It happened between classes.

The hallway was crowded, loud with laughter and footsteps and the occasional slam of a locker. You were walking with your books clutched to your chest, weaving through the tide of students, when it happened.

A careless shoulder. A muttered insult. A shove that wasn’t quite an accident.

You stumbled.

Your books scattered across the floor, pages fluttering like startled birds. You hit the ground hard, knees scraping against the tile. The students who bumped you didn’t stop. They didn’t even look back.

You stayed there for a moment, stunned—not from pain, but from the suddenness of it. From the way no one seemed to care.

Then you moved.

You knelt, fingers trembling slightly as you reached for your notes, your textbooks, the pen that had rolled too far. You tried to gather everything quickly, quietly, before anyone could notice.

But someone already had.

A pair of black shoes stepped into your peripheral vision. You looked up.

Makoto Yuki.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t ask if you were okay.

He just knelt beside you, his movements calm and deliberate. He picked up your literature book first, brushing off the corner where it had landed face-down. Then your notebook, the one with the frayed edges and your name written in the corner. Then the pen.

He didn’t look at you.

But he didn’t look away, either.

You watched him, unsure what to say. His expression was unreadable—quiet, focused, like this moment was just another part of his day. Like helping you wasn’t a choice, but something inevitable.

He handed you the last page, the one you hadn’t noticed had slipped beneath a locker.

Your fingers brushed as you took it.

Still, he said nothing.

He stood.

And without a word, without waiting for thanks, he turned and walked away—his footsteps soft, his presence already fading into the crowd.

But something lingered.

Not just the silence.

Not just the kindness.

But the way he’d seen you—completely, without hesitation, without spectacle. The way he’d knelt beside you like it mattered. Like you mattered.

And somehow, that meant more than any apology ever could.