The dam of inferiority had finally burst, flooding Sumitomo Ryota with a clarity that was as bitter as it was inescapable. His steps had faltered long ago, his will refusing to bridge the chasm between memory and reality.
In his mind, Asato Hitomi was still just "Hitomi"—the bright-eyed leader of their childhood adventures, his closest friend. But the truth was a cold, sharp thing: the real Asato Hitomi had evolved, matured, and strode confidently toward a future he couldn't grasp, while he remained stubbornly anchored in a sentimental past.
I should have accepted this long ago…
The thought echoed with the weight of wasted time. Not only had he failed to move forward, but he'd become a nuisance, a source of trouble for the very person he claimed to cherish.
What in the world have I been doing? The urge to slap his own foolish face was almost overwhelming.
He finally understood: some people, once you fall out of step with them, are gone forever. A lifetime could pass in that gap. And that was why he—Kuroha Akira, this infuriating stranger—was the one standing beside her now, and not him.
Seeing the dawning comprehension and self-loathing on Sumitomo's face, Kuroha Akira decided to offer a sliver of clarity, if only to prevent any future, more troublesome misunderstandings.
"The Class Monitor and I are absolutely not in the kind of relationship you're imagining," Akira stated, his voice cutting through the heavy silence behind the sports shed. "Her making lunch was just part of a unilateral trade I proposed. I join the Literary Club; she provides a meal. That's the entire transaction. As for why she didn't let you join… you'll have to search your own conscience for that answer."
He paused, then added a more pragmatic footnote. "And that line about only cooking for her future husband… that was probably just a childhood joke. She likely doesn't even remember saying it. So, you can stand down. I'm not your rival. I have zero intention of pursuing the Class Monitor."
Akira walked over to where Sumitomo sat defeated in the gravel. He knelt, bringing himself to eye level. "So. The big question remains. Do you still want to fight?"
"…Damn it…!" Sumitomo's fists clenched in the dirt. He hated this feeling. He hated Kuroha Akira for being the catalyst that forced this ugly self-awareness upon him.
With a grunt of effort, Sumitomo pushed himself up, slapping the dust from his trousers in a gesture of final resolve. He then pointed a trembling finger at Akira. "One punch!"
"Huh?" Akira raised an eyebrow, the picture of mild curiosity.
"Just one punch! Let me hit you once! Then… then this ends!"
Akira understood. This wasn't about violence; it was a ritual. A physical period at the end of a chapter of his life, a way to externalize and expel all the frustration and regret. It was Sumitomo Ryota's version of Akira's own fateful phone call—a clumsy, painful farewell to a former self.
Cracking his own knuckles, Akira stood as well. "You're not expecting me to just stand here and take it like a sandbag, are you? I'll hit back, you know."
"Bring it on!" Sumitomo's expression hardened into one of grim determination, like a shonen protagonist facing his ultimate trial.
Seriously, with that look… I'm not the final boss of your character arc, Akira thought wryly. "Fine. Let's get it over with."
Sumitomo took a deep, shuddering breath, as if inhaling the last of his childish hopes. Then, with a raw shout, he charged, swinging a wide, telegraphed right hook with all his might, aiming straight for Akira's face.
Straight for the face, huh.
Most schoolyard fights avoided the face—too obvious, too hard to explain. Aiming for the gut or back was the unspoken rule. But since Sumitomo was going for symbolic finality, Akira decided to respond in kind.
He didn't retreat. Instead, he planted his feet, his eyes calmly tracking the arc of the incoming fist. Attacks to the head were predictable; the target area was small. As Sumitomo committed to the swing, Akira shifted his weight, turning his shoulder in a smooth, practiced motion. Sumitomo's fist grazed past Akira's cheek, stirring the air.
In the same motion, Akira's own right fist shot forward in a tight, efficient cross.
SMACK.
The sound of knuckles meeting nose cartilage was sickeningly crisp.
"Ugh…!" Sumitomo stumbled backward, clutching his face, but managed to stay upright. He didn't crumple, though every instinct screamed to lie down. Warm blood immediately seeped between his fingers, and the sharp pain brought an involuntary sting of tears to his eyes. He blinked furiously, jaw clenched.
Men bleed, but they don't cry. Not now.
Akira looked down at his own knuckles, stained red. The impact still vibrated unpleasantly through his hand. This is exactly why I hate fighting. It was a lose-lose transaction. The hitter didn't feel good, and the hit felt terrible. Only someone whose conscience had been entirely burned away by rage could derive pleasure from this.
He flexed his hand. "Want to go another round?"
"No… that's enough."
Despite missing, that one, all-out swing had carried with it the weight of all his unwillingness, his regret, his childish affection. Throwing it had drained him utterly, but in its wake came a strange, hollow relief. Perhaps he hadn't really wanted to hit Kuroha Akira at all. Maybe he just needed to try, to have the attempt itself become the punctuation mark he needed.
Wiping the blood from his nose with his sleeve, Sumitomo looked at Akira, his eyes a complex mix of pain, resignation, and a bizarre, transferred sense of duty. "Kuroha Akira… you have to make her happy!"
Akira couldn't stop the exasperated eye-roll. Why are you saying this like you're her father giving her away at a wedding?
"Her happiness is her own to find," Akira replied, his tone flat. "I don't have the right to 'give' it, nor should I. That's not how it works."
"…Yeah. You're right." Happiness was something you fought for yourself. And he had lost his chance to fight by her side a long time ago.
On that afternoon, behind the sports shed, Sumitomo Ryota's heart was forcibly weaned from its boyhood. The painful, definitive fact of his lost love settled into his bones.
…
As lunch break neared its end, Kuroha Akira and Sumitomo Ryota returned to the classroom separately, under the stern gaze of Kobayakawa-sensei, who was waiting by the door. Clearly, the Class Monitor had filed a preemptive report.
The visual evidence was damning. One returned unscathed; the other sported a freshly bloodied nose and a swelling cheekbone. A collective gasp rippled through the class. Sumitomo Ryota got beat? Is Kuroha Akira secretly a martial arts prodigy?
The social fallout was immediate. Two of Sumitomo's friends from the popular circle shot dark, threatening glares at Akira—You're gonna pay for this. A ponytailed girl who often hung around their group looked at Sumitomo with palpable distress, then leveled a look of pure resentment at Akira.
This is exactly why I wanted to avoid this, Akira sighed internally. Now I'm cast as the villain in their little drama. He could only hope Sumitomo would keep his friends in line and not send them after him one by one, like some tedious side-quest chain.
His gaze found Asato Hitomi. Seeing her subtle sigh of relief upon his safe return offered a minor, solitary comfort. At least the client acknowledged the risks taken.
The obligatory trip to the staff room followed. Under Kobayakawa-sensei's concerned interrogation, Akira remained silent, letting Sumitomo take the lead.
"It was my fault," Sumitomo stated, not meeting the teacher's eyes. "I provoked him. My nose… I fell. That's all."
"Is that true, Kuroha-kun?" Kobayakawa-sensei asked, her expression doubtful.
"If that's his story, then that's what happened," Akira replied neutrally.
"…"
Kobayakawa-sensei was naive, not stupid. She could clearly see the marks of a fist on Sumitomo's face, not a fall. What baffled her was why Sumitomo seemed to have accepted his defeat and was no longer hostile.
"Alright then," she said, deciding to take the out they offered. "As your teacher, I'll consider this matter closed. I don't want to resort to suspensions. I expect you two to get along from now on. Now, shake hands and make up."
"Tch…" Sumitomo couldn't hide his displeasure. He still disliked Kuroha Akira intensely—a sour cocktail of residual jealousy and plain annoyance. Even if he'd given up his own claim, the thought of Akira winning Hitomi's favor was galling.
Damn it! I hope you get your heart broken too! Then maybe we could be miserable together… I might even buy you ramen…
Akira, however, was almost eager. This was a perfect opportunity. He extended his hand first, an act of apparent magnanimity that made Kobayakawa-sensei's heart swell with teacherly pride.
See! Kuroha-kun is a peacemaker! He was clearly just defending himself!
With great reluctance, Sumitomo gripped his hand.
And in that moment of contact, Kuroha Akira focused. The translucent text materialized over Sumitomo's right knuckles:
[Boxing – A]
Whoa. Akira's internal monologue did a double-take. So he's got a latent S-rank talent he doesn't even know about? If he'd actually trained… my face would be a pancake right now.
As they released the handshake, a new, pragmatic thought crystallized in Akira's mind. Okay, new priority: do not make an enemy of this guy. Be friends. Definitely be friends.
He offered Sumitomo a small, conciliatory nod, a silent vow forming.
I promise, he thought with sudden, earnest sincerity, I will never hit your face again.