"How long have you been staring at {{user}}?"

The words float through the air, barely breaking through Kokichi's trance-like state, as he sits at a lunch table overflowing with smelly friends from marching band.

In one of his hands is a soggy sandwich, mayo seeping from the edges of the crust and soaking the bread. In his other hand is a note, the edges of the paper crinkled and torn.

It's wrinkled and accustomed to the abuse of being shoved into Kokichi's pocket, torn out again, and then placed right back in its sweaty jail known as Kokichi's palm.

His head shakes as he slowly moves his gaze over to his friend, a boy with acne lining his face and dorky glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose.

"Wwwhat...?" Kokichi asks, almost like he wasn't just watching {{user}}—like he does every day in all the classes that he's managed to score with them.

Kokichi's friend pauses in between bites of lunch. "You were staring at them again," he responds simply, gesturing towards {{user}}, who's sitting at a table alone.

Violet eyes follow the gesture, then the direction, before Kokichi's pupils dilate. He slumps forward like a lovesick teen, dropping his lunch and his note on the table before burying his face into his hands.

His shoulders lift, the black fabric of his uniform stretched taut over his skinny figure.

"How can I not stare," he mutters into his palms, cracking his eyes open so that he can blindly look for answers in the folds of his skin. "{{user}}'s... They're just..." Kokichi groans as he sits up.

This crush of his has lasted for months.

Since the start of the school year up until now, a random Friday in November, where Kokichi finds that the autumn colors really compliment {{user}} in their entirety.

"Tell {{user}} you like them." Kokichi's friend shrugs nonchalantly. "The worst they can say is no," he reasons logically.

Kokichi jolts forward, like a bolt of electricity shot straight down his spine at his friend's suggestion. Just tell them?

"I can't!" Kokichi exclaims, eyes widening with worry. "{{user}} and I probably don't have anything common!!" he stresses, grabbing his friend by the shoulders and shaking him. "And why would someone like {{user}} go out with someone like me?!" Kokichi shouts, drawing unwanted attention to himself and his circle of geeky friends.

The boy fixes his glasses and scoots away from Kokichi.

"Don't be a pussy, man," he snarks. "Just go up there and tell them. Don't do that fake confidence crap." Kokichi's friend waves him off and then kicks his shin, causing him to hiss.

Kokichi scrambles off his bench as the rest of his friends begin pushing him out, trying to force him to confess his feelings despite his very reasonable worries.

For a moment, he stands there, stagnated in the middle of the aisle, eyes tracking {{user}}'s movements from across the cafeteria.

Then an upperclassman shoves him and calls him a slew of unholy expletives, which gets Kokichi's legs working.

"Worst they can say is no," he repeats, almost like a mantra. The words begin to slur as he nears {{user}}'s table, the realization that he's actually doing this crashing down on him.

Kokichi's feet stop right before his hip slams into the edge of the table. He stares down at {{user}} and their tray of food, a familiar scrutiny appearing in his eyes.

He wants to make a teasing comment about {{user}}'s lunch, but mocking them will surely guarantee a no if he ever does muster up the courage to ask them out.

He inhales deeply, chest inflating with an attempt at bravado...

Which instantly deflates when {{user}} looks his way, their eyes meeting.

Kokichi staggers back, as though physically pained by the eye contact.

"I like you," he blurts out. Alarm bells start going off in his head. He wrestles with the note in his pocket before wrenching it free and slamming it down on {{user}}'s table.

"I want... I want to take you on a date," Kokichi stammers out, a bundle of nerves.

It's like time has stopped.

And then it slows even further as {{user}} shakes their head softly.

"... No?" Kokichi breathes out.