A hand suddenly covered my eyes.
“Mizuki!”
The voice was cheerful, light, and far too close.
I let out a small sigh.
“Noa,” I said, not even trying to guess.
“You always try to surprise me with sudden actions.”
The hand lifted.
When I turned around, she was already standing in front of me, smiling.
Noa stood there with that same easy brightness she always carried, as if mornings were something to be enjoyed rather than endured.
Her short, dark hair framed her face softly, a faint blue tint catching the light from the windows behind her.
A small star-shaped hairpin rested near her bangs, glinting just enough to draw the eye without demanding attention.
Her eyes were clear and warm, curved slightly with her smile—not wide or exaggerated, just gentle.
The kind of expression that made you feel like everything was fine, even when it wasn’t.
She wore the same sailor-style school uniform as everyone else, neat and simple, with a dark collar resting comfortably over her shoulders.
Her skirt swayed gently as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
Nothing about her appearance demanded attention.
And yet…
she always stood out.
“You didn’t even flinch,” Noa said, pouting slightly.
“I was hoping to scare you this time.”
I looked at her for a moment before shaking my head.
“You never do.”
She laughed softly, brushing it off as though it didn’t matter.
“That’s boring.”
I turned back toward my window-side desk, but she followed without hesitation, stopping beside me instead of sitting down right away.
Sunlight filtered through the classroom windows, catching in her hair and softening her outline.
She leaned forward slightly, resting both hands on the edge of my desk, still smiling.
“You look tired,” she said.
There was no accusation in her voice.
Only quiet concern.
“I’m fine,” I replied.
She hummed, clearly unconvinced, but didn’t push.
That was Noa.
She noticed everything…
And still knew when to let things go.
For a moment, the classroom noise faded into the background.
Chairs scraping.
Students talking.
The ordinary rhythm of another school morning.
Noa straightened and met my eyes again.
“Well,” she said lightly, “I’m glad you’re here.”
I didn’t answer right away.
But…
I was glad she was here too.
A few seconds later, the classroom settled.
The teacher walked in with several books tucked beneath one arm, and the room shifted into something quieter and more restrained.
Conversations faded.
Chairs straightened.
I took my seat by the window, folding my hands loosely on the desk.
Class began.
The morning passed in fragments.
Chalk gliding across the blackboard.
Pages turning.
The steady rhythm of explanations and note-taking.
I listened when I needed to.
Wrote when it mattered.
And let the rest drift past like background noise.
Sometimes I caught Noa glancing at me.
Not staring.
Just checking.
Each time…
I pretended not to notice.
By the time the lunch bell rang, the room felt lighter.
Students stood, chairs scraping against the floor as the structure of class gave way to movement once more.
I packed my bag and stood.
Noa was already beside me, smiling as though she’d been waiting for that exact moment.
“Lunch?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Yeah.”
The air smelled different there.
Warm food.
Conversation.
Something comforting in its familiarity.
We found an empty table near the side and sat down.
I opened my lunch slowly.
Noa did the same, humming softly to herself as though the morning hadn’t drained her at all.
“That class was exhausting,” she said, poking at her food.
“I swear the teacher enjoys watching us struggle.”
A quiet breath escaped me.
It might have been a laugh.
“At least it wasn’t as bad as yesterday.”
She brightened immediately.
“True.
Yesterday was worse.”
We ate together without rushing.
She talked about small things.
A question she had almost answered correctly.
A classmate who had fallen asleep during the lecture.
How the notes were already blurring together in her head.
Nothing serious.
Nothing heavy.
I listened.
I answered whenever it felt natural.
For a while, the world narrowed to the small space between us.
The table.
The chatter surrounding us.
The simple comfort of sharing a meal.
No powers.
No danger.
No unseen eyes watching from somewhere beyond.
Just lunch.
I glanced at Noa as she laughed softly at one of her own stories, sunlight catching the edge of her hair.
For this moment…
Everything felt normal.
And I allowed myself to stay there a little longer.
I kept one hand near my pocket, pretending to listen while Noa continued talking about our next class.
But my thoughts had already wandered elsewhere.
That was close.
My fingers brushed lightly against the pen.
Inside my mind, worry surfaced before I could stop it.
…Did she notice anything?
I didn’t speak aloud.
The thought simply echoed inward.
For a fraction of a second…
There was nothing.
Then—
We’re here.
The first voice answered, calm and steady.
No abnormal reaction, the second followed.
Her attention was curiosity, not suspicion.
I released a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
Good.
Their presence didn’t press against my thoughts.
Didn’t crowd my mind.
It remained where it always did now.
Close.
Controlled.
Reassuring.
To her, one of them said, it’s just a pen.
An ordinary object, the other agreed.
Perception aligned.
My shoulders relaxed.
For one brief second…
I felt it too.
Not a weapon.
Not a boundary between worlds.
Just a pen.
Matte black.
Forgettable.
Ordinary.
I looked back at Noa.
She was laughing softly at something she’d just said, completely unaware that a silent test had already passed.
“…Yeah,” I replied, a beat too late.
And for that brief moment…
Sitting there at lunch.
Surrounded by noise.
Sunlight.
Easy conversation.
I almost believed it.
That it really was just a pen.
That this really was just another normal day.
Almost.
A few days passed like that.
Quiet.
Ordinary.
So ordinary…
It almost felt convincing.
Classes began and ended.
Lunches were shared.
Conversations stayed light.
I walked home.
Woke up.
Repeated the same routine.
Nothing cracked.
Nothing resisted.
Somewhere within that rhythm…
My guard slipped.
I should have known better.
When people begin believing everything is fine…
That’s when things break.
At first…
It was small.
One empty seat.
I noticed it without meaning to.
The desk beside me by the window remained untouched when the bell rang.
I glanced toward the classroom door once, expecting Noa to rush in late with an apologetic smile, like she sometimes did.
She didn’t.
Maybe she’s sick, I told myself.
The next day…
The seat was empty again.
And the day after that.
Two days became three.
No laughter during lunch.
No sudden hand covering my eyes.
No quiet complaints about class being boring.
Her absence grew louder than any sound.
On the fourth morning, unease settled inside me before class even began.
The teacher stood at the front of the room longer than usual.
His hands were folded together.
His expression was stiff in a way that didn’t belong in a classroom.
The conversations faded on their own.
“I have an announcement,” he said.
My fingers tightened around the pen in my pocket.
“There was an accident,” he continued, his voice careful and distant.
“One of your classmates…
Noa…”
Her name struck me before the sentence was finished.
“…passed away.”
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