A week passed.

  Then two.

  I started learning the rhythm of things. How the teacher’s voice always rose slightly before asking a question. When the vending machines restocked. That the third step leading to the second-floor landing creaked just slightly louder than the others.

  Small details. Observations. I couldn’t stop myself. The Katsuragi part of me still analyzed everything.

  But I also started… breathing differently.

  There were no weekly evaluations. No tutors. No eyes measuring me from behind frosted glass.

  And yet—I still woke up early. Still ironed my uniform. Still reflexively bowed slightly when someone passed by in the hallway.

  Old habits, carved deep.

  Sugimura and I talked more now. Casual stuff. Anime, food, whether or not the math teacher wore a wig. I didn’t say much at first, but over time, my sentences started to stretch.

  “Do you think if we pull the wig off, he’ll evolve like a Pokémon?” I once asked.

  Sugimura nearly spat out his milk. “Bro. Don't make me laugh mid-sip. I nearly died.”

  “Natural selection,” I said with a shrug. “Weak lungs.”

  He cackled. “You're a menace, Minami. I like it.”

  Hayasaka, too, sometimes smiled at me during class, or left notes in the margins of shared worksheets.

  Your handwriting is really clean. Do you use a ruler to write?

  I didn’t. It was just drilled into me.

  But I wrote back anyway.

  Maybe I’ll teach you. Then I won’t be the only nerd.

  She replied: Deal. But only if I get to be the cool nerd.

  ◇◆◇◆◇

  It was Sugimura who dragged me into the gym.

  “C’mon, tryouts aren’t scary. You’ve got the stance of a shogun, man. Bet you’re secretly OP.”

  “I haven’t played basketball seriously before.”

  “Good. That means you won’t overthink it.” I overthought it anyway.

  The court was loud, the smell of sweat and gym floor wax oddly nostalgic. The club captain—Ichikawa-senpai—was tall, broad-shouldered, and had a voice like he’d swallowed a megaphone.

  “Transfer student, huh?” he said, tossing me a ball. “Let’s see what you got.”

  I caught it. Held it.

  I didn’t even remember the rules.

  I looked at the hoop, and all I could think of was: What happens if I miss?

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  I hesitated.

  Sugimura nudged me. “Relax. No one dies here.”

  So I dribbled.

  Tried a shot.

  It bounced off the rim, clattering wide.

  A few chuckles. Not cruel. Just honest.

  I flushed.

  Ichikawa clapped. “Not bad. Form’s decent. You move like you know how to fight.”

  “I used to do martial arts,” I murmured.

  “Good. That means you won’t fold on defense.”

  They let me join practice.

  I ran drills. Sweated. Tripped once. Swore once. Laughed.

  Something loosened in my chest.

  Not pride, not perfection, just motion.

  ?　?　?

  After practice, I sat outside with a towel around my shoulders, watching the orange-pink sky bleed behind the rooftops. Sugimura flopped beside me like a dying fish, chugging a sports drink.

  “Not bad, Minami,” he said. “You’ve got this… weird calm thing going on. Like a samurai who’s seen too much.”

  “I’m just tired.”

  He snorted. “Nah, you’re built different. Bet if you missed a layup in a past life, you'd commit ritual sudoku.”

  “Seppuku,” I corrected.

  “Whatever. You get the point.”

  I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling. We sat there until the light dimmed.

  ◇◆◇◆◇

  A few days later, Hayasaka found me behind the school, sketching in my notebook.

  It wasn’t art. Just lines. Angles. Diagramming basketball plays like I used to break down sword stances.

  “You really are a nerd,” she said softly, peering over my shoulder.

  I snapped the notebook shut. Reflex.

  She didn’t flinch.

  “Sorry,” I muttered. “It’s a habit.”

  “You’re allowed to have those.”

  She sat beside me.

  Silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. The trees rustled, soft and green. Somewhere nearby, someone laughed—shrill and bright and forgettable.

  “I used to think being perfect was the only way to be loved,” I said, voice quieter than the breeze.

  She looked at me—not startled. Not pitying.

  “Is it?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  She nodded.

  Then reached over and tapped my notebook.

  “You’re allowed to draw crooked lines, too, you know.”

  I looked down at the page.

  And added one.

  Crooked. Pointless. But mine.

  ◇◆◇◆◇

  Years turned like pages.

  We graduated elementary.

  Class 6-2 scattered, but somehow, the three of us stayed in orbit.

  Hayasaka and I ended up in the same class year after year. Like fate had given up trying to separate us. Sugimura got swapped out during junior high—some scheduling anomaly—but even the universe couldn’t hold him away for long.

  He came back louder, taller, and with an even worse sense of humor.

  “Miss me?” he asked, on his first day back.

  “Like a toothache,” I replied.

  “Aw. He does care.”

  In junior high, I started talking more. Voluntarily. I made jokes—dry, sarcastic ones—but jokes all the same. I even started teasing Hayasaka.

  One time, she tripped over her shoelace in the hallway.

  “You good?” I asked, helping her up.

  “Yeah. Just lost to gravity.”

  “Happens. It’s undefeated.”

  She laughed, brushing dust from her skirt. “Someday I’ll win.”

  “Just don’t take me down with you.”

  ◇◆◇◆◇

  High school came quietly. Same blue blazers, same desk near the window, same two people at my side.

  But I’d grown. A little taller. A little braver. Less afraid to speak. Less afraid to mess up.

  Hayasaka still wrote in my notebook sometimes. Her handwriting had improved, but she still added little hearts to her exclamation marks when she was in a good mood.

  Sugimura started growing out his hair. Bad decision. I told him so.

  “Jealousy detected,” he said.

  “You look like an anime villain halfway through redemption.”

  “And you look like the side character who dies halfway through season one.”

  “…Fair.”

  ◇◆◇◆◇

  One spring afternoon, after exams, Hayasaka and I sat under the sakura tree behind the gym.

  Petals floated around us, slow and aimless.

  She had her head tilted back, eyes closed. “I love this time of year.”

  “It’s nice,” I said.

  “You sound surprised.”

  “I used to hate spring. It meant another evaluation was coming. Another ranking. Another time to prove I was worth the Katsuragi name.”

  “And now?”

  I looked at her.

  The wind carried her scent—something soft and clean.

  “Now it just smells like flowers and cheap cafeteria bread.”

  She snorted. “Poetic.”

  “I try.”

  She turned her head, eyes half-lidded. “Do you still think perfection is the only way to be loved?”

  I didn’t even hesitate.

  “No.”

  She smiled. Not like someone who’d won. But like someone who’d been waiting.

  Then she leaned her head on my shoulder.

  And this time, I didn’t flinch.

  I leaned back. Let the breeze wash over us.

  We sat in the quiet, wrapped in warmth, laughter still echoing faintly from the building behind us.

  Not a judgment. Not a test. Just us.

  And crooked lines I never wanted to erase.

  To be continued...