Earlier this year, September

  Academic Course Homeroom | Masato Nishinoya’s POV

  When I saw the seating chart, I already knew I was doomed.

  Back row.

  Nothing good ever happened in the back row.

  That’s where focus went to die: alongside sleep-deprived kids who thought “group work” meant freeloading and watching anime under the desk.

  I actually like learning things.

  Real shocker, I know. But my brain works best when I'm not surrounded by chaos.

  To make things worse, my new left-hand neighbor had already set up what looked like a horror-themed art exhibit on her desk.

  Notebooks full of sketches, twisted limbs, haunted eyes, this one drawing that might’ve been a dissected frog but also maybe a screaming angel?...

  She didn’t say a word.

  Just kept drawing.

  Or solving equations.

  Or zoning out with giant headphones like she was trying to summon something.

  I told myself: Ignore it. Focus up. You’re here to get into Todai, not interpret whatever demon she’s sketching today.

  That lasted until the test scores came out.

  It was just placement: every subject, across the board.

  I was doing great.

  Then I glanced at her paper.

  Perfect.

  Every subject.

  Full marks.

  The words left my mouth before I could even stop myself.

  “That’s amazing.”

  She turned toward me slowly. Headphones slipped down to her neck.

  She looked surprised. Not smug, just… surprised.

  Like she hadn’t expected anyone to notice.

  I panicked.

  Looked away.

  Immediately regretted speaking.

  ‘Nice going, Nishinoya. Compliment the cryptid. That’s definitely going to keep you invisible.’

  ***

  Next morning, the homeroom teacher was calling roll.

  “Nickie Karklins.”

  “Here.”

  “Masato Nishinoya.”

  “Here.”

  I blinked. Her name was right before mine. Of course it was.

  At recess, she put on her headphones and immediately got back to solving geometry like her life depended on it.

  Same weirdly aggressive vibe.

  Meanwhile, I was trying to read… and failing.

  Because through the tinny sound leaking from her headphones, I could hear drums and bass so heavy it made my teeth itch.

  Part of me wanted to ask what she was listening to.

  The other part of me reminded myself I was not, in fact, cool.

  But curiosity is louder than fear, and subtle social skills have never been my strong suit. So I wrote her a note.

  |What band are you listening to right now?|

  I slid it over.

  She looked at it, then pulled off her headphones and turned toward me.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  Her gaze was sharp. Not hostile. Just... cutting. Like she wanted to know if I was wasting her time.

  “They’re called Moosekickers,” she said. Completely deadpan.

  “Oh… what’s the name of the song?”

  “‘Crackyourface.’ One word.”

  “Ahhh… Haha. I’ll look it up. Thanks.”

  She nodded once and put her headphones back on.

  And that was it.

  She didn’t say anything else.

  But for some reason, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

  Why did I want to talk to her so badly?

  ***

  That night, I looked up Moosekickers.

  They were loud.

  Unpolished. Full of fury. A little chaotic.

  And I kind of loved it.

  There was something about it that lit up this hidden part of me.

  Some version of myself I kept carefully buried under coursework and perfect attendance and my mother’s voice in my head.

  I added a few of their songs to my private playlist. The one no one knows about.

  The one I usually blast through headphones while pretending I’m coding and not imagining stage lights and sweat and noise so intense it drowns out every thought.

  ***

  Next day, she wasn’t in class.

  Weirdly… disappointing.

  I didn’t realize I’d been looking forward to maybe… possibly… Saying something else.

  Something not entirely stupid.

  The day after that, I was at my desk early, earphones in, lost in some post-metal rabbit hole, when a note slid onto my desk.

  |Can I take a look at your notes from yesterday’s literature class?|

  I looked up. Nickie Karklins. Standing right there.

  She looked… shy?

  I pulled out one earbud. “Hi! Umm, yeah, sure, you can have them… Do you need notes from other classes?”

  “Just literature, thanks,” she said, eyes on the paper.

  Then, like it cost her something, she added, “I mean, really… I appreciate it.”

  Her cheeks were a little pink.

  And I, very professionally, thought:

  ‘Oh no. She’s cute.’

  “Cool… Um, I can send them to your email, or…”

  She scribbled her email address on a scrap of paper and handed it to me.

  She turned to walk away.

  I panicked again. Showed her my phone.

  “Hey!... do you know this band by any chance?”

  She leaned closer to see the screen.

  Her eyes lit up.

  “Oh, yeah, I was at their gig in the summer. Their vocalist is insane.”

  Wait. She’d been to a real gig? I’d never even been to a fake one.

  “Cool! I really liked the guitars,” I said, maybe too enthusiastically.

  “I just started listening to them the other day. Please let me know if they have a gig again.”

  “Um, yeah… sure.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and took her seat.

  And for the first time since they made us sit alphabetically, I didn’t mind being in the back row.

  Not one bit.

  ***

  Over the next few weeks, something settled between us.

  Not a friendship. Not exactly.

  But something.

  Nickie was quiet. A little awkward. Always knee-deep in something: music, sketches, homework, existential war crimes committed by geometry.

  But so was I.

  Quiet kids with loud thoughts.

  We shared a bunch of classes, and thanks to the cruel alphabet gods, our names were always back-to-back.

  Which meant sitting together, partnering up, being grouped by default.

  We didn’t hang out after school. Didn’t text.

  But inside the building? It felt like we moved in the same orbit.

  Sometimes we passed notes without saying a word.

  Sometimes we sighed in sync when a group project got announced, already knowing we’d get lumped together like some academic conjoined twin act.

  And honestly? I didn’t hate it.

  Nickie had this weird habit of bringing up obscure references in class.

  Like, who the hell ties Hamlet to an early black metal demo from the '80s and makes it make sense?

  Her brain worked like a Wikipedia rabbit hole wearing combat boots.

  I usually hated chaos in class discussions, but with her, I found myself waiting for the next detour.

  After a while, other students started lumping us together.

  “Ask Nickie or Masato. They’ll know.”

  Teachers did it too.

  Didn’t matter if we sat apart or worked solo, we still ended up echoing each other in presentations, finishing thoughts like a two-person thesis machine.

  I didn’t question it. Didn’t overthink it.

  I just… liked being near her.