Midterms

Shiina Hiyori's fingertips unconsciously traced the edge of a page as she gazed at the two people across from her, their shadows naturally overlapping. Her thoughts, however, sank into a deeper whirlpool.

Where was the line between "admiration" and "need"? she silently asked herself.

If what she felt for Hoshino Kanade was a pure attraction to his knowledge, then what was this resonance she felt with Kiyona's utterly unguarded sense of dependence?

It was as though, through Kiyona's glassy eyes, she glimpsed a kind of connection she had never experienced—a more primal, softer sense of symbiosis. Simply sharing the same space and breathing in sync was enough to quietly dispel loneliness.

The realization unnerved her. She had always believed books were the only reliable refuge, and that socializing was merely a necessary ornament of civilized society.

Yet when Hoshino's fingertips brushed the back of Kiyona's hand, what welled up in her chest wasn't jealousy, but a longing for "warmth"—not desire, but the warmth that spread through your fingertips when you held a cup of hot tea on a winter's day, the reassuring feeling that the world hadn't forgotten you.

"Hoshino..." she blurted out, her voice softer than she'd expected, like a feather falling into the silence. They both looked up at once, and she immediately regretted it. The question she had prepared—about an existentialist metaphor in the book—stuck in her throat. What came out instead was an awkward bit of everyday conversation. "W-Would you like a coffee refill?"

Hoshino Kanade paused, then smiled and nodded. "Thanks, Shiina. I could use one."

That moment laid bare her flustered state. She was good at reading people, but utterly helpless when it came to "naturally fitting into an intimate relationship."

As she passed over the coffee pot, she deliberately let her fingertips brush the rim of Hoshino's cup, then snatched them back as though burned under Kiyona's gaze.

What am I doing? Alarm bells rang in her mind.

The childish attempt at physical contact struck even her as ridiculous, but it was like a drowning person clutching at a straw—as if one tiny touch could carve a crack in the transparent barrier.

As they gathered their books to leave, Kiyona unexpectedly spoke first. "Shiina, will you bring The Klein Bottle to tomorrow's book club?"

Her glassy eyes reflected Shiina's image. There was no hostility in them, only pure curiosity.

Shiina suddenly realized that the "wall" between them might have been built from the distance she herself had assumed.

She had always taken it for granted that close relationships had to be exclusive, overlooking Kiyona's essential purity. How could someone with such a faint grasp of the very idea of "social distance" deliberately shut others out?

What truly trapped her was her fear of "being rejected," and a deeper uncertainty:

If she managed to join that "triangle," could she bear the responsibilities that came with intimacy?

When Hoshino and Kiyona argued, could she stop herself from fleeing back to the fortress she had built from books?

And when she needed to share her vulnerabilities, could she show them the Shiina Hiyori who "made mistakes" and "got flustered"?

Shiina Hiyori paused and looked back. The setting sun stretched their shadows across the library floor, where they briefly overlapped.

Shiina Hiyori gently pressed a hand to her chest. What churned there was no longer a dull ache, but a burning hope, almost painful in its intensity.

She saw what she truly wanted: not to replace anyone, but to tear off the mask of the "perfect observer" with her own hands and let her genuine joys and sorrows shine through.

Afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows, casting lazy patches of light across Class D's classroom.

Compared with the chaos at the start of the school year, classroom discipline had indeed "improved" quite a bit.

Even students like Yamauchi Haruki and Kanji Ike, who had once been unable to sit still, were now managing to stay in their seats. Their gazes still wandered now and then, but at least they weren't shouting anymore.

The only exception was Ken Sudō. He still brazenly buried his head in the crook of his arm and slept soundly at his desk, his soft snoring somewhat jarring in the quiet.

The teacher's chalk scraped across the blackboard with a soft rasp.

No one spoke up to criticize Sudō's behavior. Their Class Points were still a glaring zero, so everyone carefully avoided anything that might spark a conflict.

But their silence didn't mean approval. An invisible sense of distance, like a thin layer of ice, hung around Sudō. The other students tacitly kept their distance, rarely even letting their eyes linger on him.

He was like an isolated island that didn't belong in the classroom.

At last, the bell rang, breaking the stagnant silence.

Hirata Yosuke stood up and walked to the front of the classroom. He lightly tapped the desk to draw everyone's attention. His voice was gentle but clear as it carried through the room.

"Could everyone stay for a moment? To prepare for the upcoming midterm exams," he paused, glancing toward the few students at the back who were widely regarded as "troublemakers." "I'd like to suggest organizing a study group, mainly to help tutor students whose grades might be a little unstable. Of course," he emphasized, a welcoming smile on his face, "anyone who wants to improve is more than welcome."

His gaze finally settled on Sudō, who had just been roused by the bell and was rubbing his eyes with an irritated look. His voice grew more earnest. "So I hope anyone who's feeling anxious or wants to review the material will join our study group. We'll meet here in this classroom, starting at five this afternoon. We plan to study for about two hours every day until the exams. You can drop in whenever you like, and it's fine if you need to leave early." Having finished, Hirata waited quietly for a response.

The classroom fell silent for a few seconds. Soon, several students who clearly belonged to the failing-grade group sprang from their seats as though they'd found a lifeline. They gathered around Hirata, eager and grateful, peppering him with questions about the details.

However, the "core" trio of the failing-grade group—Sudō, Kanji Ike, and Yamauchi Haruki—remained as if nailed to their seats.

As soon as Hirata looked his way, Sudō sharply turned his face aside and folded his arms tightly across his chest. His mouth twisted downward as he let out a distinct "Tch," then simply closed his eyes, refusing to engage.

Ever since he'd bluntly rejected Hirata's suggestion that everyone introduce themselves on the first day of school, the rift between them had never healed.

Ike and Yamauchi, meanwhile, looked uncertain.

Their eyes darted between the classmates eagerly surrounding Hirata and Hirata himself, then sneaked a glance at Sudō, who radiated hostility.

They shifted restlessly in their chairs, their lips moving as if they wanted to say something.

Ike even half rose from his seat, but Yamauchi quietly tugged at his sleeve.

In the end, the invisible pressure and their misgivings about "betraying" a friend—or perhaps a mixture of that and a subtle resentment toward Hirata as a "popular" leader—held them back. They merely lowered their heads awkwardly and pretended to straighten out pages on their desks, though there were no books there.