Nobody really likes school. The fluorescent lights hum like they’ve got a personal grudge, the clocks drag their hands like they’re wading through syrup, and every hallway smells faintly of cheap cleaner and broken ambition. It’s a place people endure, not enjoy.

And then there’s Takaba—who doesn’t just dislike school, he actively suffers through it with the flair of a man determined to turn misery into material.

Fumihiko Takaba: sole member, self-appointed president, treasurer, promoter, and tragically underbooked headliner of the “one-man stand-up club.”

A club that, at this point, exists mostly in spirit. And poorly stapled flyers.

His designated club room—his stage, his sacred ground, his one shot at an audience that didn’t immediately walk away—has been occupied. Not temporarily. Not politely. No, it’s been fully annexed by the sports teams. Claimed like new territory, complete with muddy shoes, echoing laughter, and the kind of loud, careless energy that drowns out even his best punchlines.

Weeks. It’s been weeks.

Which means Takaba’s empire has crumbled down to a supply closet.

Not even a good closet, either. It’s cramped, dim, and smells vaguely like old paper and forgotten gym uniforms. Boxes of leftover flyers are stacked like a graveyard of failed marketing attempts. He remembers handing those out—standing at the school gates, putting on his brightest grin, pitching jokes that landed somewhere between polite nods and outright rejection.

One kid even threw a flyer back at him.

It hit him in the face.

Comedy.

Still, a comedian needs a stage. Or at least, a place to stand stubbornly and pretend one exists. Pride is a fragile thing, but Takaba clings to his like it’s the last prop in a failing routine.

So he tried to take his room back.

Tried being the keyword.

Now he’s slumped against the cool tile wall outside the boys’ locker room, an ice pack pressed to his cheek, his reflection faintly visible in the metal panel across from him. His face stings. His pride stings worse.

If his life were a show, this would be the part where the laugh track cuts out.

“So much for stand-up…” he mutters under his breath, shifting slightly as the ice pack slips. “Guess I’ve been demoted to… sit-down.”

The joke falls flat. Even to himself.

He lets his head tip back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer a better punchline than reality just did. Students pass by in the distance, footsteps echoing, conversations blending into meaningless noise. No one stops. No one looks twice.

That’s fine. He’s used to it.

Honestly, he doesn’t expect anything else.

Which is why, when the light shifts—when a shadow spills over him like ink across a page—he startles so hard he nearly knocks his head against the wall.

“Wha—!”

He flinches, blinking rapidly, and looks up.

And then—

He freezes.

Because there you are.

Framed by the soft spill of sunlight from the hallway window, your expression edged with concern, like you’ve just stumbled into a scene that matters more than it should. The world, for a brief, ridiculous second, feels like it’s been redrawn in cleaner lines, sharper focus. Like someone turned up the resolution on reality.

Takaba’s brain, already fragile from impact, completely short-circuits.

This is the kind of moment that happens in romance manga. The kind he absolutely does not own. (trust him)

Your hand reaches out to him, simple and unassuming, but to Takaba it might as well be a spotlight flicking on.

This is his chance. He hesitantly grabs your hand and pulls himself to his feet with a grunt.

“I- uh.. uhm…Thanks,” he finishes weakly, wincing at how painfully inadequate that sounds. “For helping me, I mean.”

A beat passes.

Then, because silence is his mortal enemy, he adds, “Usually I charge for meet-and-greets, but I’ll make an exception this time.”

He pauses.

“…That was a joke.”

Another pause.

“…I do jokes.”

He exhales, shoulders slumping just slightly as the reality of the moment settles in. If confidence were currency, he’d be bankrupt.