There's something comforting about the noise—the buzz of voices, the laughter spilling out across the cafeteria, the shuffling of feet on linoleum floors.
Every single sound that I heard weren't getting unnoticed.
It's loud, chaotic, and sometimes exhausting.
But, hey, at least it's alive.
It's the sound of connection, even if it's shallow at times. That includes me.
I've always been a talker, a chatter.
When I was little, I would talk to anyone who'd listen, whether it would be strangers on the street, the barista at the corner café, my classmates, heck, even my reflection in the mirror.
It's how I make sense of the world. It's the only way I could feel like everything is real, and maybe, how I try to make friends.
School, though? That's different.
I'm not the kind of student who lives for grades or class rankings.
I don't hate it, but it's definitely something I don't want to do, mostly because it was just annoying.
I show up, I listen when I need to, and I scribble just enough to keep the teachers off my back.
But the real part of school—the part that matters to me—is in-between the lessons.
The conversations. The friends. The human stuff.
But lately, I've been wondering if all that noise is enough.
Is it really connection, or just white noise?
I love my friends, I really do.
They're loud and funny and make me feel like I belong.
But sometimes, when the laughter dies down, I feel a quiet hollowness inside.
Like there's something missing—a different kind of friendship I can't quite put into words.
Maybe I'm just dreaming too much.
Or maybe I'm hoping for a friend who listens—really listens—instead of just hearing me.
I wonder how selfish that sounds.
The bell rings and I drag myself to my seat, tossing my bag lazily onto the desk.
The room hums with the usual morning chaos—half-asleep students, scribbled last-minute homework, a teacher trying to get attention.
I lean back in my chair and glance out the window, watching clouds crawl lazily across the sky.
The classroom buzzes with students settling in, teachers calling roll, and the familiar scent of chalk and paper.
Yuki slides into the seat next to me and pokes my arm with a pencil.
"Spacing out again?" she asks with a grin.
"Oh, you know, the usual," I answered her, giving her back the same grin.
"Enjoying the morning, eh?" Yuki said while nodding.
"You guessed it."
Yuki Tanabe, a good friend of mine since junior high.
We first met in our second year of junior high school, when I transferred into Yuki's class mid-semester.
At the time, Yuki was already well-liked—a cheerful, talkative student who floated easily between friend groups.
She wasn't overly flashy or the top of the class, but she had this natural warmth that drew people in.
Me, on the other hand, had trouble settling in at first. I wasn't shy, but it felt awkward to try and initiate conversations, especially since I was just transferring in.
It was hard for me to feel like I fit anywhere.
We had our first interaction during a group project, when me and Yuki got paired.
While the rest of the group barely contributed, Yuki and I ended up spending a lot of time together—working late in the library, texting ideas, occasionally going off-topic and talking about music or dumb internet videos.
I think Yuki liked how I wasn't afraid to say weird things or challenge her idea.
However, I just found Yuki's openness strangely grounding.
It all went uphill when the group project ended.
We'd eat lunch together, walk home from cram school, and share secrets that felt too heavy to tell anyone else.
Yuki was always the one to drag me into things—karaoke nights, school festivals, even short trips in the summer—while I just gave Yuki someone who genuinely listened instead of just laughing along.
However, when we enrolled into senior high school, we were placed in different classes, but we still hang out almost every day.
The past few years that we were together really felt like something else. It wasn't flashy or dramatic, it was comfortable.
Yuki knew when I was in my own head too much, and I knew when Yuki's smile feels a little too forced.
It was a friendship that I liked and built up over the years.
And it wasn't something I was going to let go anytime soon.
History starts, but my brain doesn't.
The teacher launches into a lecture about ancient civilizations, and I doodle in the margins of my notebook instead of taking notes.
Swirls, stars, half-written quotes from books I'll probably never finish.
I catch pieces of the lecture here and there—names of empires, dates I'll forget by lunch.
When the class ended, I didn't feel any smarter, but I didn't really care. I'm here to pass time, not pass with honors.
Lunchtime is the real part of my day. That's when everything wakes up.
Yuki's already waiting by the classroom door, grinning like she always does when she's hungry.
"Let's gooo, I swear if there's no karaage today, I might actually cry."
"You say that every week," I say, grabbing my bag.
"Yeah, and every week I mean it."
We weave through the hallways together, Yuki walking just a step ahead like she always does—bold, cheerful, never running out of things to say.
We've been close since junior high, back when we got paired up for some boring science project. I thought she was just a loudmouth at first, but she's real.
She listens when I rant, laughs at my worst jokes, and texts me good morning almost every day like a habit.
When we reach our usual spot by the windows, Mika's already there, quietly unwrapping her sandwich with that soft, polite smile of hers.
"Hey, Mika," I say, sliding into my seat.
"Hi, Sora. You're later than usual."
"Mika, you say that every day," Yuki teases, flopping down beside her.
Mika just nods, calm as always.
She's been my friend since grade school—the kind of friend who sits beside you in silence and somehow still makes you feel understood.
I met her on my first day, when I forgot my lunch and she shared hers without saying much.
That's always been her way: gentle, quiet, thoughtful.
"Ugh, I already regret buying this," Hana says, arriving last with a tray full of cafeteria mystery meat. "This is gonna destroy me."
"You said that last week," I grin.
"Yeah, and it did destroy me. I'm just doing it for the drama now."
That's Hana for you. Loud, fearless, and maybe a little bit nuts.
We only became friends last year, after she cracked a joke about how boring our math teacher was during roll call.
I laughed too loudly and got called out—and after class, she high-fived me like we'd planned it. Since then, it's been chaos in the best way.
"I heard Mr. Shimura's going to give us a pop quiz tomorrow," Mika says quietly, looking at her notes.
"Wait, what?" Yuki says, nearly choking on her rice.
Hana waves a hand.
"Girl, we're in a group project. He can't quiz us during a group project. That's against the Geneva Convention or something."
"Right?" I say, laughing. "I haven't even opened my history notebook in like... two weeks."
"That's because your notebook is actually just full of doodles and song lyrics," Yuki says, poking me with her chopsticks.
"Hey, that's creative expression."
"Sure," Mika murmurs, "but it won't help you on the Meiji Restoration."
We all burst out laughing.
The table is loud, like always. Stories flying back and forth. Hana talking about some weird customer she had at work. Yuki ranting about a TikTok trend she hates. Mika gently correcting Yuki's mispronunciation of "feng shui."
And me? I'm just soaking it all in.
But then I glance toward the far corner of the cafeteria and spot a different kind of group—smaller, quieter.
They're not laughing or showing off.
They're just talking, leaning close, like every word actually means something.
I turn back to my tray and smile at something Hana says, but that quiet table lingers in the back of my mind.
I love my friends. I really do.
But sometimes I wonder what it would be like to talk about... other things. Deeper things.
Things that don't need punchlines.
Maybe I'm just weird. Or maybe I'm just looking for something else.
When the final bell rings, I breathe out like I've been holding it in all day.
I stretch, grab my bag, and head out with the others.
We trickle out of the classroom together, Yuki slinging her bag over her shoulder like she's ready to sprint, Mika still munching on leftover snacks she stashed in her pocket, and Hana humming some song none of us recognize.
"Man, today dragged," Yuki groans. "That last period almost killed me."
"That's because you were scrolling through cat videos the entire time," Mika teases.
"Correction: I was studying feline behavior for science class," Yuki shoots back with a grin.
"I swear you're going to bomb the next test," Hana says with a playful nudge.
We laugh—one of those carefree, effortless laughs that comes from knowing you're among your people.
At least, that's what I tell myself.
As we reach the school gates, we start splitting off in different directions.
"Store shift again, Sora?" Mika asks.
"Yep. Gotta keep the snack money flowing," I joke, flashing a peace sign.
"Don't forget to send me the link to that hairpin you mentioned," Hana says, wagging a finger.
"I'll do it after work."
Yuki gives me a two-finger salute. "See you tomorrow, queen of part-timers."
I wave them off as they disappear down the street in their usual cluster of voices and energy.
Then I'm walking alone.