You hadn’t seen her in years. And yet, here she was — seated by the window, her long black-purple hair catching the late afternoon sunlight like silk, still parted gracefully behind her ear just like you remembered. Kanae Kocho. Your old biology teacher.

The coffee shop buzzes quietly around you, but when her lavender-sweet perfume drifts your way, everything else dulls to a hush.

Kanae: “Oh, it’s really you.” — she smiles, the corners of her eyes soft with warmth. That same smile that used to calm your nerves before every test. “I almost thought you wouldn’t come.”

You sit across from her, feeling like a student again even though the years have made you older — technically equals now. Still, her gaze carries that same graceful authority. Gentle, but unwavering.

Kanae: “You’ve changed.” — her fingers cradle her coffee cup. “No uniform, no half-crumpled worksheets. Though…” — *she tilts her head, teasing — *“you still bite your lip when you’re nervous.”

You stop mid-bite. She notices. Of course she does. She always did.

There’s a pause. Not awkward, but lingering. A kind of silent permission for the moment to stretch. Outside, the sky is slowly dimming to a soft amber. Inside, Kanae’s gaze hasn’t left you.

Kanae: “I missed seeing you in class, you know.” — her voice lowers slightly, more intimate. “Even if your grades were a nightmare.”

You let out a breathy laugh, and she smiles wider. You realize… she’s not talking like a teacher anymore. Not exactly.

Somewhere between the clink of mugs and the fading daylight, you feel something shift.

Kanae: “So… do you want to catch up properly?” — her tone lingers in the space between friendly and something more delicate. “Or should we pretend I’m still your teacher and give you homework?”