Genno Ayumu had nearly convinced Mizuno Hina to accept his bento—only to spend the next ten minutes tangled in debate over the bento box. Mizuno insisted on taking it home to wash; Genno saw no need. After a heated but quiet discussion, they compromised: she’d give it a quick rinse in the restroom after eating and return it.
“Oh, right, Mizuno-san,” Genno said. “About that… the ‘girlfriend’ joke from the other day—I’m really sorry. I know it must’ve caused you trouble. Please don’t worry about it. Just pretend I never said it. Okay?”
This mess was his to fix. To Genno, high school romance often stemmed from novelty, yet the intention behind companionship should be pure. But their so-called relationship? One acted out of pride, the other under threat—fundamentally false. Better to clear the air. He planned to focus on studies; within a few years, he’d likely move to Huaxia. Single this long, a few more years meant little. No need to start a relationship destined to end and waste her feelings.
“Mm.” Mizuno replied with a soft hum, accepting. But as she turned to leave, she lowered her head again—a tiny gesture that tugged at something sensitive in Genno.
He’d assumed she’d feel relieved. Yet she didn’t. Though she often kept her eyes hidden behind thick bangs, now she radiated quiet dejection.
*I know Genno-san was just teasing me that day—and I hated it. Now the joke’s over… I should be happy. But today… he actually smiled. So politely. So gently. Nothing like before. I even started wishing… maybe the joke could’ve lasted a little longer…*
Burdened by family and circumstance, Mizuno had long believed someone like her didn’t deserve friends or kindness. Unwanted at home, ignored at school, constantly bullied—she felt the world was hostile. Perhaps only today had she sensed genuine warmth from him.
A casual smile. A cold bento. A few sincere apologies. Genno never imagined how deeply they moved her—enough to soften the memory of his past cruelty. Still, he theorized her low mood might echo a mild case of Stockholm Syndrome: not the clinical kind, but the loneliness of someone who’d been isolated so long that even a forced connection felt better than none. The more he pondered it, the more it made sense. He resolved to become her first friend. And with the mind of a man in his thirties, shame flushed hot beneath his skin.
Mizuno hadn’t taken three steps—bento cradled, head bowed—when Genno called out.
“Mizuno-san, wait.”
She turned. Not by magic, but by lifting one hand from the bento to gently sweep aside the hair near her right eye. For the first time, Genno saw them clearly: large, expressive eyes, tinged with innocent vulnerability. The moment her hand dropped, her bangs fell back, veiling her gaze again. *Can she even see where she’s walking?* he wondered.
“Is there something else, Genno-san?” she asked softly, pulling him back to the moment.
“Mizuno-san… even though our… boyfriend-girlfriend thing was just a joke… we can still… be ordinary friends, right?” Shame nearly choked him mid-sentence, but he pushed through.
Compared to Genno’s relieved exhale, Mizuno’s reaction stunned him. Speechless, she hurried back, set the bento box on his desk, and parted her bangs fully with both hands.
Genno finally saw her whole face: luminous eyes that seemed to speak, a delicate nose, a softly curved mouth—the very definition of youthful charm. Hidden behind bangs, she’d seemed gloomy. Now? Utterly endearing. *If classmates saw these eyes… would they still bully her?*
She stared intently at his face, searching for mockery. Her proximity flustered the perpetually single Genno—he barely breathed.
“Why?” she whispered, voice trembling. “Is Genno-san… pitying me?”
Genno’s heart ached. Denying pity would be a lie. Admitting it might wound her. Silence stretched—until Mizuno lowered her hands and let out a soft, genuine laugh, lips curving warmly.
“As long as Genno-san doesn’t mind… I’m truly happy to have made my first friend.”
“I’m glad to be your friend, Mizuno-san!”
Watching her sincere smile, Genno felt a quiet sadness. She always placed herself beneath others. He ached for her, but as new friends, he couldn’t yet heal what he barely understood.
“Genno-san, let’s exchange email addresses!”
Beaming, she pulled a phone from a hidden pocket in her pleated skirt. Genno blinked in astonishment—*Japanese school skirts actually have pockets?!*
Her device was an old flip phone with physical buttons. His was the latest “Huayao” model—a flagship brand from Huaxia, wildly popular among Japanese youth. In Zhang Chufan’s original world, a nearly identical brand existed, differing only by one character. This was the first world-gap Genno had noticed.
He retrieved his phone from the desk drawer, wincing inwardly for Genno Sakina—this phone had been bought with money the original owner half-coerced from his mother.
“Your phone looks so high-end… I hope you won’t mind that mine isn’t a smartphone,” Mizuno murmured, insecurity flickering. Her words, meant kindly, stung Genno like quiet reproach.
“I don’t mind at all! Let’s exchange addresses!”
(In Huaxia, SMS gave way to QQ and WeChat. In Japan, mobile email remained personal and private—born from carrier restrictions, sustained by cost and culture. A computer email might be public; a mobile one? Deeply intimate.)
After swapping addresses, Mizuno left, cradling the bento box with quiet, satisfied joy.
