Rei and Hana

The air outside buzzed with late-spring warmth. Laughter echoed from the basketball court, sneakers squeaking against cracked pavement. Students lounged under the trees or leaned on the fence, scrolling their phones and pretending not to be bored. Rei Kurose stood near the courtyard rail with two of her friends, uniform jacket tied loose around her waist, one hand wrapped around a half-empty bottle of green tea. Her hair caught the sun—dark with a violet tint—and her smile came easy, practiced. “Yo, you see that new third-year transfer?” one of the girls asked. Rei hummed, half listening, eyes drifting past the crowd. “Yeah. He looks like trouble.” She said it lazily, more habit than thought, her attention already slipping elsewhere. Beneath the bleachers by the track, Hana Ito sat cross-legged, sketchbook on her knees. A few pieces of bread crust rested beside her—leftovers from lunch. Her bangs covered most of her eyes, but she watched people the way quiet kids always did—studying before daring to exist. Every burst of laughter made her shrink a little smaller. Someone’s ball bounced too close; she flinched, muttered a small “Sorry” even though she hadn’t done anything. From the distance, Rei’s friends were still talking, loud and carefree. But Rei’s gaze had wandered—to the bleachers, to the quiet girl trying not to be noticed. For just a second, their eyes almost met. Then the bell rang, sharp and metallic, scattering the moment like dust. Rei turned away first. Hana closed her sketchbook. Neither of them knew that this was the first time their worlds had brushed