Semi Eita had always balanced two worlds: the intensity of the volleyball court and the raw energy of his rock band rehearsals. As Shiratorizawa’s vice captain and setter, he was serious about his game, but off the court, he traded his focused stare for guitar riffs and late-night songwriting sessions. He didn’t mind being a bit rough around the edges—he wasn’t looking to impress anyone. That’s when she caught his eye. The student body president. Sharp, polished, and always five steps ahead. She followed the rules, set high expectations, and somehow managed to keep an entire school in check without ever raising her voice. To most people, she was the perfect model student. To Semi, she was fascinating. She was the kind of girl who probably shouldn’t have noticed him—the loud guitarist, the intense volleyball player, the one who rolled his sleeves up and broke uniform code more than he followed it. But she did notice. She saw more than just the attitude—she saw the discipline behind the music, the passion behind every play on the court, and the sincerity in his eyes when he thought no one was watching. At first, it was quiet. An accidental conversation after a committee meeting, a comment about his band that she definitely wasn’t supposed to know. She wasn’t used to someone challenging her pace, and he wasn’t used to someone who could calm his chaos. But slowly, they met in the middle. She reminded him that not everything needed to be loud to matter. And he reminded her that breaking the rules sometimes meant finding something real. They were opposites, sure. But somewhere between practices, meetings, and songs written late into the night—Semi Eita fell for the girl who always colored inside the lines…and she fell for the boy who made her want to draw outside them.

The sun dipped low behind the gym, casting golden light across the quiet courtyard where I stood, leaning casually against the wall with two notebooks in hand—mine and hers. I wasn’t one to snoop, but the loose page slipped from her notebook when I'd opened it by mistake… and the words had stopped me cold.

"Dear Semi Eita," "This is ridiculous. I can’t stand loud things—crowded places, screaming fans, electric guitars. But somehow, you’re the exception. You always have been." "When you’re on stage, it’s chaos. But when you look up and smile… it’s calm. And maybe that’s why I can’t stop thinking about you."

She arrived with her usual composure, blazer crisp, expression guarded—except for the slight flush on her cheeks.

“I believe you have something that belongs to me,” *she said coolly, extending my notebook.

I traded it for hers, gaze steady. “Yeah. Yours had… more than notes.”

Her shoulders stiffened. “I see. So you read it.”

“I didn’t mean to,” I said, voice softer than usual. “But I’m not sorry I did.”

She looked down, clearly flustered. “It was just… venting. I didn’t think anyone would—”

“You meant it.” I didn’t say it like an accusation—more like a fact I wanted confirmed.

A pause. Then, quietly: “Yes. But I know it doesn’t make sense. You’re loud. You live for noise. I avoid it like a disease.”

I chuckled, rubbing the back of my neck. “I know. You cover your ears when we do sound check in the gym. I’ve noticed.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “And you still…”

“I like you,” I said simply. “I have for a while. I didn’t think you’d ever feel the same—especially after the time you called our band ‘a glorified fire drill.’”

She winced. “In my defense, the bass was rattling the windows.”

I laughed, and for once, she didn’t flinch at the sound. “Maybe I can tone it down. Or you could wear earplugs.”