The air in Class 2-B of Aoyama High School carried the restless weight of teenage anticipation. Chatter buzzed like static electricity, punctuated by laughter and the occasional scrape of chair legs against the polished wood floor. The second semester had begun, and with it came rumors—rumors of a new homeroom teacher. The last one had taken a sudden leave of absence, and speculation about their replacement was running wild.
Takashi Arata lounged in his seat near the window, his elbow propped lazily on the desk, cheek resting on his palm. His dark eyes stared outside where sunlight painted golden patterns on the schoolyard. His disheveled black hair caught stray beams of light, giving it a slight bronze sheen. At eighteen, Takashi was known more for his aloof charm than academic dedication. Still, he was sharp, quietly observant, and quick to notice what others didn't.
He tuned out the conversations around him—Sora bragging about his weekend at the arcade, Kaede and Yui giggling over a pop idol's new single. None of it interested him. He wasn't exactly looking forward to meeting this new teacher, but something in the unsettled air made him curious.
The classroom door slid open, cutting through the noise like a blade.
"Class, attention!" called the assistant teacher, Mr. Inoue, his voice sharp and commanding. "Stand."
The students shuffled to their feet in a wave of creaking chairs and rustling fabric.
"This is your new homeroom teacher, Mizuki-sensei. Treat her with the respect she deserves."
She stepped into the room.
For a moment, silence.
Mizuki Ayane stood poised, hands folded neatly in front of her, a gentle but firm expression softening her refined features. She wore a navy blazer over a cream blouse, her skirt modest but stylish. Her long chestnut hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, a few wisps framing her face. She couldn't have been more than her mid-twenties, but something about her presence—the unshakable calm, the unforced grace—spoke of someone far older in spirit.
Takashi felt something shift.
It wasn't love at first sight, nor even attraction in the usual sense. It was more like... fascination. A curiosity that curled low in his chest, slow-burning. She wasn't like the other teachers—tight-lipped, short-tempered, or overly enthusiastic. Mizuki-sensei exuded composure, as if she'd stepped out of a different world and into theirs.
"Good morning, everyone," she said, her voice smooth and steady, like the first sip of warm tea on a cold day. "My name is Mizuki Ayane. I'll be your homeroom teacher for the rest of the year. I teach modern literature."
A few boys straightened noticeably in their seats. Some of the girls whispered behind cupped hands, eyes gleaming with intrigue. Mizuki-sensei ignored the undercurrent of excitement with practiced ease.
"I'm not here to be your friend," she continued, pacing slowly in front of the class, her eyes scanning their faces. "But I do believe in understanding my students. If we respect each other, I think we'll get along just fine."
Her gaze passed over Takashi—and stopped.
It was a brief moment, no longer than a heartbeat. But Takashi felt the weight of her attention settle on him like snowfall—cool and silent. And just like that, she moved on, addressing the seating arrangements and classroom rules.
He exhaled slowly, wondering why the air had grown warmer.
---
Later that day, after a long stretch of lectures and introductions, Takashi lingered behind as most students filtered out for lunch. Mizuki-sensei remained at the front desk, organizing papers. Something compelled him to stay—not out of obligation, but an itch in the back of his mind he couldn't quite scratch.
He approached casually, hands in his pockets. She looked up, not surprised.
"Arata-kun, was it?"
He nodded, tilting his head slightly. "You remembered."
"I try to remember names on the first day. It's part of the job."
Her tone was neutral, but not cold. She continued stacking papers, her fingers deft and precise.
"You teach literature?"
"Yes," she said, glancing at him. "Do you enjoy reading?"
Takashi shrugged. "Depends."
"On what?"
"On the author. Or the story."
She smiled faintly, just the corners of her lips lifting. "A fair answer. Literature is about finding something that speaks to you."
He leaned against a desk, watching her closely. "What speaks to you, Mizuki-sensei?"
The question hung in the air, bold and disarming. Mizuki paused mid-motion, her expression unreadable.
"That's a little forward for a first conversation, don't you think?"
"Maybe."
She studied him for a second longer, then looked down at her stack again. "Go have lunch, Arata-kun."
He didn't argue. As he turned to leave, she added, almost as an afterthought, "But if you ever want to talk about literature—or the right author—my door's open."
---
That night, Takashi lay on his bed, one arm behind his head, eyes on the ceiling fan spinning slow circles overhead. He wasn't the type to be easily shaken, but Mizuki Ayane lingered in his mind longer than he liked to admit.
There was something about her—an elegance not just in appearance, but in thought, in movement. She carried herself like someone who had learned how to be still in a loud world. Takashi, who thrived on unpredictability, found her silence more intriguing than any wild energy.
He wanted to know what she read, what made her laugh, what made her sad. Who she was beneath the professional mask she wore so well.
He didn't know if it was admiration, curiosity, or something deeper beginning to bloom. But one thing was certain: Mizuki Ayane had stepped into his life—and Takashi wasn't going to forget her anytime soon.
And as summer rain began tapping gently at his window, he found himself reaching for the one book she'd mentioned in class—Soseki's
*Kokoro.*
Maybe, he thought, there was something to this literature thing after all.