The bell rang softly, signaling the end of class. The literature teacher set down her chalk, brushed the white dust from her hands, and turned.
"The semester's almost over, but don't slack off. Holiday homework depends on your final exam scores. Want to enjoy your break? Study hard at home, got it?"
"Yeees," The students drawled in response.
"Alright, dismissed." The teacher waved and left.
The classroom erupted into chaos. Kids who'd passed notes during class now shouted freely, swapping game tips with fervor. Boys hurriedly stuffed books and pencil cases into bags like they were dumping leftovers, then slung arms around shoulders and bolted for clubs. Girls stretched lazily, chatting about gossip and which café to hit.
Teens always had endless topics, gossip, and juicy rumors to chew on.
Delicate and sensitive nerves intertwined—joy, confusion, doubt, sorrow—converging in this once-in-a-lifetime phase called "youth."
Sakura didn't join the vibrant clamor.
She stepped to the blackboard, picked up the eraser, and, on tiptoes, wiped away the teacher's flourishing script. It was her day on cleaning duty.
The noise behind her faded as classmates trickled out. By the time the board was spotless, the room felt cavernous.
It made sweeping up the bits of trash between desks and aisles easier.
When she returned with the emptied bin, she was alone.
Duty was supposed to be a boy-girl pair, but boys ditching was all too common.
Books and shows about school life loved to highlight students' passion and innocence—timeless, cherished tropes.
But Sakura preferred the school as it cooled after hours.
The warm sunset, the building painted in hues of orange and red, the shadows of trees dappling the stone path, the distant rumble of a train on its tracks.
The quiet scene held a languid beauty, free of rush or annoyance, soothing her heart.
She packed her bag and walked through the glowing, sunset-lit corridor, her white sailor uniform tinged pink, her shadow stretching long.
Since when did she stop having friends to walk home with?
As a kid, she was a tomboy with her hair cropped short, tearing through parks with rowdy boys. For a girl, she was too wild.
Once, during a basketball game in elementary school, she passed out from overexcitement and woke in a children's hospital. The doctor revealed her frail constitution.
Her first time in a wheelchair drew everyone's eyes. People teased, "Don't go so crazy next time."
The rowdy kids which scolded by their parents stopped playing with her because fearing blame. The delicate girls' cliques had no room for a tomboy like her.
Her final elementary years were spent staring blankly from that wheelchair.
That's when she realized how much she hated being stared at and judged.
In middle school, at a new school, she joined the drama club to face her physical limits head-on. But juggling school and practice left her with no memorable middle school stories.
If anything stood out, it was the intense discomfort of standing under stage lights for the first time.
No way. She couldn't do it—posing confidently under thousands of eyes, draped in dazzling light. She fled the stage.
That day, she understood her true nature.
Sacrificing middle school for drama was a tasteless, regrettable effort. Her teacher, consoling her, noted her voice was decent. If she hated the spotlight, why not try backstage performance?
Her low spirits flickered back to life.
She loved the process of creation more than flashy films, the goofy bloopers of actors performing against green screens more than wild special effects.
So she dove into voice acting classes at a training agency.
The cost? Her already small social circle shrank to nearly nothing.
Her middle school class had already formed its groups, and missing team activities made her a loner by default. The training agency was full of older students and adults, with whom she shared little in common. Deep friendships were unlikely—college kids and grown-ups bonding eagerly with a middle school girl would've been odd anyway.
Still juggling both worlds, she took the agency audition, and her first year of high school slipped by unnoticed.
Sakura still hadn't found her clique.
High schoolers were more complex than younger kids. They were tasting society's edges, hatching their own clumsy, immature sides at this unpredictable age.
Studious types grew lazy or doubted their grit. Rebellious ones broke rules or bullied to build a cool and tough image. Some started dating, nursed secret crushes, or defied their parents.
Maybe because her social skills stalled in elementary school, Sakura felt she couldn't play by high school's rules.
The adult world might be more mature, right?
That hopeful thought had been snuffed out by the stench of booze at the agency party.
There was the middle-aged guy belting out Noh chants, the weirdo asking her about life's meaning, and the high school boy, like her, forcing a smile to play along with reality.
So much clashed with her tastes and instincts.
She trudged on, piling up frustration and confusion with each day of study and training. Her world shrank, the unknown future tinged with gloom and fear.
Sakura stood alone at the platform, waiting for her train. The crowd swirled around her, but the isolation weighed heavy.
No friends to walk home with, no one to chat with, no study group pals, no upperclassman for aquarium trips, no buddy tossing notes in class.
Was it her fault?
Was that lively, connected life the "right" way, and was she just stubbornly rejecting it because it didn't feel good?
The train rumbled in. Silently pondering, she stepped aboard, determined to change things.
Yes, again.
She'd already failed so many times.
***
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