The morning began like any other: uneventfully, painfully average, and topped with the subtle dread of existing. I dragged myself through the school gates with the practiced efficiency of a background character trying not to disturb the main plot.
And yet, I was disturbed.
"Senpai-sensei!"
The voice was high-pitched, dangerously energetic, and aimed squarely at me like a sniper round of glitter and pastel stickers. I flinched before the impact.
A girl clung to my arm.
Noa Hoshizuki. First year. Height: petite. Eyes: sparkly. Aura: radioactive levels of cheer.
"You again," I sighed, attempting to peel her off my sleeve like gum from a desk.
"You forgot your draft yesterday!" she chirped. "And your handwriting on the margins matched the novel posted on the anonymous board!"
Ah, yes. The great literary crime of the semester.
Recently, a mysterious, uncredited story had started circulating online through the school forum. It was heartfelt, cynical, and kind of good—which obviously meant it couldn't be mine. And yet, this girl had convinced herself that I, of all people, was the author.
Which was ridiculous. I hadn't written anything real since middle school. Back then, my prose was the emotional equivalent of an overcooked noodle. It still probably is.
"You've got the wrong guy," I muttered.
"That's what the protagonist would say before reluctantly guiding the heroine back to her own smile."
Noa was not just reading too many books. She was eating them whole and absorbing plotlines through osmosis.
Koharu arrived just in time to witness the scene, her expression unreadable. Not the angry jealous type—she'd made that clear last week—but she had the same look I got when my favorite limited-edition soda vanished from the vending machine.
"Oh," she said, looking between me and the girl still latched to my sleeve. "So that's happening now."
"I keep telling her I didn't write it," I grumbled.
"And I keep telling him," Noa smiled, "that he's lying out of artistic insecurity."
Yuki Shirakawa, from the seat behind me, sipped her tea like she was watching a low-budget sitcom on mute.
"This is your fault for existing, Kuroda."
I sighed. "That's what my mirror says, too."
We entered the classroom, where my life should have returned to its usual greyscale. But no, the color-coded disaster continued.
"Makki," I hissed. "Help me."
Makoto Ishida, the only male friend who hadn't defected to another species, looked up from his melon bread and grinned.
"You've unlocked the kouhai route! Proceed with caution, bro."
"I don't want any routes. I want peace."
"Too late. She used the signature move: cling and praise." He nodded sagely. "That's textbook Level 2 affection. Probably 'Cinderella Strategy A.'"
"That sounds made up."
"Everything is made up until it works."
Koharu stood next to my desk, arms crossed. Not sulking. Not smirking. Just... present. I looked up at her.
"You okay?"
"Do you even know what kind of stories she writes?"
"No. Why would I?"
"Because she's literally trying to write you into her plot."
"I think I'm allergic to metaphors today."
She leaned down, resting both hands on my desk, face close enough to see the faint irritation behind her bangs.
"You're really bad at noticing when someone's flirting with you."
"Or maybe I'm just trying to survive high school without being eaten by narrative tropes."
Noa popped her head into the conversation again.
"Don't worry, Koharu-senpai. I'm not trying to steal him. I just want him to beta-read my heart."
Koharu blinked. "What."
"I think she means 'edit' it," I guessed.
"No," Noa said brightly. "I mean what I said."
I began reconsidering voluntary suspension.
The rest of the day went downhill from there. Noa followed me to the library. To lunch. Even to the faculty hallway until a teacher gently redirected her back like a wandering NPC.
"She really won't give up," I muttered.
Yuki, walking beside me with her usual sleepy calm, adjusted her glasses. "Of course not. She thinks you're her protagonist."
"Why does everyone keep calling me that?"
"Because you keep triggering flags. Even I noticed. You're like a walking choice menu now."
"Can I select 'Run away to Antarctica'"?
"Only if it's the bad ending."
After school, I sat under the sakura tree, the one place I used to feel invisible. Koharu found me there.
She didn't sit. Just stood, arms behind her back.
"You're not writing anything, are you?"
"Nope."
"But you used to."
"Doesn't mean I want to start again."
She was quiet for a moment.
"Maybe she thinks your story isn't over yet."
"That's the problem. I didn't know it even started."
She laughed. Softly. The kind that stings because it's real.
"Idiot," she said. "Of course it did. I read the prologue the day we met."
Then she walked away.
Noa was waiting at the gate with a manuscript. Yuki raised her eyebrow from the shoe lockers. Makki tossed me a thumbs up and a stick of Pocky.
And me? I just stood there, utterly certain of one thing:
I was doomed.