The bell rang. I dried my face and headed back to class.
As I stepped in, a few heads turned.
It felt like déjà vu.
Of course it did—I was on take two of a divine rerun.
Rin glanced up from her notebook as I sat down.
Her cheeks flushed instantly, just like before.
And again—again—I wondered if it was real.
Lunch came.
My stomach growled like a dying tanuki. I opened my bag with the sluggish enthusiasm of a high school salaryman clocking in on Monday morning.
And then paused.
Would she ask again?
Would she still—
"U-Um… Mizuki-kun?"
Bam. There it was. Her voice. Still gentle, still soft, but now I could hear it. That faint tremble beneath the words, like a rice paper screen shaking in the wind.
Nervous. Hopeful.
My chest did that tight, annoying thing again. Ugh, emotions. Who needs them?
"Do you… wanna eat lunch together?"
Ah. The sequel no one asked for, but secretly wanted.
Last time, I panicked like an NPC with a broken script. Made up some tragic excuse about my dog's cousin being in the hospital and ran off like a budget romcom protagonist with no survival instinct.
And maybe—maybe—that was the moment her affection points took a nosedive.
But this time…
I looked her in the eye.
Smiled.
"…Sure."
We sat together under the sakura tree in the courtyard. Real original, I know. What's next, falling into her during gym class?
The blossoms weren't in full bloom yet—half-committed, like me doing math homework—but a few petals danced in the wind, swirling down like they were trying way too hard to create atmosphere. Chill, nature. We get it. It's romantic.
She opened her bento box carefully, like she was unsealing the Philosopher's Stone.
Inside were:
– Delicate rolled tamagoyaki
– Tiny onigiri
– Grilled salmon with a heart-shaped pick
– And… were those octopus sausages?!
Classic. She's really leaning into the childhood anime heroine starter pack.
She peeked up at me from beneath her lashes. Textbook "meek girl" move. Moe levels rising.
"I… I made this myself."
I blinked.
"You cook?"
"I've been learning…" she mumbled, brushing her hair back with the precision of someone who practiced that exact move in the mirror ten times. "I, um, started last month. I wanted to be… the kind of girl someone might like."
Her voice dropped so low I had to squint just to hear it. (Yes, squinting somehow helps me hear. Don't question it.)
I looked back at the food. Okay, objectively? It was kind of adorable. Everything was slightly off-center, slightly uneven. The kind of imperfections you could only get from trying too hard.
This wasn't just lunch.
This was a love letter written in egg.
"Can I try?"
She nodded frantically. "Y-Yes! Of course!"
Okay. Showtime.
I picked up a piece of tamagoyaki and popped it into my mouth like a brave little soldier marching into war.
And paused.
It was sweet.
Like, really sweet.
Like "this egg just took me on a one-way trip to Diabetic City" sweet.
My pupils dilated. My soul left my body. Somewhere, an old Japanese chef wept.
She watched me, eyes huge, waiting for a verdict like I was the Shogun of Eggland.
I smiled. It was more a grimace, really. But I smiled.
"…It's sweet."
Her face exploded into a crimson mess. "Oh no…! I-I followed the recipe, but the video said to add mirin and sugar and—maybe I doubled the sugar—!"
You think?
I coughed, trying not to die gracefully, and reached for my water. A tactical retreat.
But before I could sip, she panicked and shoved her tea toward me.
Our hands touched.
We froze like two badly rendered anime characters caught in a sudden CG cutscene.
Her eyes widened. A single cherry blossom fluttered down, landing perfectly in her hair.
Okay. Seriously? Nature. Chill. This is bordering on scripted.
Still… in that moment, something hit me.
She wasn't acting.
She wasn't putting on a show, or trying to be a perfect anime waifu.
This clumsy effort, this trembling hand, this stupidly sweet tamagoyaki that tasted like it had a personal vendetta against my pancreas—
It was all hers.
All real.
All sincere.
I took another bite.
Yes, it was still offensively sweet.
But this time, I smiled without forcing it.
"I like it," I said.
She blinked. "R-Really?"
"Yeah." I nodded. "It's aggressively sweet, like a shoujo manga dipped in syrup. But it's good."
She giggled. Covered her mouth like a proper ojou-sama. "That… that sounds kind of insulting, Mizuki-kun."
"It is," I said. "But lovingly so."
She laughed again—freer this time. The cherry blossom in her hair swayed gently.
Lunch continued. We talked.
About her cooking fails ("I once set rice on fire—don't ask"), about my tragic addiction to convenience store melon pan, about our favorite anime (she likes magical girl shows… not gonna lie, respect), and somehow about whether cats secretly rule the world. (They do. Obviously.)
By the time the bell rang, I realized something strange.
I didn't want it to end.
Shit! Am I drowning in this unbelievably deep ocean, fully aware of just how deep it goes?
Sigh...
I'm probably going to need a box full of tissues in a month when this blessed, inevitable love of hers crashes down.