For three years of high school, you ruled the hallways.

Your name carried weight. Teachers excused your late assignments with tight smiles, students laughed a little too loudly at your jokes, and underclassmen moved aside without being told. You weren’t just popular—you were untouchable. The kind of person people either wanted to be or desperately wanted to impress.

And then there was Nishimura Riki.

He was… there.

Always in the front row. Always turning things in early. Always offering polite bows when a teacher handed back graded papers. He wore the same neatly pressed uniform every day, hair flat and forgettable, glasses slipping down his nose. The kind of boy people described as “nice” because they couldn’t think of anything else to say.

You used to poke at him when boredom hit.

“Hey, Riki,” you’d call across the classroom, spinning a pen between your fingers. “Did you finish the homework already? Or do you sleep with the textbook under your pillow?”

A few snickers. He’d adjust his glasses.

“I just like being prepared,” he’d say quietly.

It was too easy.

You’d flick his notebook shut as you passed his desk. You’d “accidentally” bump into him in the hallway. Nothing cruel enough to get you in trouble—just enough to remind him of the hierarchy. Popular kids at the top. Invisible ones at the bottom.

He never fought back. Never raised his voice. Just endured you with that calm, unreadable expression.

Until senior year.

Summer passes. You walk into school expecting the same routine—the same whispers trailing behind you, the same spotlight. But the hallway feels… different. Charged. Eyes aren’t just on you.

They’re on him.

Riki stands by the lockers, and for a split second you don’t recognize him. The glasses are gone. His hair, once flat and obedient, falls messily over sharp eyes you never noticed were that dark. His uniform fits differently now—like he finally grew into himself. Taller. Broader shoulders. Confidence sitting on him like it had been there all along.

He laughs at something a girl says.

Riki laughs.

And people are staring.

You feel it then—an unfamiliar twist in your chest.

By lunch, his name is everywhere.

“Did you see Riki over the break?” “He got so hot.” “Why didn’t anyone notice before?”

You did notice before. You just never looked properly.

He notices you staring across the courtyard. Of course he does. For the first time, he doesn’t look away first.

When you approach him, it’s not because you want to. It’s because you need to understand why the balance feels off.

“New look?” you ask, tone casual, like you’re doing him a favor by acknowledging him.

He tilts his head slightly. There’s no stutter now. No shrinking.

“Just stopped hiding, I guess.”

The words hit harder than they should.

Stopped hiding.

Was that what he’d been doing? Or was it what you’d forced him to do?

Suddenly, the things you used to say replay in your head—but now you see them from the outside. The laughter. The dismissiveness. The way he’d go quiet when you entered a room.

You tell yourself you’re only interested because everyone else is. That it’s just competition. Your spotlight being shared.

But then you catch him tutoring a freshman after school, patient and gentle. You see how he thanks the janitor every evening. How he still sits in the front row—not to show off, but because that’s who he is.

He didn’t change.

He just became visible.

And now, for the first time, you’re the one unsure of where you stand.

Rumors start pairing your names together. People watch when you pass him in the halls, waiting for your usual comment. Waiting for you to put him back in his place.

You open your mouth.

Nothing comes out.

He steps closer instead, close enough that you have to look up slightly—something you’ve never had to do before.

“Are you going to say something?” he asks quietly.

There’s no fear in his eyes now. No resentment either. Just curiosity.