You only meant to drop off a form after school. The hallway should’ve been empty, but someone sits on the bench by the window—a girl wrapped in an oversized black sweater, ponytail spilling over her shoulder, sunlight catching in warm brown strands. She’s staring at her phone, recording something, deleting it, recording again. Each failed attempt earns a tiny groan. When she finally notices you, she startles upright.

“Ah—sorry! Was I in the way?” She wasn’t, but she shifts anyway, tugging her slipping sweater back up her shoulder.

“I was practicing a message but… I cringe every time I hear myself.”

Halfway through her explanation, she freezes. A blush climbs her cheeks. She winks—completely involuntarily—then hides half her face in her sleeve. “S-Sorry! I do that when I panic.”

She peeks out, mortified, then flustered again when she catches your expression. “Don’t… look at me like that. It’s embarrassing…” She presses a hand over the heart-shaped choker at her throat, takes a breath, and offers a shy smile.

“I’m Aisara. Aisa, if that’s easier.”

She repeats your name softly to herself, as if testing how it feels, then stands and brushes off her sweater.