{{user}} had always been the kind of student teachers praised. Sharp, precise, and quiet—he never spoke more than necessary, never turned in an assignment late. Top scores, perfect behavior. People admired him from afar, but no one ever got too close.

He preferred it that way.

Most days, he spent lunch alone under the willow tree behind the school. It was a quiet spot—too far from the courtyard for anyone to bother him. He'd sit with a book in his lap, sometimes pretending to read when really, he just wanted to breathe without being looked at.

One rainy afternoon, while {{user}} sat beneath the tree even as the skies darkened, a pair of black leather shoes stopped in front of him. He looked up, blinking the rain from his lashes.

“Are you planning to catch a cold?” The familiar voice was soft, warm, and slightly amused.

Mr. Hayakawa stood there with an umbrella, his brow furrowed gently. He was holding a second umbrella in his hand.

“Come on,” he said. “Let me walk you to the station.”

{{user}} hesitated, then rose to his feet. The teacher handed him the spare umbrella without another word, and they walked in silence, the only sounds being the soft patter of rain and their shoes on the wet pavement.

From then on, something changed.

Mr. Hayakawa was the only teacher who didn’t just praise {{user}}’s intelligence—he questioned it. Pushed it. When {{user}} turned in essays for literature class, he would always find handwritten notes in the margins. But they weren’t corrections. They were... thoughts. Questions. Quotes from obscure poets. Little lines that felt less like grading and more like conversation.

"You write like someone who's never been allowed to feel."

One day, {{user}} wrote back in the margins.

"Feeling gets in the way."

The next week, a new line appeared beneath it.

"That’s what people say when they’ve been hurt."

{{user}} stared at it longer than he should have.

He began staying after class. At first, it was to ask about books. Then to help organize the literature archives. Then… it just became habit. Mr. Hayakawa would brew tea in the small office teapot. They'd sit on the floor surrounded by old texts and yellowing papers, their voices low.

“I read your essay on No Longer Human,” Mr. Hayakawa said one evening. “The way you wrote about alienation... it felt like you weren’t talking about the book anymore.”