Ren Arakawa did not believe in meaningful beginnings.

  Days did not announce themselves as important. They did not shift colors or slow down when something was about to change. They arrived the same way every time—gray morning light leaking through thin curtains, the sound of dishes in the kitchen, the faint hum of traffic already alive outside.

  He woke before his alarm. He usually did. Silence was rare, but mornings gave him something close to it. Thoughts in neighboring apartments were still half-formed, soft, unfocused. Sleep dulled people. He appreciated that about them.

  He lay on his back for a moment, staring at the ceiling.

  Today will be the same.

  The thought wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t sad. It was neutral. Ren preferred neutral.

  From the kitchen, his mother’s footsteps moved lightly across the floor. She had remarried two years ago, and her new husband rose early for work. Their thoughts were not loud. Not sharp. Domestic thoughts rarely were.

  Did I pack his lunch?

  He’s growing taller.

  He doesn’t talk much these days.

  Ren closed his eyes. He did not dislike them. That was important. Dislike required friction. They were gentle presences in his life, and gentleness was tolerable.

  He dressed in silence, buttoning his uniform with mechanical precision. In the mirror, he looked like what people expected of a first-year honor student—neat, composed, distant. His expression had settled into something that teachers described as “serious” and classmates labeled “cold.”

  Cold was easier.

  At breakfast, his mother smiled at him.

  “Eat properly,” she said.

  “I will.”

  Short answers kept things simple. The less he spoke, the less people projected. Words invited expectation.

  On the train, the world fully awakened. Thoughts sharpened.

  I forgot my homework.

  Why does that guy smell like that?

  I should confess today.

  No, I can’t.

  Ren shifted slightly, adjusting his grip on the strap. Confession. That word again. It had floated near him too often lately. Yesterday’s envelope still sat unopened in his bag.

  He hadn’t thrown it away. That was the strange part. He could have. It would have been efficient. Clean. Instead, it remained there—thin, patient, accusing.

  He didn’t open it on the train. He didn’t need the confirmation. He already knew the pattern. First-year novelty. Quiet boy. Good grades. Mysterious enough to be interesting.

  He stepped off at Seiryu High with the rest of the crowd, absorbed into the current of uniforms and chatter. The school building rose ahead of him, pale concrete warmed by early sunlight.

  High school was supposed to be transformative. People said that often. Ren suspected it was simply a louder version of middle school.

  Inside Class 1-A, the noise resumed at full strength.

  He’s here.

  Should I give it to him today?

  Maybe he already read it.

  What if he rejects her?

  Ren’s steps slowed for half a second. There. He did not look. Looking encouraged hope. He placed his bag down, slid into his seat near the back window, and opened his notebook. Outside, the courtyard stretched open and indifferent.

  Haruto Minami burst into the classroom moments later, voice first, body second.

  “Morning, geniuses!” he announced.

  Did I study enough? he thought immediately after, betraying himself. Ren almost smirked. Haruto’s thoughts were rarely malicious. Loud, yes. Insecure, often. But not cruel. That made him easier to tolerate.

  Mika Hoshino followed behind him, balancing a convenience store pastry between her fingers.

  “Ren,” she called, sliding into the seat in front of him and turning around dramatically, “are you ignoring us or is that just your personality?”

  “Both,” Ren replied without looking up.

  She blinked, then grinned.

  He’s impossible. It’s kind of fun.

  Fun. There was that word again.

  Ren turned a page.

  Class began. Mathematics first. The teacher called on him midway through the lesson, as usual.

  “Arakawa, the answer?”

  He stood smoothly. “The limit approaches zero.”

  Correct. Of course it does.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  Show-off.

  Why does he always know it?

  He sat down. There was a specific fatigue that came from being correct too often. It painted a target you never asked for.

  Midway through the morning, a folded note landed softly on his desk. Not the envelope. A different one. He stared at it for three seconds. He did not touch it.

  The classroom buzzed with suppressed anticipation.

  Did she do it?

  Is he going to read it?

  What if he rejects her?

  Ren picked it up calmly and unfolded it. It was short.

  Can we talk after school? Just for a minute.

  No name. He didn’t need one. His gaze lifted briefly. Two rows ahead, a girl with shoulder-length hair stared rigidly at her textbook. Her thoughts trembled.

  Please don’t hate me.

  Please don’t make it embarrassing.

  Ren folded the note again. This was inefficient. He preferred direct confrontation. Lingering hope was worse than sharp endings.

  At lunch, Haruto and Mika dragged him to the courtyard despite his minimal resistance.

  “You look like you’re about to execute someone,” Mika said, squinting at him.

  “I might,” Ren replied.

  Haruto laughed. “That’s concerning.”

  They sat under the cherry tree again. Wind rustled faintly through branches that had not yet bloomed.

  Ren finally reached into his bag. He pulled out the envelope from yesterday. White. Neat handwriting. He turned it over once, then opened it. Inside was exactly what he expected. Careful words. Admiration. Compliments about how calm he seemed. How kind he looked. How she wanted to know him better.

  Kind.

  Ren stared at that word longer than the others. Kindness was a projection. He folded the letter back with clinical neatness.

  Mika leaned closer. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you going to answer?”

  “Yes.”

  Haruto tilted his head. “Nicely?”

  Ren didn’t respond.

  After school, he did not linger. He walked directly to the quiet corner behind the gym where the girl waited.

  She turned when she heard his footsteps. Her name surfaced through her thoughts before she spoke. Ayane Fujimoto.

  Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

  He stopped at a polite distance.

  “You wrote this?” he asked, holding up the envelope.

  She nodded. Silence stretched. Ren could hear her heartbeat in her thoughts. Rapid. Fragile.

  He chose precision.

  “I appreciate the effort,” he said evenly. “But you don’t know me.”

  Her eyes flickered.

  “I— I want to.”

  “You don’t,” he corrected gently. The words were not cruel. They were controlled.

  “You think I’m calm. That I’m kind.” He paused. “I’m not.”

  Confusion rippled through her.

  “You’re kind,” she insisted softly.

  Ren almost laughed.

  “That’s the problem,” he said. “You’re in love with an outline.”

  Her lips trembled.

  He continued, voice steady, not raised, not sharp.

  “People fall for the idea of someone. The quiet boy. The smart one. The one who doesn’t cause trouble. But that’s just surface tension. It breaks the moment you look deeper.”

  She looked at him like he was speaking another language.

  Ren exhaled slowly.

  “I don’t hate you,” he added. “But I won’t pretend.”

  The silence afterward felt heavier than noise. Tears welled in her eyes despite her effort.

  I knew it. I shouldn’t have tried.

  He turned before pity could form. Pity complicated things.

  As he walked away, the courtyard sounds returned—students laughing, shoes scraping pavement, life continuing without pause.

  Ren did not feel victorious. He felt correct. Correctness was colder than cruelty.

  On his way home, he passed a small café.

  The smell of whipped cream and sugar hit him the moment he pushed open the door. Sweet. Heavy. Artificially cheerful.

  Ren Arakawa almost turned around. He didn’t even like milkshakes that much. They were too sweet. Too soft. But the afternoon had stretched longer than expected, and bitterness alone didn’t always quiet the noise in his head.

  He stepped inside. The café was small, polished wood tables reflecting warm overhead lights. The kind of place couples liked. The kind of place that advertised “comfort.”

  He ordered a chocolate milkshake.

  “Whipped cream?” the cashier asked.

  He hesitated for half a second. “Sure.”

  He paid, took the receipt, and scanned the room. A small table in the corner looked empty enough. Perfect.

  He walked over and sat down, placing the tall glass in front of him—only realizing halfway through setting it down that he wasn’t alone.

  Directly across from him sat a couple. They had ordered the same milkshakes. Identical glasses. Identical straws. Identical stupid smiles.

  Ren froze for half a second. Too late to move now. Moving would be obvious. He sat.

  They didn’t notice him at first. They were too busy performing.

  The girl leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “Let me taste yours.”

  “It’s the same flavor,” the boy laughed.

  “But yours tastes better.”

  He rolled his eyes theatrically and slid the glass toward her. She took a dramatic sip, humming like she’d discovered something revolutionary.

  Ren stared at his own drink. Immediately, they began acting… obnoxiously cute.

  They compared whipped cream height. Argued over who had the “better swirl.” Switched glasses back and forth even though nothing had changed.

  Tiny giggles. Exaggerated sighs. Heads tilting closer than necessary.

  Her hand brushed his. They both paused like it was electricity.

  Ren watched. Silent. Immune, he told himself.

  Love is stupid.

  He took a slow sip of his milkshake. It was colder than he expected.

  I hate it.

  The boy wiped a dot of whipped cream from the girl’s lip with his thumb. She blushed like it was a confession scene from a drama.

  Ren’s jaw tightened.

  If I were a weirdo… He shuddered at the thought. …I’d be thinking, “Awww, so cute.”

  He took another sip, longer this time. Good thing I’m not that weirdo.

  The girl knocked over a tiny straw wrapper. The boy gasped dramatically and clutched his chest as if mortally wounded.

  “I can’t believe you’d do this to me,” he whispered.

  She giggled and lightly hit his arm.

  Ren flinched slightly—not because of the noise, but because of the sincerity behind it.

  Their thoughts weren’t sharp. They weren’t cruel. They were… soft.

  He’s so embarrassing.

  She’s so cute when she laughs.

  That irritated him more. Soft thoughts were dangerous. Cruel thoughts were predictable. You could brace for them. But softness invited expectation. Expectation led to disappointment. Disappointment rotted people from the inside.

  Ren looked down at his milkshake again. Whipped cream had begun melting down the sides of the glass, collapsing into itself. Appropriate.

  He leaned back in his chair slightly.

  Love was inefficient. Two people investing disproportionate emotional energy into something statistically fragile. High return on pain. Low guarantee of permanence.

  He had seen enough—heard enough—to know how these things ended.

  Why doesn’t he text back anymore?

  She changed.

  I think I like someone else.

  The noise always came eventually.

  They would sit like this now—sweet, synchronized, theatrical. Then one day the sweetness would curdle.

  Ren took another drink. It was good. That annoyed him.

  Across from him, the girl rested her head on the boy’s shoulder. He pretended to struggle under the weight.

  “Too heavy,” he teased.

  She gasped in mock offense.

  He laughed and pulled her closer anyway.

  Ren felt something unfamiliar flicker under his ribs. Not jealousy. Not longing. Just… awareness.

  He looked away quickly.

  Creep, he muttered under his breath. He wasn’t sure if he meant them or himself.

  He checked the time. He had finished the milkshake faster than intended. The glass was empty except for melted remnants clinging to the sides.

  He stood, pushing his chair back with controlled quietness. Paid at the counter. Didn’t look at them again.

  As he stepped outside, the evening air hit him—cooler, sharper, less sweet. He inhaled deeply.

  Better.

  The café door closed behind him with a soft chime. Inside, laughter continued.

  Ren adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder and started walking.

  Love was stupid. He repeated it once in his head, just to confirm it still sounded convincing.

  The city moved around him—cars passing, strangers walking, fragments of thought brushing against him like static. But beneath it all, a faint image lingered. Two identical milkshakes. Two hands brushing. Two people laughing like the world had narrowed to a table in the corner.

  Ren walked a little faster. Sweetness, he decided, was dangerous precisely because it worked. And he refused to be that kind of