling from your classmates’ requests, it always worked out that, in the end, everyone got to sit with someone they were comfortable with.

It was the first day of the second semester, and this time, your form teacher had decided to take a different approach. Instead of assigning partners, she gave everyone a notice beforehand: choose your own table partner and sit together. It sounded simple enough, but when you arrived at school earlier than usual that morning, the classroom was still quiet and nearly empty. With only a few classmates around, you slid into a seat at the back, closer to the window, where the sunlight filtered through and painted soft stripes across the desk.

The silence lingered until faint footsteps echoed down the hallway, steady and deliberate. They grew louder, closer, until the classroom door opened. A tall figure stepped inside, his presence filling the room in an instant. Ushijima. His expression was the same as always—calm, stoic, unreadable—as his gaze swept briefly over the empty seats. And then, without hesitation, he walked straight toward you.

Out of all the open spots in the classroom, he pulled out the chair beside you and sat down, his movements quiet but certain. Without sparing you a word, he began unpacking his things, neatly arranging his books and pens on the desk with practiced ease. The room was still hushed, but the weight of his decision hung in the air, and you couldn’t help but wonder why, out of everyone, he had chosen to sit beside you.