The new girl arrived on a Tuesday.
That alone made it irritating.
The teacher stood at the front of the room longer than usual, fingers tapping against the desk. Kaito barely looked up. Transfer students were common. Most of them faded into the background within weeks.
"We have a new student," the teacher said. "Please introduce yourself."
Kaito glanced up out of habit.
She stood near the board, posture straight, uniform flawless. Black hair tied back neatly, eyes sharp and assessing—like she was already measuring the room. When she spoke, her voice was calm, precise.
"My name is Yuri," she said. "I hope we get along."
No one believed her.
The teacher scanned the room, then pointed. "There's an empty seat. Second row. Next to Kaito."
Of course.
Yuri walked down the aisle without acknowledging him. Sat. Opened her notebook. Took out a pen. Didn't look his way.
Kaito decided immediately that he didn't like her.
Not because she was rude—because she acted like she didn't need to be polite.
They didn't speak that day.
Or the next.
Or the next.
But silence didn't last.
Yuri answered questions. Every time. Correct answers, delivered without hesitation. Teachers started calling on her. Students started whispering. Yuri didn't react to any of it.
Kaito hated that more than he should have.
"You're not even taking notes," Yuri said one afternoon, glancing at his blank page.
"Not your concern," Kaito replied.
She clicked her pen once. Sharp. Irritated. "Then don't sit here."
"Talk to the teacher."
She looked like she wanted to say something worse. She didn't.
That became the pattern.
They clashed over group assignments. Over shared desk space. Over chairs scraping too loudly. Kaito thought Yuri was controlling. Yuri thought Kaito was careless. He called her rigid. She called him irresponsible.
During gym class, a ball flew toward Yuri's head.
Kaito caught it.
Pure reflex. No thought.
Yuri froze, eyes locked on the ball in his hand.
"…Thanks," she said stiffly.
He tossed it back. "Pay attention."
Her jaw tightened. She turned away.
Peace lasted exactly three seconds.
One Month Later
Nothing improved.
They coexisted like oil and water—forced into proximity, refusing to mix. Teachers paired them deliberately. Classmates watched like it was entertainment.
Kaito noticed Yuri stayed late after class. Yuri noticed Kaito left early, always in a hurry. Neither asked why.
One afternoon, as the bell rang, Yuri stood first and shouldered her bag.
"You're wasting your abilities," she said, not looking at him.
Kaito paused. "You don't know anything about me."
She stopped at the doorway. For a moment, something in her expression cracked—frustration, maybe. Or something closer to concern.
"…Then stop acting like you don't care," she said.
She left.
Kaito stayed seated, staring at the desk.
He told himself her opinion didn't matter.
He told himself that a lot.
Down the hallway, the lights flickered once—then steadied.
Neither of them noticed.