By midterm week, Mao had helped Emi with three study sessions, one surprise quiz, and a forgotten homework assignment. He didn't ask for anything in return—he never did—but he started walking her to the train station, just in case.
One evening, as they stood beneath the flickering light near the ticket machines, he tried again.
"I like you."
It came out steadier this time. Less raw than with Hana. More hopeful.
Emi blinked at him, lips parting slightly. Then she smiled—not the kind that lifts you, but the kind that gently lets you down.
"Mao… I think you're amazing. But I'm kinda into someone else. I'm sorry."
He nodded once, hands tightening around the straps of his bag.
"Okay," he said. "Good night."
Rejection number two. Quiet. Polite. Precise.
After Emi, there was Kana from art club. She had a sketchbook full of people's faces, and Mao had caught her drawing him once. He thought that meant something.
It didn't.
"I just draw people who look interesting," she said, chewing gum. "Doesn't mean I like them."
Then there was Sayaka. She laughed at his deadpan jokes. Called him "mysterious" in a teasing way. But she had a boyfriend—something he didn't learn until after he'd confessed.
Three in a row.
He stopped counting after that.
Each time, it hurt a little less—but in a different way. Not because he cared less, but because he was starting to believe there might be something wrong with him. Something people admired but didn't want to keep close.
People liked the idea of him. But not the reality.
Still, he never got angry. Never lashed out. He simply returned to his desk, near the window, and opened his notebook like always.
But Hana noticed.
One morning, as students filed into class, she glanced over and saw it—his fingers tapping against his desk, an unfamiliar rhythm. A sign of restlessness. Uncertainty.
She hadn't seen that in him before.
And for the first time, she wondered—
Did I really know Mao at all?