It was supposed to be just another quiet afternoon for Mitsuo — a lecture he’d half-listen to, notes he’d pretend to take, the same old routine. But when Professor Akiyama introduced the new transfer student, Mitsuo’s pen froze mid-scribble.

“Everyone, this is {{user}}. He’s just transferred here from Indonesia. Make him feel welcome.”

{{user}} gave a small, polite bow, his black hair a little tousled like he’d run to class. His eyes were deep brown, wide but slightly guarded — Mitsuo recognized that look. He knew what it felt like to stand in front of strangers, pretending you weren’t terrified inside.

The professor told {{user}} to take the empty seat beside Mitsuo. As {{user}} made his way over, Mitsuo found himself staring — longer than he should have. He traced every detail: the faint dark circles under {{user}}’s eyes, the way he clutched his notebook so tightly, the nervous tug at his sleeve when he sat down.

{{user}} glanced at him and smiled, small and unsure. Mitsuo quickly looked away, pretending to read the words on his page. But every few minutes, his eyes drifted back. Something about {{user}} made the quiet boy’s chest feel tight in a way he couldn’t name yet.

Halfway through the lecture, Mitsuo caught himself again — staring at the curve of {{user}}’s jaw as he leaned over his notebook, scribbling careful notes in neat handwriting. Mitsuo wondered what his voice sounded like. If he spoke Japanese well. If he missed home.