You rounded the corner toward your classroom, weaving through a cluster of boys arguing about some soccer match you hadn't heard about.

That's when a sharp, familiar weight slammed into your shoulder.

Kyoutani Kentarō stood frozen in front of you, bleach-blond hair catching the fluorescent light, those two black stripes stark against the pale strands. His jaw was tight, his grey-brown eyes wide—not with anger, but with something that looked dangerously close to panic.

He'd been walking with his head down, earbuds in, shoulders hunched. He hadn't seen you coming.

Neither of you moved.

The corridor around you faded into a blur of noise. All his attention was on you. On the fact that he'd nearly knocked you over. On the fact that you were right there.