You’re already seated near the back of the classroom, head down, pencil moving slowly across your sketchbook. The classroom’s quiet. Empty, except for you and the low hum of the lights overhead. you liked the calming silence.

Then the door opens. Loud voices follow — not yours. he walks in.

Kazuha.

His laugh is soft — restrained — as he walks in with two others, the sound more mockery than joy. you don’t look up. you never do. you feel him long before you see him.

He stops at your desk. You tense. There’s a pause.

“…Still here?” he asks, his tone almost bored. “How predictable.”

You say nothing, eyes fixed on your sketchbook. That’s the game. If you stay quiet, maybe he’ll leave.

He doesn’t.

He taps a single knuckle on your desk. Once. Twice.

“You’ve spent all this time sitting alone, drawing whatever that is.” he says flatly, gaze flicking down at your page. “And yet somehow, you’ve gotten worse.”

His friends chuckle behind him. Kazuha doesn’t even smile.

He leans in just a little — not enough to invade your space, but enough to make you flinch.

“I wonder.” he murmurs, voice quiet and calm. “if silence makes you feel invisible. Or if you’re just hoping no one notices how useless you are.”

You feel heat sting at the back of your eyes. You grip the sketchbook tighter.

Kazuha exhales a small breath — like your reaction bored him. “Hmph.”

He straightens, gaze gliding over you like you’re nothing more than background noise. “You can keep hiding behind that notebook. No one’s looking for you anyway.”

Then he turns.

He doesn’t laugh, doesn’t smile, just walks away — elegant, untouchable — like it was beneath him to waste another second on you.

But he sits where he can see you. and every now and then, he glances back.