I always thought Mondays were the worst.
But Tuesdays... they had a strange kind of silence. Like the world was holding its breath.
The classroom was empty when I got there. The air was still, faintly smelling of chalk and disinfectant. I liked it that way — quiet, undisturbed, the kind of peace that only existed before everyone else arrived.
I dropped my bag on the desk near the window — my usual spot. Not because it looked cool or anything. It was just the one place where I could think.
The sun was just peeking through the glass, cutting across the rows of empty chairs. I leaned back, staring at the sky, and for a moment, I could almost pretend this was going to be a normal day.
Then the door slid open.
Rika Aizawa walked in first, like she owned the space without even trying. Her hair was perfectly messy in that way she swore was "natural," and she yawned like she hadn't a care in the world. Her fingers tapped at her phone like she was negotiating with it, scrolling, typing, swiping, muttering little complaints under her breath that made no sense to anyone but her. Every now and then, her hair slipped over her shoulder, and she blew it away with a small, dismissive "tch" as if it were some personal affront. She thought no one noticed. I did.
She had a knack for chaos. Spoiled, lazy with schoolwork, and capable of aiming a rubber band with terrifying precision, Rika had this way of making even the dullest days unpredictable. Teachers rolled their eyes when she was around, classmates whispered about her antics, and somehow, she never got into the trouble she seemed to deserve. But that was Rika. Unapologetically herself, impossible to ignore.
Still… I loved her. Even when she annoyed the hell out of me, even when her laughter made me groan, even when she swore she'd forgotten about homework for the third time that week—I loved her. There was something effortless about her presence, something that made the room warmer, the air lighter, and the day… better.
Next came Itsuki Haruma, my best friend, gliding into the classroom with that calm, unreadable air he always had. He gave me a small nod as he passed, already flipping open a novel and burying his nose in it like the world outside didn't exist. You could almost hear the sigh of teachers everywhere—he had that kind of smart that made them nervous, the type who could recite social theories and historical contradictions while everyone else was still tying their shoelaces.
Itsuki wasn't loud. Hell, he barely talked at all unless I asked him something first. But that was fine. The silence between us was comfortable, like a shared space where words weren't always necessary. You could sit next to him for hours, and the only sound would be the flipping of pages and the occasional click of a pen, and it would still feel… enough.
What made him fascinating, though, was that you never really knew what he was thinking. One moment he was a bookworm, the next he'd drop some insight so sharp it cut through whatever nonsense the teacher was spewing. It was like living with a puzzle in human form—sometimes frustrating, sometimes enlightening, and always quietly impressive.
After him came Daigo Shun, stomping into the room like he owned the floorboards. Tall, broad, and loud enough to make anyone flinch, he slapped Itsuki on the back with a force that earned a death glare in return. Daigo just grinned, like he'd told the best joke of the century, and laughed as if the entire class should bow down to his energy.
He didn't just enter a room—he filled it. His presence was like a hurricane wrapped in a grin, unstoppable and impossible to ignore. Some people found it exhausting. Others, like me, found it kind of contagious. The way he moved, the way he joked, the way he made Sora—or even Itsuki—roll their eyes, it was chaotic, messy, and somehow magnetic.
And yet, there was more to Daigo than just noise. He noticed the little things, too—the quiet kid at the back who forgot their lunch, the friend who needed a laugh, or the girl struggling with her notebook. He might be loud, overbearing, and ridiculous, but underneath all that energy was a heart you couldn't mistake for anything but genuine.
Ayaka Fujino entered shortly after, a soft contrast to the storm that was Daigo. Graceful and polite, she moved through the room like she was gliding on air, carrying her usual arsenal of tissues, band-aids, and quiet concern. She never announced herself; her presence was just… felt.
She had this way of noticing things no one else did. Once, she handed me half her lunch after I'd forgotten mine. Simple, small, but it stuck with me—I never made that mistake again. Ayaka had a calm, grounding energy that somehow balanced out the chaos of the classroom, Rika's wild antics, and even Daigo's hurricane of a personality.
Even when she wasn't doing something explicitly kind, she radiated a sense of care and attentiveness. The kind that made people trust her without thinking, lean on her without realizing it, and feel a little lighter just by sharing the same space. She wasn't loud, flashy, or demanding attention—but you noticed her, whether you wanted to or not.
Riku Kamishiro slipped into the classroom like a gremlin trying to imitate a runway model, using his phone's black screen to fix his hair. He still called himself "The Prodigy," even though literally no one else backed him up. Most people just sighed when they saw him coming.
He had that annoying, psycho-adjacent vibe—always saying something unhinged, always acting like he was two seconds away from starting a villain monologue. A chaotic little cunt when he wanted to be. But underneath all that noise, he was a full-on nerd: robotics club addict, textbook hugger, muttering equations under his breath like they were spells.
And as irritating as he was, there was something sharper under the chaos, something people didn't really understand yet. Riku made sure they would eventually. Whether anyone asked for it or not.
Yui Kanzaki slipped into the classroom first, quiet as a drifting leaf. No dramatic entrance, no bright "Good morning!"—just the soft click of the door and the gentle thud of her bag hitting the floor.Her movements were careful today, almost too controlled, like she was trying not to draw attention.Low-battery mode.Everyone knew Yui had that switch—dim when she was alone, blazing when the right people arrived.
Sayaka Minori came in a moment later, moving with her usual quiet certainty. She slid into her seat without a sound, already opening that black notebook she always carried. Nobody knew what was inside it—novels, sketches, something strange? Whatever it was, it belonged to her world alone. Sayaka didn't seem like someone who liked being interrupted, and people learned not to ask.
Noa Yukimura arrived last, drifting through the doorway with that calm, unreadable aura she wore whenever she was on her own.Not silent—just… controlled. Like she was conserving her real energy for later.
Most people called her mysterious.I just thought she was unpredictable.
Some days she carried herself like an elegant, independent lone wolf.Other days she'd argue with Yui or Sayaka like a kid who didn't get her favorite snack.
Today, she walked past my desk without a word, earbuds in, eyes half-lidded, already tired of existing.But knowing Noa, the moment Yui's battery recharged, she'd be loud enough for the whole hallway to hear.
Reiji Narukami came in next, calm and collected like the eye of a storm. The kind of presence that made you feel safe even when chaos reigned around him. Always smiling, always measured, he carried boxes for teachers without complaint, diffused arguments with a single glance, and somehow managed to be liked by almost everyone in the class. You couldn't help but notice him; he had that effortless charisma that didn't need to shout.
Trailing behind him was Tobias "Toby" Okoro, his friend and occasional sidekick. Toby tried hard to radiate intelligence, straightening his tie, and walking with the sort of deliberate precision that screamed "I'm clever, take notes." Only… he wasn't. Not really. Tall and broad with a dark, striking presence, he often overdid everything in ways that made him look ridiculous. He spoke in long, overly formal sentences that fell flat, and he had a habit of nodding at things nobody said. But Reiji didn't seem to mind. He treated Toby like an equal, and somehow Toby's absurdity didn't annoy anyone—not even him.
Despite the contrast, they worked well together. Reiji's calm, measured aura balanced Toby's awkward attempts at sophistication. You could tell they were friends because Reiji didn't correct him, didn't roll his eyes, just smiled. And Toby, for all his clumsy attempts at looking smart, seemed genuinely content to follow along. Together, they added a quiet, unusual energy to the classroom—Reiji keeping the peace, Toby flailing charmingly behind him.
Then Mei Tachibana stormed through the door, yelling about someone stealing her mechanical pencil again. She glared at Daigo first — always did — then stomped to her desk with enough force to make the windows rattle. She'd calm down later, probably. She always did.
After her came the usual duo, Toru Makabe and Hinata Moriyama — the class clowns. Their timing was impeccable, their jokes chaotic, and if something broke, caught fire, or started smoking, odds were it was their fault. Together, they were unstoppable. And annoying. But… life would be boring without them.
And then—
The door slid open one last time, ten minutes before class.
Amano Sora strolled in, hands in his pockets, wearing a grey jacket over his uniform. His tie was missing. His hair looked like he'd wrestled a windstorm — and lost.
"Morning," he said flatly, like the word was optional.
"You're late again," Rika muttered without looking up.
Sora shrugged. "Time's a social construct."
Daigo laughed. "You slept through your alarm again, didn't you?"
"Maybe," Sora said. "Or maybe the alarm just wasn't motivated enough to wake me."
That was Amano Sora — the guy no one could quite figure out. He had a sharp tongue, the smug grin of someone who thought the world owed him nothing, and just enough charm to get away with it. He wasn't the kind to raise his hand in class or care about grades. But he'd help you carry a desk without being asked, then make you feel like you owed him lunch for it.
Somehow, despite his laziness, people liked him. Maybe because he made even the dullest moments interesting.
As he slumped into his seat near the back, he gave me a nod — half acknowledgment, half greeting.
I nodded back. That was enough.
Soon the classroom filled with noise — laughter, arguments, the scrape of chairs, and the dull hum of life returning.
I leaned back again, glancing at everyone — Rika scrolling, Itsuki reading, Daigo laughing, Ayaka smiling, Sora smirking from the back like the world was his private joke.
Ordinary people. Ordinary noise. Ordinary morning.
But somehow, the sunlight looked different that day. Too pale. Too quiet.
I don't know why I noticed it. Maybe because deep down, something in me already knew.
That this was the last time any of us would ever live an ordinary day.