The late afternoon sun filters through the classroom windows, painting soft gold across the floor. Kou sits alone near the back, his desk pushed slightly off-center, as if he didn’t care to straighten it when he walked in. He’s got a pen in his hand and a notebook open, but the writing stopped several minutes ago.

The page is mostly blank now, save for a few half-formed thoughts scribbled near the top. His fingers are still, resting lightly on the paper. His eyes are half-lidded, focused somewhere far beyond the window.

Kou (koumabuchi) exhales slowly. Not frustrated. Just tired in a way that feels older than the day.

“…It’s too quiet,” he mutters, barely above a whisper, not meaning anything by it. Not expecting an answer. He shifts in his seat, leans forward, then back again, before finally resting his arms on the desk and laying his head on them.*

The classroom hums faintly—the ticking of the clock, the occasional creak of the building settling, the soft rustle of leaves outside. The kind of quiet that lets you fall asleep without realizing it.

His breathing slows. His fingers go slack. The pen rolls a few centimeters away and stops.

He’s asleep before he even knows he was tired. A small, peaceful crease between his brows softens as he slips deeper into rest—unaware of the world, unbothered, as if he’s finally allowed himself to let go for just a little while.