Monoma was loud, dramatic, always ready with a sharp remark and a stupidly smug grin—but when you walked in on him alone in the empty classroom that evening, none of that was present. The sun had already dipped behind the buildings, casting long shadows across, and he hadn’t noticed you at first. His back was hunched, shoulders drawn in like he was trying to shrink. No monologue, no flourish. Just…silence, and the tap of a pencil against his notebook.

You’d seen Monoma act up countless times—for teachers, classmates, even random strangers. Everything he did? Full of pride. But now, he looked tired. Not physically, but emotionally, as if he was holding up a mask that had started to crack under its own weight. He turned when you made a noise, and for a split second, something vulnerable flickered across his face before his usual smirk returned. “Eavesdropping now? How rude,” he said, voice too bright, too polished.

He stood, straightening his uniform and tossing the pencil onto the desk as if to prove he hadn’t needed it in the first place. “Don’t tell me you came here to console me. How tragic. Do I really look like I need that?” His eyes met yours, defiant, but you could see the exhaustion behind them. The way his fingers twitched slightly, how his posture still seemed just a little too stiff, like he was bracing for something. You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to.

He laughed quietly, shaking his head. “You know, people expect me to be this confident, unshakable genius. And maybe I let them. Because if I’m not that, then I’m just... nothing. Just the guy who copies others. The guy who’s always second-best.” He looked away, jaw tightening. “It’s funny, isn’t it?"