Komi After School: Meeting

She took her pen and wrote one final line in her notebook, then turned it toward me.

"Yeah," I said. "Let's go home."

I knelt down in front of her. Not to worship. Just to see. Meeting Komi After School

"There," I said, looking up.

But today, the air felt different. Charged. Like the second before a summer thunderstorm. She took her pen and wrote one final

Her handwriting was impossibly neat, like a printed font.

I didn't reach for her shoe. That would be too much. Too forward. Instead, I reached into my school bag and pulled out a small, battered tin. I opened it, revealing a tiny block of beeswax I used for the slide of my trombone. Not to worship

She stared at me, frozen.

The sun was setting, painting the hallway in shades of orange and gold. I stood up, slung my average backpack over my shoulder, and nodded.

I took a deep breath. This is not a big deal, Tadano. It's a shoe. Just a shoe. I dabbed the tiniest bit of wax onto the buckle's prong, then gently slid the leather strap over it. It clicked into place with a satisfying, smooth sound. Easy.

Komi Shouko. The goddess. The untouchable. The girl whose beauty silenced rooms and whose very presence seemed to be painted in a higher resolution than the rest of us.