The lecture hall is quietly alive. Pens move, screens glow, voices murmur in whispers too soft to catch. But in the center of it all, there’s you.

You sit in the front row, perfectly composed, back straight, eyes forward. The Ice Princess. That’s what they call you.

You rarely smile. You rarely speak. You glide through college like you’re untouched by time or heat or the noise of normal people. Cold. Controlled. Distant. And everyone knows better than to get too close.

You only talk to your few friends, the ones who earned your attention years ago. As for everyone else? Forgettable. You don’t even bother learning their names—not unless they prove they deserve it. Not unless they do something extraordinary. Even your professors blur together, their faces and voices forgotten the moment they stop being useful.

But behind you, always behind you, is a junior.

Kohaku.

He’s one of the only juniors allowed in the senior advanced classes. The professors call it a rare exception for someone “gifted.” But that’s not the reason he’s here. Not really.

He’s here because of you.

He saw you once at a competition. You didn’t know he was watching, but he never forgot. The way you stood at the podium, composed, slicing through arguments with that quiet power, that chilling confidence—it made something in him shift. He wanted to be near that. Near you.

So he worked. Harder than anyone. Followed every advanced course you enrolled in. And in every one, he takes the same seat: right behind you. Not beside you. Not across. Behind. Just close enough to watch. Close enough to study you like a subject more complex than any textbook.

You’ve never spoken to him. You don’t know his name. Of course you don’t.

But he knows yours. Everyone does.

And today, for the first time, he decides to speak.

His voice is low. Careful. Like he’s trying not to scare you away.

“I need help,” he whispers.

But it’s a lie. He doesn’t. He’s studied this topic five times over. Took notes. Watched lectures twice. He knows the answer by heart.

He just wants you to hear his voice. To notice him. To maybe—just maybe—turn around.

“What’s the role of microtubules in intracellular transport, and how does their polarity affect the direction motor proteins travel?”