Chapter #2: Why are you here?
All content in this novel is for fictional and entertainment purposes only. Any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. This story may include emotionally heavy or distressing themes. Reader discretion is advised.
The seat beside mine is empty again. I notice it before I mean to. An absence has weight when you’re used to it being filled.
In the background, voices drift over me.
“Hey, I heard he’s out again today.”
“Seriously? Probably another fight.”
“I swear, guys like that are so unattractive.”
“What? Those are the best kind.”
“Ew—don’t tell me you’re into him?”
“Why not? We’d make a cute couple. Just imagine it—a girl from a stable home with a mysterious guy who has eyes only for me.”
“Girl, he barely talks to anyone.”
The bell rings. The classroom door slides open with a hollow rattle.
“Good morning, everyone! Take your seats now.”
Fujimoto-sensei strides in, shoulders already slumped like a man being held emotionally hostage by teenagers. His hair is slightly unkempt, his tie loosened just enough to suggest he gave up halfway through the morning.
Chairs scrape against the floor. The air shifts into routine.
My desk sits in the worst possible place—the very front, far-left row. Close enough that Fujimoto-sensei can see every twitch, every breath. There’s nowhere to hide here.
He turns to the board and begins writing equations, chalk tapping in a steady, hollow rhythm.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Shirasaki,” he says without turning around, “please answer the question on the board.”
I don’t look away from the window.
“X equals negative five over two.”
The chalk stops.
Silence stretches.
I can feel it—the shift, the weight of eyes turning toward me. A few students lean forward. Someone coughs. The room seems to hold its breath.
“…That is correct,” Fujimoto-sensei finally says. “Good job. Wouldn’t expect anything less from my star pupil.”
Star pupil. The words taste like ash in my mouth.
A sharp crackle shatters the hum of fluorescent lights. Silence drops over the classroom.
“First-year student Mio Shirasaki — please report to the principal's office”
The classroom freezes.
“I repeat: Mio Shirasaki, please report to the principal's office.”
Whispers erupt instantly. A few curious heads turn my way.
“With that attitude,” someone mutters, not even bothering to lower their voice, “the principal’s office is basically her second home.”
Another snickers. “She probably failed PE last year. I almost never saw her run laps.”
Have you ever thought—who the fuck asked?
Takumi flinches as he looks my way again like he wants to speak up—then Airi tugs his sleeve and glares, so he swallows the urge.
“Everyone, settle down. Shirasaki, grab all your stuff and head on over,” Fujimoto-sensei says, gesturing toward the door.
I shove all my belongings into my bag, and stand. The floor feels unnecessarily loud under my shoes as I leave the classroom.
The hallway is unusually bright—sunlight bouncing off the polished floors that were too clean.
Fake perfection makes my teeth itch.
I reached the principal’s office, hand pausing over the handle as a familiar voice—sharp, precise, and just a little cold—drifted from inside. Almost immediately, another voice followed, calm and measured, each word that is deliberate: Principal Kenji Sakamoto. I stayed still, caught between wanting to open the door and the instinct to listen first.
I can’t make out what they are saying.
“Ah—there you are.” A voice came from behind me, close enough to make me flinch.
I turned to find the assistant principal standing there. Mr. Tanaka offered a small, polite smile.
His tie sat slightly crooked. He gave a reassuring nod toward the office door.
“No need to be nervous. It’s nothing serious, I promise,” he says.
I swallowed hard and pushed the door open. Inside, the room smelled faintly of polished wood and old books.
Principal Sakamoto sat behind the desk, perfectly still. The room waited on his words.
She’s here. My mother.
Hair perfectly styled. Expensive perfume. Posture sharp enough to cut glass. Arms crossed. Expression flawless, frozen like porcelain.
Her eyes landed on me immediately, scanning me like she’s checking for damage.
“There you are,” she says, voice cool and precise. She glances at her watch. “You're five seconds late.”
“I came straight here,” I mutter.
“Mm.” She dismisses my statement like it was unnecessary air.
“Anyway…” She folds her hands neatly in her lap. “We were discussing you.”
My stomach tightens.
“You, your father, your brother, and I will be leaving Tokyo this weekend,” she continues. “We’ll be staying in Okutama.” Her voice is crisp, businesslike — as if she’s reading from a calendar entry.
“I have already spoken with Principal Sakamoto.”
I nod, keeping my gaze steady, and say in a low voice, “It’s still middle of the term.”
That single phrase hangs in the air. Her gaze sharpens — a warning glint beneath her calm composure.
“There are personal family matters that require our presence,” she replies smoothly, giving no explanation to me, though her eyes flick toward Principal Sakamoto and Assistant Principal Tanaka — people who clearly already know more than I do.
Principal Sakamoto folds his hands on his desk.
“Your mother has informed us," he says, voice gentle but authoritative. “You will be excused from classes starting Friday. Your assignments will be prepared in advance to ensure you don’t fall behind.”
Assistant Principal Tanaka adds quickly: “If you need extensions or support afterward, just let us know. Don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Then I trust there won’t be any objections,” she says — not to them, but to me.
She doesn’t wait for an answer — because there isn’t one she will accept. Questioning her is pointless.
Wow. All decided already, huh? Could’ve just told me at home.
“…Yes.” I say quietly.
Her eyes skim over me — not with affection, but with a cold glare.
“Good,” she says, getting up from her seat and turning towards the door. “Then we’re finished here.”
