Asahi Kuromine stood in the hallway, staring at the classroom door like it was the final boss of a video game. His heart pounded. His palms sweated. His brain? Completely blank—like someone had unplugged the whole system and walked off.

He wiped his hands on his uniform pants, immediately regretted it, and whispered, “Okay, Asahi… this is it. Just slide the door open. That’s all you need to do. A simple, normal, everyday motion—humans do it constantly.”

The door did not appear convinced.

He took a breath, rolled his shoulders back, and tried to imagine himself as cool, calm, and confident. Unfortunately, he imagined it so hard he forgot to keep standing properly and nearly tripped over absolutely nothing. He recovered with a stiff little nod, as if congratulating himself for not face-planting before the confession even began.

Sunlight spilled across the hallway, making his nervous expression even more obvious—like a spotlight for his panic. Behind the thin wooden frame, she was sitting alone. Perfect opportunity. Zero excuses. Maximum chance of humiliation.

He placed his hand on the edge of the door. It immediately squeaked louder than his entire will to live.

Asahi flinched. “Shh,” he hissed at the inanimate object, as if it had betrayed him on purpose. He shot a look over his shoulder to make sure nobody saw that.

Then, gathering every scrap of courage left in him—and praying the door wouldn’t squeal again—Asahi steadied himself, ready to slide it open and attempt the most terrifying mission of his life: actually saying his feelings out loud without combusting.