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There was a moment in Utahime's life—no more brief than a blink—when she thought she had been spared. Not saved. No, not that.
She had simply been passed over, as though death, seeing her, had decided she wasn’t worth the trouble. Unfortunately, she took that cruel pause—that hesitation—for grace. But it was not grace. It was not mercy. It was delay. And delay, She had learned, is its own kind of suffering—because it leaves you in between: no longer whole, not yet gone.
The death Utahime was referring to wasn't the kind that people marked with flowers and silence. No, her death came quietly, without ceremony.
It came when she failed—truly failed—and all that she believed about herself, all she had built to keep herself standing, had begun to crumble beneath her.
This death did not stop at the heart. It did something worse. It made her feel its beating, its insistence, even as everything else crumbled away.
It was not the end of life. It was the end of a lie she had once lived by.
It started with that test. She still remembers her hands—wet with sweat. She couldn’t swallow. There was a lump in her throat that wouldn’t even move. It was hell. Perhaps salvation from herself.
She stared at the paper in front of her. The answers stared back. Wrong, incomplete, covered in red marks. They weren’t just mistakes. They were proof. Proof of what she didn’t want to admit. You learn eventually to face that kind of truth anyway. Your truth.
The tingling in her chest was something she hadn’t noticed before it clawed its way up her throat.
Teachers, classmates, her own family—they all believed she was smart. Utahime, the golden child. The one who always had the answer. The one who could never fall. To think otherwise? Blasphemy. She built it for them. It wasn’t pride — it was survival—it was proof she existed on her own terms.
She hadn’t even realized she was looking up.
But then, eyes met hers—just for a second—and it was enough.
A flicker of something in her classmates’ gaze as the teacher turned her paper upside down and left her desk, simply returning to his own without flattery.
There was something that passed through all their eyes. It wasn’t mocking. No, something worse. It was knowing. Knowing that she wasn’t perfect—that she wasn’t better than any them.
Utahime convinced herself they were laughing at her, even though no one had spoken her name. Her ears burned as if snickering carried across the room. And in that moment, her world unraveled.
That’s when it all started. It wasn’t the big moments that shattered her. It was the small ones—the quiet, unremarkable failures that chipped away at her confidence like water eroding stone.
The first time it happened, she barely noticed. In the middle of a lesson, the teacher posed a question. She knew the answer—or at least, she thought she did.
Utahime's hand twitched, hovering just above the desk. The room felt heavier than usual, the air thick with expectation. Her fingers itched to raise, but doubt gnawed at her. What if she was wrong? What if she was just pretending to understand?
Someone else answered—a boy who never studied but always seemed to have the right words. The teacher nodded approvingly, and the moment passed. She lowered her hand.
Utahime told herself it didn’t matter. That she’d have the next one. But the next time, she didn’t even try.
She had continued to study, brushing off this first failure as a fluke. She doubled down, pouring over every detail, every formula, every word in her textbooks.
The nights grew longer, the bags under her eyes heavier. She told herself it would be different. She needed it to be different.
But it wasn’t.
The paper was turned upside down again. Failing, again. Then again.
Utahime's rank slipped lower, like sand slipping through her fingers, until she couldn’t hold on anymore. The hollow feeling in her chest—the tightness in her throat—became constant. She was losing. And for the first time, she couldn’t pretend it wasn’t happening.
Her classmates—once the measure of her success—no longer seemed to care. They simply stopped noticing her. In group assignments, she lingered at the edges, offering little more than a nod or a mumbled suggestion.
Utahime's voice, once full of certainty, was barely audible. It was worse than ridicule. At least with ridicule, there was still something—anything—that mattered. Now, there was nothing. She had faded into the background, a blurry figure where she used to stand sharp and distinct.
Utahime didn’t hate them for it. She hated herself.
But even as the familiar shame weighed down on her, she couldn’t seem to fix it. The cycle repeated. Utahime threw herself back into studying, hoping against hope that something would change. But no matter how much she tried, it always ended the same way.
Each test—each paper—reminded her that she wasn’t who she thought she was. That she wasn’t who anyone thought she was.
Utahime stared at her textbooks, fingers twitching, but she couldn’t write. She just sat there, wondering when she’d become nothing.
One test, which was a blur, Utahime didn’t crumple. She folded it neatly, pressing each crease flat, as if precision could hide the cracks. Maybe then she tried convincing herself that she wasn’t falling apart.
It was the Friday before spring break when a girl tapped her shoulder. Utahime barely noticed at first. Everything had become a blur—grades, whispers, expectations.
The weight of failure had settled so deeply into her bones that she had stopped noticing when people spoke to her. And when Utahime turned, a girl stood so close to her that she might have fallen over. Utahime immediately noticed her slow smile.
"I'm first.” she whispered, “I’m always first now that you’re gone from the top."
The words didn’t register at first. They felt distant, like they were meant for someone else. Then, slowly, they sank in.
Utahime looked at her properly.
Shoko.
She knew her name, vaguely. Shoko had been in her classes for years, just another face in the background. But now, standing there, watching her with something like amusement—or was it pity?—Shoko was undeniable.
Utahime should have said something. Should have laughed it off. She should have told her that she didn’t care. But she did nothing. Just sat there, her hands tightening around the edges of her textbook, pressing the paper so hard it nearly tore.
And then Shoko left. Just like that. Just like everything else had.
Utahime didn’t know how long she sat there before realizing she spaced out. Slowly, she lifted her eyes—somehow, instinctively, they landed on Shoko's desk.
Utahime went home hours later, trying to focus on concepts from a unit that had already passed, trying to salvage the pieces of her pride.But something snapped.
Funny enough, Utahime knew by then, she had snapped long ago, and she was only now beginning to notice.
By the time she returned to school, she had already stopped paying attention in class. Her thoughts were elsewhere, tangled in questions she couldn’t answer.
She couldn’t understand why Shoko had said those words to her, but they lingered, her voice a quiet hum in the back of her mind, growing louder with time.
It was after that Utahime started noticing her more—Shoko that is.
Shoko wasn’t loud or attention-seeking, but there was an intensity to her presence that made it impossible to look away. She always seemed to know the answer before anyone else, her hand shooting up before the teacher even finished the question.
But it wasn’t just her intelligence that set Shoko apart. It was the way she carried herself, with a quiet assurance that seemed to command the room without effort. She didn’t need to prove anything to anyone. She simply existed, and the world seemed to adjust around her. And Utahime envied her—deeply.
One day, as Utahime packed up her things after class—most of the students had already left, though a few lingered in the hallways for clubs or conversations—she caught Shoko watching her. Their eyes met for a brief moment, and Utahime felt a strange, uncomfortable twist in her stomach.
“What?” Utahime blurted, more sharply than she intended.
Shoko tilted her head, studying Utahime like she was some kind of puzzle she was close to solving. “You used to try harder,” she said simply.
Utahime didn't react, “So?” A slow burn started in her chest.
Shoko's eyes glinted—something between amusement and disdain. “Utahime, you’ve grown into the most pathetic girl I've ever seen.”
Uthaime opened her mouth, ready to fire something back at Shoko, but nothing came. What was she supposed to say? That she was trying? That she was clawing her way through the days, one after another, and none of it seemed to matter? That she woke up feeling like something in her was unraveling, and she had no idea how to stitch it back together?
No. Utahime couldn’t say that. Not to her. Not to someone who looked at her like she was already a lost cause.
“I don’t need your pity,” Utahime decided to say.
Shoko smiled, but there was no kindness in it. Without hesitation, she stepped closer, stopping just short of her desk. “I can help you.”
Amusement flickered across her face at Utahime's skepticism. Shoko leaned in slightly, drawing out her next words. “I want to help you.”
Utahime's nails bit into her palms, sharp crescents pressing deep. “Help? I don’t need your fucking help.” her voice was low, tight with something close to anger.
Utahime mirrored Shoko's tone, dragging out her next words. “Mind your own business.” she spat.
Shoko raised her brow as though she were dissecting Utahime with her eyes. For a moment, she simply watched, silent and unreadable, as if deciding whether she was worth the effort of her attention. Then, with a faint nod—a small, almost imperceptible gesture—she seemed to reach some private conclusion.
Shoko gathered her things, her movements deliberate and unhurried, and started toward the door. But just before she crossed the threshold, she paused. Shoko's head turned slightly, and her eyes met Utahime's once more.
“Good luck,” she said, her voice light, almost careless, as though the words were an afterthought. Shoko shrugged. “You’ll need it.”
Whether Shoko's words were meant to mock or simply state a fact, Utahime couldn’t tell. Maybe it was just how she heard them. Utahime wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
All Utahime knew was that something was slipping through her fingers—something vital, something she couldn’t name but felt acutely in the hollow of her chest. It was as if Utahime was losing herself, piece by piece, and she had no idea how to stop it. The future loomed ahead, shapeless and terrifying, and Utahime was adrift, unable to find her footing.
When the next test results came back, the numbers were better than Utahime expected. A decent score. Solid, even. By all accounts, it should’ve felt like a victory. But it didn’t. Nothing did anymore. The world had lost its color, its texture, as though she were moving through a haze that nothing could penetrate.
The emptiness inside Utahime was vast, yawning, and she found herself wanting nothing more than to simply exist—to stop trying, to stop caring. It was a strange, foreign feeling, one that left her unsettled and raw.
Utahime didn’t know what brought her to the library that day. She wasn’t looking for anything in particular—just wandering, trying to outrun the weight pressing down on her. And then she saw her.
Shoko.
Shoko was seated at a table in the corner, surrounded by a fortress of books, her focus—absolute. There was something magnetic about her presence, something that drew Utahime in despite herself. Without thinking, without planning, she walked over and slid into the chair across from Shoko.
Shoko looked at Utahime, her eyes flickering between Utahime's lips and eyes.
The air between them crackled with an unspoken tension, though neither of them broke the silence.
Utahime didn’t look up, but she could feel Shoko's awareness of her—sharp, deliberate, like a predator sensing movement. For the first time in weeks, Utahime felt something other than numbness. A spark. Curiosity. Anticipation.
“I’m here,” Utahime said, her voice quiet, almost tentative. Utahime reached for a random book on the table, fidgeting with its edges to steady herself.
Shoko continued to stare, and for a moment, something flickered in her expression—something she couldn’t quite place. “I’ve been waiting,” she said simply, her tone calm but edged with a knowing-ness that made Utahime's stomach twist.
When Shoko saw the skepticism on Utahime's face, she smiled—a small, almost imperceptible curve of her lips. “I knew you’d come. Everyone does eventually.”
Utahime blinked, thrown off by the certainty in Shoko's voice. “Sure, you did,” she said, her tone flat. she couldn’t help adding, “Love the confidence, though. Really inspiring.”
“You don’t think so?” Shoko raised an eyebrow, placing her hands on the table, “How unfortunate.”
Just then Shoko didn’t wait for a response, her tone shifting seamlessly into something more direct. “First lesson: math. You hesitate too much— Always second-guess yourself. It’s holding you back.”
Shoko's words were clipped, precise. “You’re running away from the answers instead of trusting yourself. And if you keep doing that, you’re not going to get anywhere.”
Utahime sat there in stunned silence, Shoko's words echoing in her mind. Utahime's mouth opened, then closed, as if her brain had short-circuited. Finally, the question slipped out, unbidden: “How long have you been watching her?”
As soon as the words left Utahime's mouth, she felt her face flush with embarrassment. She hadn’t meant to ask that—hadn’t even realized she was thinking it until it was too late. It felt like Utahime revealed too much, like she’d handed Shoko a piece of herself she hadn’t meant to.
Shoko didn’t answer. Instead, she pushed a pen into Utahime's hand and pointed at the first equation already laid out in front of her. “Because I’ve seen it before. I can tell you’re not trusting yourself. You know this stuff. You just need to stop overthinking. Go with your gut. Math doesn’t care about how you feel. It’s about finding the solution.”
Utahime stared at the equation, her mind racing. Her hand hovered over the paper--the pen a cold weight in her fingers. She could feel her pulse quicken, but the numbers on the page remained still, mocking her. The fear crept in—a nagging doubt that if she wrote the wrong thing, it would only make it worse.
She scribbled something down, only to pause a second later, staring at the symbols she had written as if they were foreign. Utahime's stomach twisted. And just as quickly, she erased everything, as if she could wipe away the mistake before it had even fully formed.
Again now, Utahime started writing—faster this time, trying to push through the fear—but the equation looked just as confusing as before. She wasn’t sure anymore if the problem was the numbers or her mind. She stopped, staring at the empty space where she’d just erased.
Utahime found herself in a cycle. Write. Erase. Stare. The pen seemed like it had a mind of its own, moving in fits and starts as she tried to make sense of what she already knew, but the more she stared, the less confident she became. It was like the more she tried, the more uncertain she felt. Each attempt, no matter how small, felt like it was just setting her back further.
It took thirty minutes for Utahime to completely stop making mistakes and she was troubled. Not only because it had taken her so long, but someone had seen her struggle—someone had seen her be vulnerable.
Finally, after a long silence, Shoko spoke. “A step, really.” Her voice was soft, almost like she was toying with the words. “I honestly thought you’d be too prideful to come. I was almost afraid you wouldn’t.”
Utahime forced a smile, trying to mask the discomfort. “So, you have a conscience, huh? Good to know.”
Shoko had slight smirk, “And because of that conscience, you’ll be ready for the next test.”
Four weeks later, the results spoke for themselves. With sparing help from Shoko, Utahime was back at the top again.
And it felt good.
The weight in Uthaime's chest lightened. People started asking her questions again, laughing at her jokes like they never stopped. It was as if her failure had been erased, rewritten into something brief and forgettable.
Utahime walked through the halls with her head higher, her steps steadier. And Shoko began to become a constant in her life, the one thing that made it all possible.
The meetings continued—at first out of necessity, then out of habit. Then something more. By the end of the year, and then the next, Shoko was Utahime's anchor.
Somewhere deep inside, a voice whispered that Utahime wasn’t truly smart without Shoko, that the moment she left Shoko's grasp, she’d collapse like a house of cards. But Utahime didn’t care. Not when her grades were perfect. Not when the world made sense with Shoko in it.
Then it all started. And this time it was something else. The decline began so quietly that Utahime mistook it for something natural, like the gradual dimming of light before nightfall. Before she knew it, something unseen had settled over her—a presence, a pull.
Utahime started noticing Shoko in ways that felt incidental at first. A flicker in her brow when she was nervous, the way her lips twitched—not quite a smile—when she was uncertain. The faint crease near her eyes when something displeased her. These were small things, easy to miss, yet Utahime collected them as if they meant something, as if they were meant for her to decipher.
And then, somewhere along the way, the noticing became something else. Utahime told herself it was curiosity, nothing more. But there was a comfort in it, in mapping the shifts in her expression, in knowing what they meant before she spoke. It was almost like control.
The lessons still continued. The quiet habit of watching Shoko during breaks remained. Utahime barely registered how easily it had become part of her—how necessary.
Utahime only knew that when she looked at Shoko, she could forget, in fact, everything else fell away. But beneath that momentary calm lurked the slow erasure that once threatened to consume her: the dawning awareness of her own feelings. Love?
The possibility alone unsettled her — the fear of finally recognizing what Shoko meant to her.
And then all the sudden, Shoko stopped showing up to the meetings.
At first, Utahime told herself it was nothing. A missed session, then two. Maybe Shoko was sick. Maybe she was busy. Maybe—maybe—maybe.
The first week, she convinced herself she’d be back soon. The second, she found herself checking her phone between classes, staring at an empty inbox. The third, she started waiting outside the school, lingering just long enough to see if she’d pass by.
When Shoko finally returned, it was as if nothing had happened. No explanations, no apologies. Just a tired smile and an offhand comment—There were some things at home that needed to be fixed.
"You could tell me," Utahime said. "I won’t judge."
"Yes, you will."
And that was it. The farthest their conversation went.
For the first time in years, Utahime started to pull away. Maybe out of pride, maybe out of something else she didn’t want to name. Their lessons dwindled to once a week. And yet, Utahime couldn’t stop watching her.
The way she tied her hair. The way she tapped her fingers against the table when she was thinking. The way her lips pressed together when she was about to argue with her.
Utahime wanted to memorized Shoko—all of it. The slight hitch in her breath when she was about to say something she knew she wouldn’t like. The way her eyes darkened when she was lost in thought.
Utahime wondered if Shoko noticed.
She think she did.
And then came the day before their final exam, when Shoko's hand was a little closer to hers, and she sat just a little too near. Utahime did not know what came over her—or over them—but before she could second-guess herself, they kissed.
The next time, it lasted longer.
The time after that, it was something more.
At first, Utahime told herself it didn’t matter. That it was just another habit, another routine they had fallen into. But habits are predictable. Habits are safe. This was not.
The feeling in Utahime chest grew heavier, more tangled.
"We can’t keep doing this," Utahime said, the words slipping out before she could stop them. Shoko's hands were on Utahime's chest, and Utahime's were restless, itching to pull Shoko closer, trembling as they moved up her back.
The confusion between them was a jumbled knot of desire and doubt, a chaotic clash of yearning and uncertainty.
Shoko's expression shifted, something dark flickering behind her eyes.
"What do you mean?" she said.
"Do you even like me?"
"I do."
Silence.
The kind that stretches too long, that leaves behind something raw and unsettled.
Utahime started to pack up her things. It felt like Shoko was just there to play with her feelings.
"We’re not even in a relationship," Utahime said, her voice quieter now. "Let’s stop."
And from that day on, Utahime stopped coming to the lessons.
They graduated a few weeks later.
It was a few days after graduation that everyone went to the school's party.
The graduation party was a blur, a strange dizzying whirl of faces and noise. The hall was full of people who barely knew her, all pretending to care.
She smiled mechanically, nodding along, but the words felt hollow. Each “good luck” layered on top of the last, all blending into a cacophony that made her skin crawl.
Utahime stood there, surrounded by the hollow sound of well-wishing and before she even realized—she, herself had already left. Physically present but mentally checked out. The scene dissolved into an endless hum, a black void of sound.
Before she knew it, Utahime had said her goodbyes to the people who had used her, to the people who spoke behind her back, and so on.
And then just as so, Utahime was standing in front of her house. Utahime hadn’t planned on coming back.
Shoko's house looked the same, but something about it felt different now. Or maybe she was different. The place where they had spent hours locked in silent battles, trading lessons like weapons, suddenly felt smaller.
Shoko was waiting outside.
No mask, no indifference. Just her, standing in the fading light, arms crossed like she had been expecting Utahime.
“You weren’t even going to say goodbye to me?”
Utahime swallowed. “I didn’t think you’d care.”
Shoko's lips twitched—not a smile, not quite a smirk, just something bitter. “You always think you know everything.”
For a second, Utahime thought Shoko would finally say it. Acknowledge whatever this was—whatever they had built over the years, whatever kept pulling them back to each other.
But instead, the silence stretched, thick and suffocating, like an equation that didn’t quite balance.
“I don’t regret pulling away,” Utahime lied, “But I never wanted to end up this way.”
Shoko let out a breath, almost a laugh, but there was nothing amused about it. She stepped closer, challenging Utahime, like always.
Utahime tells herself she won’t fall for it.
But then Shoko whispers something—"You were never really going to leave, were you?"
It’s not tender. It’s not romantic. It’s a dare—a taunt wrapped in softness.
And Shoko kisses her and Utahime doesn't pull away. Because fighting her is exhausting, and giving in is easier.
This kiss is nothing like the previous ones. Those ones were a mistake. This one is a decision.
When they break apart, Shoko smirks. Like she’s won.
Her gaze flickers toward the house, like she expected both of them to go inside. Like they could pretend nothing had changed.
“I wanted you to stay,” Shoko admitted.
Utahime should have asked why. She should have walked away. But instead, she hesitated. And that was all Shoko needed.
Shoko turned, stepping toward the door, and without thinking, Utahime followed—like she always did, like she always would.
Utahime reached the door, her hand on the handle. She could walk away. No, she should walk away.
Behind her, Shoko doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. Utahime can feel her watching her, waiting.
"I knew you’d come back. Everyone does."
Shoko said it years ago, so casually, like a universal truth. And she had brushed it off, then.
Utahime turned the handle and the door creaked just enough for her to see Shoko's shoes lined up in neat containers. Then, halfway, Utahime stopped.
The silence came first. Then Shoko's hands touched her back.
“What’s wrong,” Shoko asked. Utahime turned, and there it was–just a flicker, but it was enough. Fear, not panic. Just something fragile beneath Shoko's certainty. Utahime realized Shoko was waiting, certain, like she had written the ending.
Perhaps this was the test, maybe Shoko was her revelation. Or maybe Utahime was done chasing illusions.
“I need to go,” Utahime said. “And I’m not coming back.”