The school was quieter after hours. Gone were the bursts of laughter in the corridors, the slam of lockers, the rolling footsteps of rushing students. Only the subtle echoes of distant voices remained, carried on the hush of the early evening.
Mizuki Ayane sat at her desk in the empty classroom of 2-B, a cup of warm green tea steaming beside a pile of literature worksheets. The sun had begun its descent, casting long shadows across the rows of desks. She glanced at the clock—4:12 PM.
Right on cue, the classroom door slid open.
"You're punctual," Mizuki said without looking up.
"Only for things that matter," Takashi replied, setting his bag down beside the front-row desk and lowering himself into the chair.
It had been his suggestion—a request that surprised even him. He had come to her after school two days ago, asking for help with the reading material they'd started in class: *No Longer Human* by Osamu Dazai. Mizuki hadn't questioned his motives. She simply agreed, told him to come by Thursday after school, and resumed grading.
Now, as he opened his worn copy of the novel, the silence between them felt curiously comfortable.
"So," Mizuki began, "what about Dazai's story confused you?"
Takashi tapped a finger on a highlighted passage. "The narrator keeps saying he feels disconnected from everyone, even when he's surrounded by people. But he never really explains why. It just is."
Mizuki nodded, folding her hands over her notebook. "Alienation doesn't always come with reasons. Sometimes it's a slow erosion, not a single crack. People drift away from others—and from themselves—until they can't recognize the distance anymore."
Takashi was quiet for a moment, then asked, "Is that what happened to you?"
Her brow lifted slightly.
"You talk like someone who's drifted before."
There was no accusation in his tone—just quiet observation.
Mizuki leaned back, eyes focused on a point beyond the window. "When you spend time in solitude, you learn to be at peace with it. But it can make rejoining the world... difficult."
Takashi watched her. "So you were alone."
"By choice, sometimes. By circumstance, other times."
She returned her gaze to him. "You're insightful. But this tutoring session is for your benefit. Not mine."
He gave a lazy smirk. "Isn't the best kind of learning mutual?"
She smiled, just faintly. "Touché."
---
As the hour stretched on, their talk ebbed and flowed between paragraphs and personal moments. Takashi confessed he didn't read much outside of class, but he liked words that felt honest—unpolished truth. Mizuki revealed that she'd once wanted to be a novelist, but found more meaning in guiding others through stories already written.
"So why didn't you write your own?" he asked.
"I tried," she said. "But I realized I was more interested in understanding people than creating them."
"That's ironic," Takashi replied. "Most people write to understand themselves."
Mizuki tilted her head. "And what do you do to understand yourself?"
He paused, staring at the open book in front of him. "I pretend I don't care until I do."
The air between them stilled.
"That sounds exhausting," she said gently.
"It is," he admitted, voice low.
For a while, there was only the quiet rustling of papers. Outside, a lone cicada called. A breeze drifted in through the cracked window, carrying with it the smell of sun-warmed pavement and distant pine.
"You know," Mizuki said after a pause, "students don't often talk this openly with their teachers."
"You don't act like a typical teacher."
"Because I don't lecture you?"
"Because you listen. And you don't pretend to have all the answers."
She looked at him then—not with the analytic gaze of a teacher, but with a kind of subdued acknowledgment. "Sometimes, the best thing a person can offer is presence."
He gave a small, crooked smile. "You're good at that."
She shook her head lightly, as if brushing off the compliment, but her eyes softened.
---
The session ended quietly. Mizuki handed him a few annotated notes, pages peppered with questions rather than answers. Takashi took them without comment, slipping them into his bag. As he stood to leave, he glanced at her desk—the small ceramic cup of tea now empty, the corner of a worn paperback peeking out from beneath her papers.
"What are you reading?" he asked.
She hesitated, then slid the book forward. *Kitchen* by Banana Yoshimoto.
"Good?"
"Very. Subtle. Lonely in a beautiful way."
He nodded. "Maybe I'll borrow it sometime."
She arched an eyebrow. "You read Dazai first. Then we'll talk."
He grinned. "Deal."
As he turned to leave, Mizuki called after him. "Same time next week?"
He paused, half-turning. "If you'll have me."
"Only if you keep asking dangerous questions."
He gave a mock salute and disappeared down the hallway.
---
That night, as Mizuki sat alone in her apartment, she opened her journal—something she hadn't written in for months. But tonight, the stillness felt too full. Thoughts needed space.
She wrote: *Arata Takashi—curious, observant, careful with his words but careless with his heart. I should be cautious. And yet, I find myself wondering what he sees when he looks at me.*
Meanwhile, in his own room, Takashi lay back against his pillows, Dazai's novel open on his chest. He wasn't reading it so much as remembering how her voice sounded reading aloud earlier—cool and even, yet layered with something just below the surface.
He'd asked for help understanding literature. But he was beginning to suspect that what he really wanted to understand was her.
And for the first time in a long while, he looked forward to next Thursday—not for the book, but for the quiet space they'd found between the lines.