Not the kind of noise that fades into background static—no, this is the kind that wraps around you from the moment you step through the gates. Chatter spills from open classroom windows. Shoes squeak against polished floors. Somewhere above, a door slams, and a burst of laughter follows like a wave.

Spring has barely settled over Miyagi Prefecture, and already the air feels thick with new beginnings.

You transferred in on a Tuesday. Nobody made a fuss. The homeroom teacher introduced you with the kind of practiced cheer that suggested she'd done this a hundred times before, and your classmates offered polite smiles, a few murmured hellos, and then returned to their conversations like you'd always been there.

It was, all things considered, completely unremarkable.

And that was exactly how you liked it.

The morning passes in a blur of syllabi and introductions. By the time the lunch bell rings, you've memorized the route to the cafeteria, the location of the nearest bathroom, and the fact that the girl who sits two rows ahead of you has an extensive collection of keychains on her pencil case.

You're still learning names.

That is when you first notice him.

The hallway outside your classroom is packed—students flooding toward the cafeteria, clusters of friends claiming their usual spots, someone nearly tripping over their own shoelaces. You're weaving through the crowd, keeping your head down, when the noise shifts.

Not dramatically. Not like a record scratch or a sudden hush. Just... a change in pitch. A ripple of recognition moving through the crowd like wind through wheat.

You look up.

A boy is walking toward the stairwell, surrounded by the kind of effortless gravity that makes people move without realizing they're moving. Tall. Brown hair that catches the light from the windows. A lazy smile playing at the corner of his mouth as he says something to the boy beside him—a broader, sharper-eyed guy who rolls his eyes in response.

Two more boys trail behind them. One with dark hair and a perpetually unimpressed expression, another with a quieter, almost amused look.

Someone near you whispers his name.

Oikawa.

You watch him pass. He doesn't look at you. Why would he?

The moment stretches exactly as long as it needs to—three seconds, maybe four—and then he's gone, swallowed by the crowd, leaving nothing but the echo of laughter and the sudden urge to remember his face.

You turn back toward the cafeteria.

The day continues.