Chapter 2: Inertia

The scrape of chair legs against linoleum, the low murmur of unfamiliar voices, the cloying scent of cheap institutional coffee – the sensory inputs of the Asahiyama High School staff room registered with dull precision. April first. Day one. Another beginning, though the term felt overly optimistic. It was merely the next logical step, a transition dictated by practicality and the satisfactory alignment of qualification and opportunity. Inertia, more than aspiration, had carried me here.

Teaching. It wasn't a calling born of inspirational movie montages. It was a pragmatic application of aptitude. Science and Mathematics – realms governed by logic, by discoverable laws, by problems that yielded to persistent analysis. Unlike the chaotic, unpredictable variables of human interaction, physics equations didn't hold grudges. Chemical bonds didn't misinterpret intentions. Biological processes followed pathways, messy perhaps, but ultimately mappable. It was a controllable world, and control was a state I had come to value immensely over the past seven years.

Stability, too. The meager earnings of university tutoring and a string of short-lived, soul-crushing part-time gigs had ground deep grooves of financial anxiety into my psyche. A full-time teaching position offered a predictable salary, benefits, a structure. It was a necessary anchor in the often-turbulent waters of adult life, especially with Raiha now navigating the expenses of university herself. My duty to her remained a fixed point, perhaps the only one I fully trusted.

I methodically unpacked my briefcase onto the assigned desk – a standard-issue metal rectangle situated diagonally across the Science & Math cluster from another vacant one near the window. Textbooks, meticulously organized notebooks filled with theorems and lesson outlines, a thermos of Raiha's blessedly strong green tea. Order amidst the low-level chaos of the room. Establishing a perimeter of control.

My gaze swept the room impassively. Colleagues milled about, forming tentative alliances, renewing old ones. The usual first-day dynamic. Tanaka-san, the efficient Faculty Affairs head, was already guiding another newcomer, explaining the departmental layout. Standard procedure. I turned back to arranging my materials, aligning my pens with geometric precision. Focus on the task. Focus on the variables you can manage.

Then Tanaka-san's voice, slightly lowered but carrying in the relative lull, uttered the designation that slammed the brakes on my carefully maintained internal equilibrium.

"...our other new recruit for Science and Math today... Uesugi Fuutarou-sensei."

Logically, I knew other teachers would be starting. Logically, Tanaka-san would perform introductions. But logic offered little defense against the jolt that shot through my system when she subsequently introduced the other newcomer, the one she'd been guiding towards that empty desk by the window.

"...Nakano Itsuki-sensei."

Nakano.

The name was a key, unlocking a vault I preferred to keep sealed, welded shut with cynicism and reinforced with years of deliberate avoidance. A flood of sense memories threatened – the cloying sweetness of cheap snacks during late-night study sessions, the distinct scent of five different shampoos, the cacophony of five voices arguing, laughing, despairing. Fireworks exploding against a night sky, illuminating five expectant faces. The crushing weight of an impossible choice. The echoing silence of the aftermath.

I turned my head, a reflexive action, confirming the data point. Yes. Unmistakably. Nakano Itsuki. Seven years had softened the youthful roundness of her face, added a layer of professional polish, but the earnest set of her jaw, the slight stubborn tilt of her chin, the familiar fall of her reddish-brown hair – it was her. Dressed professionally, looking every bit the aspiring educator. In the Science Department. The irony wasn't lost on me, a faint, bitter taste rising in my throat. Of course. The one who struggled most with rational subjects, now choosing to teach them. Another unpredictable variable in a system I sought for its predictability.

Recognition flickered in her eyes too, wide and unguarded for a split second. Shock. Disbelief. Maybe… something else? Pity? Annoyance? Hard to parse, and ultimately, irrelevant. I let my own brief acknowledgment register, a mere data transfer confirming identity, then immediately suppressed it. Erect the firewall. Maintain professional distance.

I nodded curtly at Tanaka-san, my gaze sliding past Nakano Itsuki as if she were merely part of the background scenery, and returned my focus to the physics equations on my notepad. Deflection. Control. Treat her as Nakano-sensei, a new colleague. Nothing more. The past was a closed system, thermodynamically unfavorable to revisit.

Tanaka-san, blessedly oblivious, finished her welcome and departed. The air in our section of the staff room felt momentarily charged, or perhaps that was just the static discharge of my own internal defenses scrambling into high alert. Nakano Itsuki stood frozen for a moment before proceeding, stiffly, towards her assigned desk near the window, a considerable distance away but still within the same departmental orbit. Too close.

I forced myself to concentrate on my notes, reviewing the principles of kinematics. Velocity equals displacement over time. A simple, reliable truth. Unlike the complex, decaying half-life of human relationships. Relationships… the thought brought another unwelcome echo. Post-college attempts. Brief, awkward forays into dating. Each one eventually foundering on the rocks of my own ingrained mistrust, my inability to bridge the final gap of vulnerability. How could I explain the specific nature of my reservations? The deep-seated cynicism born from watching five supposedly close bonds – sister-to-sister, friend-to-friend – prove inadequate, brittle, when faced with the inconvenient reality that I couldn't fulfill their collective romantic expectations while preserving their fragile ecosystem? How could I trust again when my most significant attempt at connection, the graduation plea for simple friendship, had been met with polite nods followed by a slow, inexorable fade into silence from all of them? Their distance felt like a judgment, a confirmation that my utility – as a tutor, as a potential romantic partner for one of them – had expired, rendering the friendship itself obsolete. Easier to keep acquaintances at arm's length, to avoid the potential for that specific, crushing disappointment. Easier to focus on work, on Raiha, on the predictable elegance of a well-balanced equation.

The bell rang, signaling the start of the opening ceremony. A necessary ritual. I gathered my minimal required materials and merged into the flow of bodies heading towards the gymnasium, maintaining a pocket of personal space, observing the interactions around me with detached curiosity. The noise level rose, a chaotic symphony of adolescent energy. Finding a seat in the designated staff area, near the edge, I focused straight ahead, ignoring the peripheral awareness of her presence somewhere behind me. Let the proceedings commence. Maintain neutrality.

The principal's speech was predictably verbose, laden with platitudes. I tuned most of it out, my mind idly calculating the optimal trajectory for a projectile launched from the stage to hit the basketball hoop at the far end of the gym. A more engaging problem.

Then came the staff introductions. Name after name, department after department. When "Nakano Itsuki-sensei, Science Department" was called, my gaze flickered towards the stage against my will. She walked hesitantly, her posture stiff. Her voice, when she spoke her lines about scientific inquiry and fostering curiosity, sounded thin, strained. Was she nervous? Or was it my presence throwing her off balance? The thought brought a flicker of grim, unwelcome satisfaction, quickly suppressed. Her discomfort was irrelevant to my objectives.

My turn came immediately after. "Uesugi Fuutarou-sensei, Science and Mathematics." I walked to the microphone with measured steps. Bow. State name and purpose concisely. "Uesugi Fuutarou. I look forward to exploring the principles that govern our universe with you this year. Let's pursue understanding diligently." No unnecessary emotion. No false enthusiasm. Just the mission statement. Bow. Return to seat. Process complete. Minimal energy expenditure. Optimal efficiency.

Back in the relative quiet of the staff room, I returned to my desk, seeking refuge in the familiar structure of work. Organize materials. Review class lists. Prepare for the first departmental meeting.

Kimura-sensei, the department head, approached, recognizable by the safety goggles perched permanently atop his slightly frazzled grey hair. "Ah, Uesugi-sensei! Kimura Takeshi. Welcome aboard! Tanaka-san mentioned your outstanding exam scores. Impressive stuff!"

"Kimura-sensei," I acknowledged with a nod. "Thank you. I aim to be thorough."

"Excellent! We need that rigor!" He launched into a rapid-fire overview of departmental procedures, budget constraints ("Always tighter than a stressed polymer chain, Uesugi-sensei!"), and ongoing curriculum reviews. His enthusiasm was palpable, if slightly chaotic. He spoke of wanting to integrate more project-based learning, of challenges with outdated equipment, of fostering interdisciplinary connections.

I listened intently, processing the information, asking clarifying questions where necessary. This was familiar territory – identifying problems, analyzing constraints, formulating potential solutions. "Project-based learning has merit if structured effectively to reinforce core principles," I offered. "Regarding equipment, perhaps a prioritized list based on curriculum impact and safety compliance? Interdisciplinary work requires clear communication protocols between departments to avoid redundant effort."

Kimura-sensei beamed. "Exactly! A logical mind! Wonderful! We should discuss your ideas for the physics labs further."

This interaction felt… normal. Professional. Focused on tangible goals. A brief respite from the unsettling undercurrent Nakano Itsuki's presence created. I noticed, peripherally, that she was at her desk across the way, ostensibly working but likely aware of my conversation with the department head. Let her be aware. My focus was here, on the work.

When the lunch bell rang, the abrupt release of tension in the room was palpable. Colleagues gathered packed lunches or headed for the cafeteria. I saw Nakano Itsuki make a swift exit, clutching her bento box like a life raft. Good. Distance was preferable.

I retrieved my own thermos and a simple onigiri from my bag. Eating at my desk was efficient. Less time wasted on social maneuvering in the cafeteria. As I ate, my thoughts drifted back to the brief interaction with Kimura. Teaching, perhaps, offered more than just stability. It offered intellectual engagement, problems to solve, systems to optimize. Perhaps even a chance to guide students who genuinely sought understanding, unlike the initial resistance I'd faced years ago. Maybe… maybe it wouldn't be entirely unfulfilling.

But the thought was immediately tempered by the awareness of her presence in this same ecosystem. Nakano Itsuki. A living reminder of the most significant failure in my attempts at interpersonal connection. A symbol of the collective disappointment and the subsequent, deafening silence that had cemented my cynicism.

Why here? Why now? The universe rarely operated with such narrative convenience. It was likely just probability, a random convergence. And yet… it felt like an unnecessary complication. An unwanted variable introduced into a carefully controlled experiment.

I finished my onigiri, chased it with green tea. The afternoon stretched ahead – more administrative tasks, familiarizing myself with school systems, perhaps a brief departmental meeting. Manageable. Keep focus tight. Maintain protocols. Treat Nakano-sensei with the same professional neutrality afforded to Sato-sensei or any other colleague. Do not engage with the past. Do not acknowledge the shared history. Strengthen the walls.

Returning my thermos to my bag, I pulled out the student enrollment lists Kimura-sensei had provided. Names. ID numbers. Previous grades. Data points. Manageable, quantifiable information. This was the job. Focus on the data. Focus on the logic.

Across the room, Nakano Itsuki returned, her expression carefully schooled into neutrality as she sat back down at her desk. Our eyes met for a brief, unavoidable second across the expanse of desks and shuffling colleagues. I registered the strain beneath her composure before looking away, deliberately focusing on the list in front of me.

Maintain inertia. Stick to the planned trajectory. Avoid external forces that might perturb the system. Especially forces with familiar, reddish-brown hair and a history steeped in unresolved complexities. The first day wasn't over, but my strategy was set: she was just another teacher in the room. A variable to be noted, but not engaged with. The firewall held firm. For now.