I don't like the sun.
I mean… it's fine, I guess. Objectively. It makes plants grow and warms the earth and all that. But that's not what I mean.
I don't like what it does.
Light exposes. It finds things. It pulls them out of shadows and tells the world, "Look at this!" even when that thing would rather stay quiet.
People don't understand how hard it is to be invisible when the sun is around.
And right now, the sun is everywhere.
It's my first day at Yumegawa High School, and it already feels like a mistake.
There's nothing especially wrong with the school. The building is average. Beige walls, chipped paint, sleepy windows that haven't been cleaned in years. A rusting flagpole in the front courtyard. It doesn't scream "elite institution," which is exactly why I chose it.
But no matter how ordinary the setting, this is still a new environment. A new stage. And today's performance? Crucial.
New classmates. New teachers. New threats.
The trick is to become forgettable before people have the chance to remember you.
That means avoiding eye contact. Smiling just enough to not seem suspicious. Getting things almost right—never perfect. Being clumsy. Stuttering a little. Laughing at the wrong time.
Which I'm good at.
Which I've practiced.
But even now, standing by the front gate thirty minutes early, the sun pins me like a bug under glass. My blazer itches. My shirt collar is slightly too tight. I pretend I'm looking at the school map on my phone, but I already memorized the layout a week ago.
Two floors. Four class sections per year. A library with four windows, one of which is cracked. Two vending machines that haven't been updated since 2012. A science wing that students aren't allowed to enter before second semester.
I know all of it.
Because knowing things—quietly, privately—is how I stay safe.
The crowd starts to build. Students in fresh uniforms file through the gate. Most of them walk in groups of two or three, talking nervously, laughing a little too loud. Some are solo like me, trying not to look like they're alone. Their eyes dart across faces, checking for recognition or invitation.
I keep my gaze low. Headphones in. No music playing.
At exactly 7:42 a.m., I move.
That gives me the perfect two-minute window to blend with the arriving wave—early enough to avoid stragglers, late enough to dodge the first-to-arrive social climbers.
My indoor shoes are tucked neatly into my bag. I change them quickly and slide through the halls like I've done it a hundred times. Room 1-C is at the end of the corridor, left side.
I take the second seat from the back, by the window.
Statistically, the least-interrupted seat in any Japanese classroom. Teachers overlook it. Students avoid sitting next to it. It's just close enough to the window to feel distant, and just far enough from the door to avoid attention.
I sit.
And breathe.
For a few minutes, no one speaks. A few students trickle in, looking lost. Some glance at me, then away. I let my shoulders hunch and my mouth hang open slightly, like I'm daydreaming. I pick at the corner of my notebook.
No one asks my name.
Good.
The door slides open again, louder this time.
"Ah—uh, sorry! I-Is this Class 1-C?"
A tall guy with messy hair stumbles in, grinning like he's late to his own story. He looks around, pauses, then picks the seat in the center of the room.
He slaps his desk lightly. "Nice view," he mutters to himself.
That's how I meet Riku Moriyama. I'll learn his name later, when he offers me half a protein bar I don't ask for. For now, he's just another variable—too loud, too friendly, too visible. Someone like him makes a useful shield. I tuck that away.
The classroom fills.
Then empties slightly as students are shuffled to different classes.
Then fills again.
By 8:15, the teacher arrives. Ms. Kitagawa. Late 30s, maybe. Tired eyes. Efficient voice. No-nonsense.
"I'll be your homeroom teacher this year. Attendance is alphabetical by surname. Your names are on your desks."
I glance down.
Iwakura. Second from the back.
Expected. I made sure of it.
Names are called. Most students mumble a polite "here." I raise my hand and say it softly. No one turns.
Good.
Then—
"We also have a transfer student joining us late. From Aomori."
The door opens. One clean motion.
A girl steps in.
Her uniform is crisp. Her posture relaxed. Her expression—neutral, but not blank. Calm. Observant. Like someone who's been through this before and isn't interested in making a big impression.
"This is Hoshino Rei," says Ms. Kitagawa.
Rei bows. "Nice to meet you."
And then—her eyes sweep across the room.
Most students glance away. I don't.
Just a split-second longer than necessary, her gaze settles on me. It's not casual. It's not polite.
It's… measured.
I look down too late.
A chill runs through me.
Did I slip up? Did she see something?
Or maybe—maybe she's like me.
Another observer.
I tap my fingers once against the desk, a quiet reflex. Thumb, middle, index, ring. A pattern I repeat when I need to think.
She walks to the front and takes her seat without saying anything else.
But I can still feel it.
Something just changed.
And the sun is watching.