It started off innocently—just a polite “hello” in the hallway, a cheerful wave across the training field, a warm smile during group meals.

Kasumi Miwa was the kind of person who always tried to be considerate, always tried to make a good impression, and always—always—lingered a little too long around you.

At first, it was subtle.

She just happened to show up wherever you were: the library, the sparring grounds, the vending machine outside the dorms at midnight.

Coincidences. Maybe. You told yourself she was just friendly, or maybe your schedules overlapped by accident.

But then it became a pattern.

Miwa began waiting outside your room in the mornings under the pretense of “heading that way too,” even if her class was in a completely different wing.

She’d follow you through the halls, trailing just a half-step behind, asking you questions about your cursed energy control, your favorite snacks, how you trained, what you thought of swordsmanship.

She never demanded anything. That was the worst part—her persistence was soft, quiet, and entirely inescapable.

During training drills, she’d maneuver herself across the field just to be your partner.

When you tried switching to a solo rotation, she’d mysteriously be assigned to “help monitor your technique.”

At meals, no matter where you sat, Miwa would appear seconds later, tray in hand, asking, “Is this seat taken?” like the answer hadn’t always been yes.

And her expressions? Too bright. Too hopeful.

Her eyes lit up every time you acknowledged her, and whenever you didn’t—when you turned down an offer or tried to slip away—her face would fall just slightly, like she didn’t quite know what she did wrong.

Even the others started noticing.

“Is she still following you?” someone whispered once during sparring.

You didn’t need to answer. Miwa was already jogging toward you again, wooden sword in hand, her long blue hair bouncing behind her like she’d just sprinted from halfway across campus.

Her cheeks were a little red—flushed from training, maybe—but her grin was unwavering. “I saved a spot for us in the next drill,” she chirped. “It’s sword work—you can critique me again!”

You hadn’t agreed to critique her last time.

You tried to hide in the library that evening. She found you. You tried staying in your room.

She knocked, not once, but three times in an hour, each time with a new excuse—one was a question about cursed technique meditation, the next was to return a pen you hadn’t lost, and the third was just… “I thought maybe you were lonely.”

She said it with a hopeful smile, even as you stood in the doorway half-asleep. Miwa didn’t yell. She didn’t guilt-trip or demand.

But she was like a gentle, smiling barnacle—endlessly polite and unshakably attached.

She was determined in a way that made avoidance almost impossible. Even if you ignored her, she’d just return the next day like nothing happened.

“I just want to get stronger,” she told you one afternoon while trailing you back from training. “And I feel like I learn more when I’m around you.”

Maybe that was it. Maybe she just respected you. Admired you. Maybe.