From that day on, my lunch time acquired a fixed point.
It wasn't an agreement—just repetition.
When I walked into the cafeteria, she was usually already near that table. Sometimes she arrived first, sometimes I did. It didn't matter who sat down first; the other would naturally walk over and set their tray down.
No one announced it, and no one confirmed anything between us.
We simply sat together for several days in a row.
At first, no one around us reacted. New pairings formed every day in the academy. Most of them lasted only once or twice. Repetition wasn't unusual—it just took a bit of time to be noticed.
She didn't talk much, but there was never an awkward silence. She remembered things I had said the day before—like the order of evaluations, or the details of a certain class exercise. She didn't comment; she just followed up with questions.
"Has your training intensity increased this week?"
"Seems like it."
"Then have you been sleeping okay?"
I thought about it. "It's fine."
She nodded, as if she had received a piece of information worth storing.
Once, I asked her if fifth-year classes were more difficult.
She thought for a moment. "A bit harder, but it's mostly just a different process."
When she said "process," it sounded natural—like the way we said "schedule." I didn't think much of it.
The gossip in the cafeteria began to shift shape.
At first, it was just people glancing over as they passed by, lowering their voices to say, "Is that the fourth-year 4?" Later, some started sitting not too far away, pretending to chat.
I noticed, but didn't point it out.
She seemed to know as well, but never turned around.
"They're watching us," I said quietly once.
"Mm." She acknowledged it. "Doesn't matter."
It really didn't.
Our conversations didn't change because of the attention. They didn't become more intimate, nor did we deliberately distance ourselves. She didn't hold my hand, and I didn't move closer.
But something was changing.
I began ending my post-class training early just to arrive at the cafeteria on time. I started paying attention to the clock instead of waiting for the bell. After evaluations, I found myself looking toward the door first, instead of the results board.
These changes were small—too small to be recorded.
But I knew.
One day, she didn't show up.
I sat by the table for a while, until the cafeteria started to empty. She still didn't come.
I thought she had just been delayed.
The next day, she came.
"Something came up yesterday," she said.
I didn't ask further.
At the academy, not asking was a default form of courtesy.
After that, our schedules began to overlap more. Besides lunch, she would walk with me for a stretch after evening study. We weren't heading in the same direction—it just happened to be along the same path.
The corridor lights were bright, and the surveillance indicators continued blinking steadily along the ceiling. We walked side by side, keeping a distance that required no adjustment.
She asked, "What year do you want to advance to?"
The question caught me off guard.
I had thought about it, but no one had ever asked.
"As high as I can go," I said.
She nodded, without following up.
"And you?" I asked.
"Same."
It was a safe answer.
One night, I received an internal message in the dorm. It was from her—just a simple reminder about a change in the next day's class order.
I replied, "Thanks."
She replied, "Mm."
This became a new routine. Not every day, but regular enough.
I began to realize that something about my state in the academy had shifted. Not my ability rating, not my grade—but that I had been incorporated into someone else's schedule.
The feeling was unsettling—and reassuring at the same time.
I started noticing details.
For example, she always avoided certain corridors. She rarely commented on upper-year matters. And whenever seventh-year students were mentioned, she would naturally steer the topic away.
I assumed it was just personality.
Once, as we were about to finish lunch, she suddenly said, "If one day I'm not here anymore, would you look for me?"
For a moment, I didn't know how to answer.
"Not here anymore" could mean many things in the academy.
A transfer, a reassignment, or just temporary absence.
"I probably would," I said.
She looked at me, smiled slightly, and didn't continue the topic.
That night, I lay in bed for a long time without falling asleep.
I realized I had started doing something I had never done before—imagining the future.
Not a distant future. Just tomorrow, next week, the next evaluation cycle.
In all those projections, she was there.
That state lasted for about two weeks.
Two weeks later, she didn't appear again.
This time, it was for three consecutive days.
No reminder. No message. Her student ID still existed in the system, and her course records showed no abnormalities.
She simply stopped appearing at those time points.
I began to feel discomfort.
Not panic—more like a persistent sense of deviation. As if a process had been interrupted without explanation.
On the fourth day, I stopped a fifth-year student in the corridor and asked if he had seen her.
He thought for a moment. "Didn't she transfer?"
His tone was casual.
"When?" I asked.
"No idea. A few days ago, I guess."
He left after that, as if the matter wasn't worth another sentence.
I stood there, watching the flow of people pass by.
At that moment, I realized something for the first time.
Some changes don't notify the people involved.
And I might be one of those not on the notification list.
The news of her "transfer" spread faster than I expected.
Not through an official notice or announcement, but casually mentioned during lunch as if it were already concluded. The person speaking didn't even pause what they were doing—just slipped it into a gap between topics.
"Oh, right, didn't that fifth-year leave?"
"Which one?"
"The one who used to sit with fourth-year 4."
"Oh, her. She transferred, I think."
"Yeah, that's what I heard."
And that was the end of it.
No one cared about the details. No one confirmed the timing. Transfers weren't unusual in the academy. Sometimes people only realized someone was gone after a long absence.
But this time, I realized too early.
I sat at that table without moving. The food on my tray had already gone cold, but I didn't notice. The surrounding noise felt distant, fragmented.
Transfer.
The word was light in the academy.
Light enough to cover every question.
I barely absorbed the afternoon lessons. The instructor explained processes; I followed the motions without error. The record board showed no anomalies. The surveillance lights remained steady.
Everything was normal.
Except one person was missing.
After class, for the first time, I didn't return directly to the dorm. I lingered in the corridor for a while. I stood outside the fifth-year area—not entering, just watching people pass.
I didn't know what I was waiting for.
Maybe just confirmation.
She didn't appear.
I opened the internal system and checked her student ID. Within my access level, there was little information—only "enrollment status changed." No timestamp. No reason.
That was normal.
I stared at the line for a while, then closed the interface.
That night, I barely slept.
Not because of emotional instability, but because of a persistent sense of dissonance. Like a process had skipped a step and jumped directly to the result.
The next day, I sat at that table again.
It wasn't a decision that needed confirming. As I sat down, people nearby glanced over, then quickly looked away.
No one mentioned her again.
As if she had never existed.
I began noticing details I had previously overlooked.
Her locker had been cleared.
The surveillance indicators in the corridor she often used had been repositioned.
Her name had disappeared from discussions too completely.
That level of "complete" unsettled me.
I asked a fifth-year instructor.
"She has already transferred," the instructor said.
His tone was calm—like stating a process that had long been completed.
"Where to?" I asked.
He looked at me. No impatience, no warning.
"That is not within your clearance."
A standard answer.
I nodded and didn't ask further.
I knew continuing wouldn't change the response.
Over the next few days, I tried to return to my previous rhythm. I attended classes on time, trained on schedule, and my evaluation results didn't fluctuate. The instructor marked me as "stable."
Stability should have been reassuring.
But I found myself doing things I hadn't done before.
Refreshing her ID page repeatedly.
Slowing down unconsciously when passing the fifth-year area.
Pausing whenever I heard the word "transfer."
These behaviors weren't recorded.
At least, I didn't receive any notification.
Until that day, when I ran into Seven in the corridor.
It wasn't an arranged encounter. He was simply walking from the upper-year direction, alone. The surrounding students automatically cleared a path. No one spoke.
I could have pretended not to see him.
But I didn't.
"Seven," I called his ID.
He stopped and looked at me.
His gaze was calm—no evaluation, no curiosity.
"What is it?" he asked.
I took a few seconds to organize my words.
"A fifth-year student transferred," I said. "I want to confirm something."
Seven didn't respond immediately.
"Confirm what?" he asked.
"Confirm… whether it was really a transfer," I said.
The moment the words left my mouth, I realized I had said something wrong. But it was too late to take it back.
Seven looked at me for a moment.
Not scrutinizing—more like assessing something that had already occurred.
"It was a transfer," he said.
"Then she—" I began, but he cut me off.
"That's enough," Seven said.
His tone wasn't heavy, nor cold.
Just certain.
"You shouldn't keep asking."
The corridor was quiet. No one passed by. The surveillance indicator blinked once on the ceiling.
I opened my mouth, but said nothing more.
Seven turned and left, without looking back.
At that moment, I suddenly realized something.
I had reached the edge of a line.
And that line wasn't written in the rules.
After that day, my system permissions didn't change, and my schedule remained the same. No warnings. No records.
But I began to feel watched.
Not by the surveillance lights.
Something else.
I didn't know what it was.
I only knew that from that day on, I could no longer find any updates about her.
As if her existence had been completely cut off at a certain point.
And I was the only one who remembered that period.