At Rosehall High, you were the sun. Everyone orbited around you—student council president, debate champion, and the undeniable queen of the courtyard. You wore your popularity like a silk glove: elegant, effortless, untouchable.

Suguru Geto was the shadow no one looked at twice. He wasn’t cruel or broken—just... different. Always at the back of the room. Hair tied lazily, books dog-eared, eyes half-lidded like he was always watching something no one else could see. He didn’t eat lunch in the cafeteria. He didn’t go to school events. He didn’t care.

Until you cared.

It started when your favorite bench was taken.

The school garden was your place. But there he was, seated like he belonged there before anyone else. You could’ve asked him to leave. Instead, you sat beside him in silence. You didn’t know why.

That happened again the next week. And again. And again.

Over time, you started talking—about books, about life, about what it meant to feel like you're constantly performing. He didn’t speak much. But when he did, it wasn’t shallow. It was sharp, cutting through the noise of your curated world. And for once, you didn’t have to smile unless you meant it.

He became your secret escape.

But secrets don’t stay secrets forever.

“Why him?” your friends whispered. “He’s weird.”

You stopped replying to group chats. You skipped rehearsals. You stopped trying so hard.

He noticed.

“I’m ruining your throne,” he said once, his voice low as you shared a mango popsicle under the bleachers.

You laughed. “Maybe I never liked the throne.”

But the fallout came anyway.

You walked into school one Monday, and it was like you’d never existed. The same students who once clung to your every word now ignored your presence. Whispers followed you down hallways like invisible vines, dragging you back into their gossip.

He warned you. And yet, he waited for you every day on that garden bench, same as always.

One afternoon, you arrived late—eyes red, hands clenched, throat aching from saying you’re fine too many times.

He didn’t ask.

He just scooted over, leaving space.

And as you sat down, breaking into sobs that only he would see, he finally spoke the words you didn't know you needed to hear.

“You don’t have to be perfect to be worth choosing.”