The soft hum of the classroom gradually faded as Teru's laughter died down, leaving only the scratch of pens against notebooks. Students hunched over their desks, scribbling the teacher's dictated notes in a steady, mechanical rhythm. The sound should have grounded me, but my mind slipped away, restless.
I gazed out the open window. Birds chattered faintly, their voices drifting over a lone tree standing apart from the rest. Its branches stretched bare and brittle—no fresh green leaves swaying like the others, just a skeleton of what it used to be.
Trees are so resilient, aren't they? I thought, tracing a gnarled limb with my eyes. Even after losing their vibrance, they stand tall—like they're still enough, somehow.
My chest tightened. Was I still enough, after Rei?
The hollow from last night pulsed, raw and unhealed.
"Now, I want all of you to share your opinions on this topic and show me your written responses," the teacher barked, her voice firm but flat, slicing through my drift.
A low murmur rippled through the room—half-hearted acknowledgment, half relief for something to do. Heads dipped back to notebooks.
I nudged Nami, who was slouched beside me. "What exactly did she ask us to write?"
Without a word, she slid her notebook over, earphones dangling from her neck.
I squinted at the page. "What… is this?"
Her handwriting was a chaotic snarl—letters bleeding into each other like a code only she could crack.
"That's what she dictated," she said, deadpan, like it was perfectly normal.
I scrunched my nose, sliding it back with a grimace. "You should work on your handwriting. This is a war crime."
She shot me a mock glare, clutching her chest. "Mind your own business! If you weren't staring out the window like a lost poet, you wouldn't need my notes."
"Yeah, yeah," I said, rolling my eyes. "Like you're the poster child for focus. We all know how 'studious' you are."
Nami huffed, yanking her notebook away. "Forget it, I'm not helping you anymore, you little witch."
I smirked. "And you're a dog."
Leaning back, I propped my chin on my hand as Nami jammed her earphones in, shutting me out. The room buzzed faintly—someone flicked a pencil in the back, a paper plane arced over a desk, whispers hummed like static.
Then, a light tap on my shoulder jolted me.
I turned. Arin stood there, expression unreadable behind his glasses.
"What?" I asked, brow lifting.
He handed me his notebook. "Take this."
I stared at the pages—neat, precise handwriting, every line crisp. "Why?"
"Copy what you missed," he said, voice low and casual, nudging it closer.
My fingers hovered over the edge, hesitating. I flicked my eyes up to his—dark, steady, catching mine for a beat too long.
My pulse skipped.
"What's wrong? Don't want it?" he asked, tilting his head just enough to make my stomach flip.
"No, I mean… it'll take me time to write it all. What if the teacher calls on you while I've got it?"
Arin didn't flinch. "Not my problem. I'm leaving anyway."
I frowned. "Leaving? How? She won't let you."
His lips twitched—a ghost of a smirk. "Who said anything about asking?"
Before I could argue, he turned, shooting a quick glance at the teacher—her back was to us, scribbling on the board.
Rian caught his eye from across the room, tossing him a grin that screamed trouble.
Arin tucked a folded note into his pocket, then ducked low, slipping toward the exit with Rian in tow. They moved like shadows—practiced, seamless. In seconds, they were gone.
The teacher didn't even turn. A paper plane hit the floor behind her.
I blinked at the empty space, then down at Arin's notebook still in my hands.
Nami pulled an earphone out, smirking. "Idiots think they're slick."
I huffed a half-laugh, caught between annoyance and something sharper—admiration, maybe.
Shaking it off, I flipped open the notebook to copy. My pen paused.
In the margin, next to his notes, was a tiny sketch—a barren tree, branches twisting tight. Under it, in his clean scrawl:
"Stairs or spirals?"
My breath hitched. The DNA mix-up from yesterday flickered in my mind, but this felt heavier—like he'd seen me staring, seen me.
I glanced at the window again. That tree stood still, unyielding.
My grip tightened on the pen, and I started writing, heart thudding a little too fast.