The days following the notebook incident were lived on a knife's edge of anxiety. My shoulders perpetually ached from being hunched, trying to make myself smaller, less noticeable. My notebook, once a sanctuary, now felt like a liability. I still carried it, of course – it was my only voice – but I kept it tucked deep within my school bag, only pulling it out when absolutely necessary, shielding its pages with my arm as I wrote. Each glance from a classmate felt like an accusation, each hushed giggle a confirmation of my deepest fears: that I was a laughingstock, a burden, the strange, silent girl.
Emi's taunts didn't lessen. If anything, her triumph had emboldened her. She'd make comments about my "secret admirer," Haru, whenever he was within earshot, her voice syrupy sweet. Each time, my face would flame, and I'd stare resolutely at my desk, feeling Haru's potential gaze like a physical touch, though I never dared to look up to confirm if he was indeed looking, or what his expression might hold. His silence, his continued neutrality, was a canvas onto which I projected a thousand painful assumptions.
The festival preparations ramped up, transforming the school into a chaotic hive of activity. Our class, 1-B, was in charge of creating some kind of interactive exhibit based on local folklore – something about protective spirits and ancient traditions. This, naturally, involved group discussions and collaborative work, two phrases that sent shivers of pure dread down my spine.
Ms. Sato, bless her kind heart, tried to make it easier for me. During the brainstorming session, where ideas were flying around the room like startled birds, she paused and looked towards me. "Minami," she said, her voice gentle, her lips forming the words clearly. "Do you have any thoughts you'd like to share? You can write them down, of course."
Every head in the room turned. My breath hitched. Emi smirked from across the room. I could feel the weight of their collective attention, pressing down on me. My hands, resting on my closed notebook, felt clammy. An idea, a small, hesitant thought about incorporating sign language into a visual representation of a protective chant, had been flickering at the edge of my mind. But the thought of writing it down, of having it scrutinized, possibly mocked again… it was too much.
I shook my head quickly, a small, jerky movement, and offered a weak, apologetic smile. No, thank you. I'm fine.
Ms. Sato's expression softened with a hint of disappointment, but she nodded and moved on. The moment passed, but the knot in my stomach remained.
Later that day, we were supposed to break into smaller groups to start planning specifics. Chaos erupted as people shuffled chairs and formed loud, laughing clusters. I sat at my desk, paralyzed, watching as everyone else paired up or joined larger groups. No one approached me. The familiar cloak of invisibility settled around me, heavier than ever.
Emi, naturally, was in her element, directing her chosen friends with loud pronouncements. As she passed my desk, Rika in tow, she paused. "Oh, still haven't found a group, Transfer?" she asked, her voice loud enough to draw attention. "Guess no one wants the girl who can't even talk on their team. How will you even contribute? Write them a sad poem?"
Her words, sharp and cruel, struck a raw nerve. The humiliation from the notebook incident, the constant anxiety, the feeling of utter helplessness – it all coalesced into a tight, burning pressure in my chest. My hands clenched on my lap. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to scream. But no sound came out.
Instead, my right hand moved, almost of its own accord. It wasn't a conscious thought, more a desperate, silent plea from deep within. My fingers formed a quick, tight gesture – not a formal sign from JSL that I recognized for this context, but an instinctive motion, like pushing something away, warding off a blow. Stop.
A small, almost imperceptible shimmer pulsed in the air directly in front of Emi. For a bare instant, the cheap plastic pen Emi was twirling in her fingers rattled on the surface of the nearby desk, a tiny, sharp clatter that seemed impossibly loud in my heightened state. Emi blinked, her taunt dying on her lips. She looked down at the pen, then back at me, a flicker of surprise, then confusion, in her eyes. Rika, too, looked momentarily startled.
No one else seemed to have noticed. The room was still noisy with festival chatter. The moment stretched, taut and strange.
Then Emi scoffed, a brittle sound. "What was that? You trying to give me the evil eye now, Fujiwara?" She narrowed her eyes. "Creepy." She and Rika moved on, though I thought I saw Emi rub her arm as if a sudden chill had passed over her.
My heart was hammering. What just happened? Did I do that? The pen. The shimmer. It couldn't be. It was just… a coincidence. A draft. My overwrought imagination. But a cold dread seeped into me. My hand, the one that had made the gesture, felt strangely warm, almost tingly.
I risked a glance towards Haru. He was in a group near the window, but he wasn't looking at his group members. He was looking towards my desk, or rather, towards the space where Emi had been standing. His blue eyes were narrowed slightly, not in anger, but in a kind of focused intensity, a deep thoughtfulness that sent a shiver down my spine. Did he see something? Or was he just reacting to Emi's loud voice? Before I could decipher his expression, he turned back to his group, his face becoming impassive once more.
The rest of the group session passed in a blur of anxiety and confusion. I was eventually assigned to a group by Ms. Sato – Haru's group, of all possibilities – but I couldn't bring myself to participate. I just sat there, my mind replaying that tiny, inexplicable event, the warmth in my hand slowly fading.
As soon as the bell rang, I fled. I didn't go to the garden this time. I needed to be alone, truly alone. I found an unused stairwell at the far end of the school, dusty and dim. I sank onto the steps, my bag clutched to my chest.
My hand. I looked at it. Just a normal hand. I tried to recreate the gesture, the instinctive clenching and pushing motion. Nothing. No shimmer, no warmth, no rattling pens. Just air.
Tears of frustration and fear welled up. What was wrong with me? Was I going crazy? First, the strange sights, the humming earth, and now this? It was another layer of strangeness, another reason to be an outcast. If I had done something, anything, it was horrifying. It was another way I could be a burden, a freak.
The thought of the festival, of having to work in a group with Haru, of Emi's continued torment, and now this new, terrifying unknown swirling inside me – it was all too much. I buried my face in my knees, the silence of the stairwell pressing in, heavy and absolute. And for the first time since coming to Meisei Magic Academy, the tiny bud of hope I'd so carefully nurtured felt like it had withered completely, leaving only a cold, hollow ache.