Interlude : About Who I was Before Miyagi

Tall or short.

Rule-followers or rebels.

There are countless ways to divide people into two groups. But today, I’d sort them into just two: those I know, and those I don’t.

From first year to second year.

With the arrival of April came the usual upheaval—new grade, shuffled classes. No one had a say in where they’d end up. As a freshly minted second-year student, I scanned the class list posted at the school entrance for my name: Sendai Hazuki. Not far from it, I found Ibaraki Umina’s name as well.

I’m not shy, so it doesn’t matter much who I’m with. But it’s always better to have at least one familiar face. Especially hers. Seeing Uminai’s name made me feel strangely lucky.

With her around, I could probably carry on just like last year. No need to reestablish social footing. I could just coast, enjoying myself in my usual way.

After checking where my close friends had landed, I made my way to the new classroom.

The first day back after a long break always feels slightly surreal. Laughter and chatter fill the air, a remnant of vacation that lingers in students’ voices. Some look like they’ve left half their minds at home. Today, with unfamiliar classrooms and new classmates, anticipation and anxiety intermingle, coating the school in a peculiar mood.

I walk down the noisy hallway and push open the door to my new classroom.

The first thing I spot is light brown hair—Umina. She always stands out. She makes sure of it. That kind of presence isn’t something just anyone can pull off; it takes a certain talent. We don’t always see eye to eye, but I admire that about her. This class, like the last, would probably orbit around her.

I start toward her.

One step. Two. Three.

As I weave my way between desks, I hear fragments of conversation—joy tinged with disappointment.

“I’m glad I got Maika, but…”

“Ami’s the only one who ended up elsewhere…”

I glance over and see a pair of girls whose fashion sense is the polar opposite of Umina’s.

Class reshuffling always brings mixed emotions.

There’s joy in being with someone, and sorrow in being separated from others. These girls were likely part of a trio, now reduced to a pair—stuck between relief and guilt. I get it. If one friend ends up in another class, the remaining two can’t celebrate openly.

Not that there’s anything I can say.

We aren’t close.

In my mental filing system, they fall into the “don’t know” category—faces I’ll have to learn later.

I keep walking and call out to Umina. “Morning.”

“Hey, Hazuki! We’re going out after the opening ceremony today,” she says immediately, already tossing around after-school plans. She’s surrounded by both familiar and unfamiliar faces. Same old Umina.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“We were waiting on you to decide. But first, tell me about that.”

“That?”

“You and Masaki-kun. What’s going on?”

I suppress a sigh at the name I didn’t want to hear. I knew she’d bring him up today, but there’s nothing to say.

“what ?” I reply with feigned casualness.

“He messaged you, didn’t he?”

It’s true. During spring break, I got a message from Masaki-kun—a guy I’d never met or spoken to. Not that I gave him my contact info.

Umina did.

She told me afterward, without asking. It wasn’t the first time. She means well, thinks she’s helping by introducing me to potential boyfriends. It’s like a hobby for her. A project. But for someone like me—someone who has no interest in a boyfriend—it’s just annoying.

“He did, but that’s all.”

“What? You didn’t hang out or anything?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“We didn’t click.”

“Come on, that’s no reason to ditch it. Total waste.”

“Clicking kind of matters.”

“You’re too picky, Hazuki. Lower your standards. You should totally get a boyfriend. I can introduce you to dozens of guys.”

“What about your boyfriend?” I ask, deflecting. Her boyfriend—who she’s been with since first year—is always an easy distraction.

“Oh, that? He really pissed me off,” she says, and someone nearby jumps in: “What happened?”

As their chatter continues, I let my eyes wander across the room. It’s like a tacky aquarium—good for studying the dynamics between students.

Social roles are already forming on day one.

Around a flashy fish like Umina, there are no dull fish—only other showy ones or people like me, who drift close enough to catch the reflected light.

It’s not like the ocean, where predators devour prey. There’s no overt hierarchy here. Just quiet avoidance, and everyone swimming along, trying not to bump into each other.

This artificial peace is fragile, but it works. It’s not a bad place to be. Labeling classmates isn’t exactly noble, but once you’ve found your place, you can float through it all comfortably. And when your home life feels like rejection, doing well in this tank becomes your survival strategy.

“It’s supposed to be really good—fruit sandwiches with fresh cream and strawberries,” Umina says, pulling me back into the conversation. Her boyfriend drama has already transitioned into a discussion of makeup and trendy sweets. “After the ceremony, I wanna grab foundation and hit that place.”

Her cheerful voice paints our after-school plans in pastel shades—cosmetics and dessert. I smile and nod.

Aquarium fish have to return to their own tanks eventually. But the later that happens, the better.

Home, where doll-like family members wait—unmoving, perfect, and cold—has never suited me, someone who couldn’t play the part of the flawless younger sister like her.

“Ugh, the opening ceremony is such a pain. Should I just skip?” Umina complains.

“It ends early today.”

“Yeah, but I still don’t wanna go. Skip with me, Hazuki.”

“Getting on the teachers’ bad side on day one sounds like a headache. I’ll pass.”

No need to stand out for the wrong reasons. I’m not interested in trouble.

The warning bell rings, and I take my seat.

If I want to enjoy school life the way I did last year—safely drifting near the flashy fish—the beginning is key. Better to avoid friction, keep my head down, and ease into routine.

From today, that routine starts again.

And it will probably continue until graduation.

This world of ours is free, yet restrictive. Fun, yet tedious. Still, I’m mostly content with its soft suffocation. A little excitement wouldn’t hurt, but when it arrives uninvited, it’s usually more trouble than it’s worth.

A safe kind of thrill rarely exists. So, it’s better if nothing changes. There’s value in monotony. I don’t want a different life.

Probably.

Surely.

That’s what I believe.