In class, Komi is a myth carved from glass. Everyone stares. Everyone whispers. Her silence is treated like a riddle to be solved or a wall to be admired. But here, in the 4:00 p.m. light, with her dark hair catching a breeze no one else could feel, she looked less like an untouchable goddess and more like a girl who forgot her umbrella on a cloudy day.
“Me too.”
I took the long way out, the path that curves behind the gymnasium where the cherry trees drop their petals into blue plastic buckets. That’s where I saw her. meeting komi after school
“Yeah,” I said, walking over. I didn’t sit next to her—that felt too forward. Instead, I leaned against the railing a few feet away. “I like the quiet after school. Less… pressure.” In class, Komi is a myth carved from glass