Cherry blossoms drifted down like soft snow, carrying a honeyed breeze that painted this small sanctum in perfume and light.

When the petals fall in Japan, new waves of students roll in, and last year’s freshmen rise like the next tide to become senpai.

At Rakuyoku High School, spring rang like chimes again, new faces crossing the gate while old “newcomers” tuned their youthful melody for another year.

“The sakura returns, the old year fades, and the new year blooms. Welcome to your entrance, and chase your future. In this brief youth, blaze your own colors. Now, please welcome the freshman representative, Shizuru Yuna.”

Applause swelled like surf, and a girl stepped onto the stage like a swan landing on a quiet lake.

She was easy on the eyes like moonlight through leaves, and her score at the top of the intake hinted at talent clear as a bell.

Perfect, really—like a vase of fresh lilies—if the yearning glances from boys and the starry-eyed awe from girls meant anything.

The crowd stood parted by gender and grade like fields divided by hedges, and one figure stood out like a crane in a flock of sparrows.

She looked every inch a girl, but she wore the boys’ uniform like storm clouds over a spring sky; tongues clicked, and a thought flared—was she a guy?

What a shame, someone sighed, like a leaf curling under frost.

She didn’t wear the same bright hope for three years of youth; she even yawned openly, boredom fluttering like a tired moth against glass.

Of course she did. In her bones, youth felt like an old song replayed, the notes worn smooth like stones in a river.

Back in China, we didn’t dress up entrance day like a festival; you entered, and that was that, plain as bread.

Here, they ring it like a temple bell; high school begins with ceremony, petals and applause braided like red threads.

Fine, call it a novelty, Yun Shi told herself, a sip of new tea when you miss the old cup.

On stage, the girl spoke as if the words fell like clear rain; she seemed off-script, or maybe she never needed one at all.

Her voice flowed natural and easy, like a creek under spring sun, and the content matched the tone, smooth as silk.

Eye candy helps, Yun Shi thought, her mood settling like dust after a breeze.

When the ceremony’s this dull, watching a pretty girl is the best pastime, like anime scenes coming to life under a paper sky.

The speech ended, applause rolled again like drums in a summer festival, and the girl bowed and left the stage with calm steps.

The entrance ceremony closed like a folding fan, and students began to scatter, heading off like sparrows to their new branches.

Finally done, Yun Shi breathed, relief unfurling like a soft flag; speeches on a podium had always grated, tin on her teeth.

She walked the campus paths, and the fallen sakura tugged at her attention like a quiet song on the wind.

Japan as the land of blossoms felt real now; seeing the petals drift, her heart rippled like a lake catching a stray stone.

A few girls passed and gave her warm smiles, glances like bright fish flicking in a green stream.

Yun Shi’s face leaned pretty-boy, almost too soft, a first look reading “girl,” and only the uniform pushed the needle back toward “boy.”

She was lovely, features fine as ink strokes, with a faint melancholy like mist on a river at dawn.

Cute on top of it—cherry-sweet—no wonder hearts would tip like petals slipping off a branch.

“She’s adorable, but doesn’t he have a bit of cool in him too?” whispers swirled like bees in lilac.

A guy like Yun Shi (?) wouldn’t be lower-tier; compared to many in the school, he was a clear spring among puddles.

“Xiao Yun—”

While they schemed in whispers, a girl with foreign features charged in like a gust and dove into Yun Shi’s arms.

Girls hugging girls is a meadow-sunny thing, but in other eyes, it morphed into a boy-and-girl embrace under firefly light.

“Ugh, they didn’t put me in your class. I’m so sad, boo‑hoo,” she warbled, her voice wobbling like jelly.

“Let go. What are you doing?” Yun Shi’s discomfort flared like static.

“Nope, nope—I want Xiao Yun’s comfort,” Sham sang, clinging like ivy.

Bold cuddling under a sky full of single souls felt like a betrayal, a public display dropping like a rock into the quiet pond.

“Looks like you’ve got no shot. He’s already got a girlfriend,” someone muttered, envy sharp as vinegar.

“I can’t accept it… Couples are the worst,” another hissed, jealousy smoking like damp coals.

Cursing couples is supposed to be a guy specialty, right? You’re a girl, jealous of two girls—does that even compute under a spring moon?

Well, in their eyes, it was a boy and a girl, so the story stood like a paper lantern yet unburned.

“Why are you even here? Shouldn’t you be in your new class making friends?”

Yun Shi straightened her clothes like smoothing wrinkled silk and gave Sham a look edged with frost.

By the way, she had her fake voice down now, not pro-level like a voice actress, but clean enough to veil her true tone.

“Don’t be cruel. I want to be in your class,” Sham pouted, her words pulling like a kite string.

“Give it up.”

“What, no reaction at all? We’re clearly one body, one heart,” she declared, melodrama rising like incense smoke.

“What kind of weird phrase is that? No, we’re not.”

“Nonsense! Our hearts are bound together—heaven and earth as witness,” Sham cried, thunder without rain.

“If we’re talking contracts, I won’t deny it,” Yun Shi shot back, cool like moonlight on stone.

“Why say it so bluntly!”

No matter how Sham whirled, Yun Shi stayed stone-still; this routine had worn smooth, and the hook wouldn’t catch again.

Excuses piled up like fallen leaves, and none would move her.

“No need to be so heartless, Xiao Yun,” Sham said, eyes dewy like a fawn in snowfall.

Yun Shi almost bent, sympathy warming like tea in her palms—then her mind cooled, clear as glass.

“First off, I don’t owe you any gestures. There’s no need,” she said, words crisp as frost.

Even in different classes, they could still meet; they’d still eat together sometimes. No reason to act like a river splitting forever.

Sham’s plan to harvest pity fell flat, disappointment drooping like a soaked banner.

Then Sham noticed a crowd built around them like a ring of mushrooms after rain; their closeness had drawn eyes like moths to lamplight.

A spark flashed through her mind, and mischief curved her lips like a crescent moon.

“Xiao Yun—how can you be so cruel? We promised to spend our lives together,” she cried, voice satin and knife.

“Sham… what are you doing?” Yun Shi stared, speechless, the air around her tight as a drum.

“Boo‑hoo, did you forget? That night. Our beautiful memory. You’re denying all of it. So cruel,” Sham wailed, tears like beads on silk.

“What are you even doing,” Yun Shi muttered, bafflement rustling like dry grass.

“You bared yourself to me—are you not going to admit it?” she shouted, lightning splitting the calm.

“…”

The words hit like a thunderclap, and the whole crowd exploded like a flock scattering under hawk-shadow.

Faces flipped through gossip, shock, jealousy, and grinding teeth, expressions bright as painted masks.

“What are you babbling!” Yun Shi snapped, anger like sparks from flint.

“We stepped into the adult world. You said you’d take responsibility,” Sham pressed, like a hand on a bruise.

“I never said that! You’ve been spouting nonsense since the start!”

“You’re dumping me, aren’t you? I’m heartbroken, boo‑hoo, fate is so cruel,” she sobbed, river loud.

“Don’t act like a TV drama heroine! And I haven’t done anything to you,” Yun Shi yelled, fighting the tide.

Too late. Words flew like seeds on wind, and the crowd’s ears caught everything like wet clay.

Gossip shifted into rage, and enemy stares pinned the “boy” in a boys’ uniform like arrows on a target.

“I thought he was decent. He’s trash,” someone spat, disgust hot as pepper.

“A sanctimonious hypocrite! He stole the goddess’s purity,” another howled, jealousy ash-black.

“So gross. I don’t want to go near him,” a voice shivered, cold as iron.

“What a waste of a pretty face,” someone sighed, bitterness like old tea.

“Damn normies. Drop dead,” a loner snarled, anger sharp as flint.

“Why is this pretty-boy so lucky? I’m not okay with this,” a third cried, spite bubbling like sap.

Voices rose like crows, but they nested in a single meaning—the crowd branded Yun Shi a scumbag with crimson ink.

Sham’s sly smile curved at the corner like a fox-tail, and Yun Shi saw the plan laid long before, clear as a footprint in wet sand.

She could already picture the next three years, living under daggers of envy, jealousy, and rage; a gray forecast like rain for a week.

I don’t want the harem-protagonist curse, she shouted inside, heart pounding like a drum.

“Sham, you devil!” Yun Shi barked, frustration smoking like a burnt pan.

Damn. This woman wrecked everything, like a boar in a vegetable patch.

The future looked bleak, sky the color of old pewter.

Resigned, Yun Shi still had to accept it; the next three years wore a shadow, long as twilight.

“Well, look on the bright side,” Sham chimed, airy as a butterfly. “No one will suspect you’re a girl. Isn’t that great?”

“It’s your fault anyway!”

“You ignored me.”

“What kind of garbage reason is that!”

“Want KFC tonight? My treat,” she sang, like a cat offering a fish.

“Don’t change the subject!”

With a girl like this, you just say… unlucky, and swallow it like bitter medicine.

Yun Shi sighed and sighed, the sound a reed in wind, then dropped the argument and headed off to find her new classroom.

She remembered she was in Class A; one more turn, and straight ahead, like following a lantern path.

She walked by memory, slow as drifting leaves, and petals fluttered again; a few landed on her shoulder like whispers.

She brushed them off gently, a hand like a feather against a silk sleeve.

Up ahead, a girl dropped a handkerchief; pink and pretty as a dawn cloud, stylish yet sweet, clearly belonging to a lovely owner.

Yun Shi looked up and saw a girl not far away, still walking toward her classroom like a little boat on a canal, unaware of the loss.

She picked it up and called to the back she saw, “Your handkerchief fell,” her voice steady as a bell.

The girl paused, then turned slowly like a flower following the sun. “Sorry,” she smiled. “I’ve troubled you.”

“Weren’t you the one from earlier…” Yun Shi’s memory flickered like a firefly, recalling the exam board.

“Yes. I bugged you before. Didn’t expect a chance to meet again,” the girl said, warmth like a kettle softening the air.

“I really didn’t.”

Yun Shi offered the handkerchief, then turned to leave, her steps light as rain.

“Um, may I ask your name?” the girl said, the question landing like a leaf.

Yun Shi stopped, but her lips stayed sealed, quiet as stone.

Noticing the faux pas, the girl smiled apologetically, like a lantern bowing to night.

“I’m Miyuki Kiseki. And you?”

Her blue ponytail streamed in the wind like a ribbon of river, and that smile stamped itself in memory like a seal on paper.

“I’m Bianqi,” Yun Shi said, the alias crisp like a snap of bamboo.

Sakura drifted past, carrying the breeze like a paper boat, and fell slow through the air to the ground.

Soon, new blossoms would fall again, like seasons turning a wheel, petals renewing the road.

One ending closed like a book, and a new beginning opened like a door under spring light.