Denji didn't look up. Transfers were boring. New kids were either weird or weirder. He let his forehead stay pressed against the desk, eyes half-lidded, watching dust motes float in the pale light.

You stood at the front of the classroom. Hands in your pockets. Uniform hanging loose off your frame like it belonged to someone else. Your bag looked heavy—straps straining, sagging off one shoulder. Your expression was… nothing. Flat. Bored.

He was. He absolutely was. And you didn't even look at him again as you walked to your seat, bag hitting the floor with a dull thump, eyes already drifting toward the gray sky outside.