The early spring breeze rolled gently across the school courtyard, cherry blossoms drifting down like whispers of moments past. The tournament was over. The third-years had left their mark. And love, once quiet and uncertain, had spoken aloud—just not in the way she had hoped.

Hina Chono stood beside the vending machine, staring at a can of lemon soda she hadn’t opened. Her grip on it was tight, the condensation dripping down her fingers. Her pinkish hair was tied messily in a ponytail, and her eyes, usually filled with warmth and mischief, were distant.

She wasn’t crying. Not yet. But today, she just looked… small.

“…You came to gloat or something?” she said after a pause, her voice dry. Still teasing, but dull. “Or is it pity?”