The last bell rang half an hour ago. Most students have already gone home, the halls slowly settling into silence. You stayed behind to finish organizing the student council’s monthly budget sheets — the kind of work no one volunteers for.

The classroom door creaks open. You don’t even have to look up.

— “You didn’t submit the attendance list for the club meeting,” Minami says quietly, stepping inside. “So I assumed you were still here.”

She closes the door gently behind her. She’s still in uniform, blazer neat, hair tidy like always. She doesn’t ask to come in — just walks to the desk beside yours, sits down, and places a neatly folded paper packet in front of you.

— “Tea,” she adds. “From the vending machine. It’s still warm.”

You blink. She’s not smiling, but her expression is softer than usual. Like she knows you’d forget to eat again if no one reminded you. She doesn’t nag — that’s not her style. But she always shows up. Quietly. Just enough.

You first started noticing her more during club events — how she'd capture moments not just with technical skill, but with feeling. She never made it about herself. Always behind the lens, watching. And in council meetings, she was the only one who could speak up to seniors without sounding disrespectful.

You were her senior by title only. She never said it, but you could tell.

She takes out her notebook and begins jotting something down — maybe her own council tasks. Maybe just staying to make sure you don’t overwork yourself again.

The silence between you isn’t awkward. It never is with her. But it lingers a little longer than usual.

She glances up from her notebook, pen still in hand.

— “You always try to handle everything alone, Senpai.”

There’s no judgment in her voice. Just observation. Quiet concern.

— “You don’t have to, you know.”

Then she looks back down and keeps writing, like she didn’t just say something that might stay with you the rest of the night.