Chapter 3: Attempted Overtures
Weeks began to blur into a rhythm dictated by bells, textbooks, and the faint, persistent smell of formaldehyde that seemed to cling to the third floor. April bled into May, cherry blossoms giving way to the vibrant green of early summer, and Asahiyama High School settled into the steady hum of the academic year. For me, Itsuki Nakano, Room 312 had become less of a refuge and more of a genuine domain. The initial shock of Uesugi Fuutarou's presence hadn't vanished, not entirely, but it had subsided from a constant internal siren to a low-level, background hum of static – ignorable most of the time, but prone to flaring up with proximity.
My days found their shape within the familiar structure of the curriculum. First-year Biology pulsed with the intricate dance of cellular life, while second-year Chemistry crackled with the potential energy stored within molecular bonds. I found a surprising, quiet joy in witnessing the spark of understanding ignite in a student's eyes, the hesitant question transforming into confident articulation. Teaching, it turned out, felt like conducting a complex, long-term experiment, observing reactions, adjusting variables, aiming for that satisfying yield of comprehension.
"Sato-kun, focus, please," I chided gently one Tuesday afternoon, tapping the edge of his lab bench. Kenji Sato, a boy whose sharp mind seemed perpetually locked in a wrestling match with his even sharper wit, was attempting to balance a test tube precariously on his forehead instead of recording his observations. "While your equilibrium is… impressive, it's not relevant to the osmotic potential of potato cells."
He grinned, carefully removing the test tube. "But Sensei, isn't exploring unexpected scientific phenomena part of the process? Maybe I've discovered a new bio-cranial adhesion principle!"
"Maybe," I conceded, unable to suppress a small smile, "but let's master diffusion first, shall we? Record your measurements before the potato slice desiccates completely." Kenji, suitably redirected, scribbled diligently in his notebook. He was bright, capable of insightful leaps, but easily sidetracked by the allure of performance. Keeping him on task required constant, gentle vigilance.
Across the aisle, Yumi Tanaka worked with painstaking care, her movements precise but hesitant as she adjusted the flame on her Bunsen burner for a simple precipitation reaction. She was meticulous, her notes impeccable, but her confidence often evaporated faster than unsupervised ethanol. "It's alright, Tanaka-san," I murmured, pausing beside her bench. "Keep the flame steady, lower the beaker slowly. You understand the reaction perfectly; trust your technique."
She glanced up, her expression anxious. "I… I'm afraid I'll heat it too quickly, Sensei. Or contaminate the sample."
"Deep breath," I instructed softly. "Visualize the ions meeting, forming the precipitate. You control the conditions. Just be methodical." I watched as she followed my guidance, her shoulders relaxing slightly as the tell-tale cloudy solid began to form in the beaker. A small nod of accomplishment flickered across her face. Progress.
Then there was Haru Watanabe, a whirlwind of boisterous energy and surprisingly intuitive leaps. He often blurted out answers before fully formulating the reasoning, relying on a gut feeling that, disconcertingly often, proved correct. Today, during a discussion on catalyst functions, he'd practically vibrated out of his seat.
"So, it's like… like a shortcut, right?" he'd declared, gesturing wildly. "The catalyst doesn't get used up, it just makes the reaction path easier, lowers the energy hill everyone has to climb!"
"Essentially, yes, Watanabe-kun," I'd confirmed, guiding him towards the precise terminology. "It provides an alternative reaction pathway with a lower activation energy. Excellent intuition. Now, can you explain how it does that using the concept of intermediate formation?" He'd stumbled slightly on the formal explanation, but the core concept was firmly grasped. Each student presented a unique challenge, a different puzzle to unlock. And solving those puzzles, fostering that growth, felt genuinely rewarding. This was right. This was where I was supposed to be.
If only the adjacent territory, the staff room, felt half as fulfilling.
Navigating that shared space remained an exercise in calculated movement and suppressed anxiety. My desk, near the windows, offered a view of the athletic field, but my internal compass seemed stubbornly fixed on the diagonal vector pointing towards Uesugi-sensei's workstation. He was a model of contained efficiency. Papers graded with ruthless speed, notes organized with almost geometric precision, interactions with colleagues brief, polite, and utterly impersonal. He generated an aura of focused competence that effectively repelled casual conversation.
At first, I'd clung to the pretense of pure professionalism myself. Avoid eye contact. Limit interactions to absolute necessity. Treat him as Kimura-sensei or Sasaki-sensei, just another colleague occupying the same square footage. But the silence, the deliberate nature of his avoidance, began to grate. It wasn't just professional distance; it felt like an active erasure of seven years of shared history, however complicated. The memory of his graduation plea for friendship – a plea we'd all fumbled in our hurt and confusion – clashed jarringly with this present-day arctic chill. Had that desire been so fleeting? Or had our collective failure to navigate the awkward aftermath truly convinced him that any connection beyond the purely transactional was pointless?
The frustration simmered, low and constant. It felt… disrespectful. Not just to me, but to the memory of the time they spent together, the struggles they overcame, the bonds forged under the intense pressure of tutoring and exams. Even the difficult ending deserved more acknowledgment than this blank wall of indifference.
One Monday morning, fueled by a sleepless night spent over-analyzing lesson plans and the echo of his detached presence, I decided simple avoidance wasn't sustainable. Or perhaps, wasn't fair. Maybe he needed someone to bridge the gap, however small.
Walking into the staff room, I saw him already at his desk, engrossed in reviewing what looked like advanced calculus proofs. Taking a deep breath, I walked purposefully past my own desk towards his general vicinity, ostensibly heading for the shared printer. As I passed, I offered a clear, deliberately neutral, "Good morning, Uesugi-sensei."
His head didn't lift. His pen didn't pause. A clipped, low sound emerged. "Morning." It was directed at his papers, not at me. The dismissal was absolute, efficient. A flicker of hurt, sharp and familiar, pierced through my resolve. Fine. Professionalism it is. But the static flared, louder now.
Later that week, a genuine work-related opportunity arose. Kimura-sensei had circulated a memo about potential cross-curricular projects linking first-year Science and Math, specifically mentioning aligning biology statistics with introductory calculus concepts. It was a topic I'd been considering myself. Perhaps this was a neutral opening.
Waiting until he wasn't actively engaged in conversation, I approached his desk, memo in hand. "Uesugi-sensei," I began, keeping my tone strictly professional, "regarding Kimura-sensei's memo on cross-curricular initiatives… I had some thoughts on integrating statistical analysis of population dynamics with the early calculus concepts you might be covering. Perhaps we could briefly compare syllabi timing?"
He finally looked up, his expression unreadable behind his glasses. His eyes, those sharp, analytical tools, assessed me for a moment. "My calculus syllabus focuses on foundational limit theory and differentiation in the first term, Nakano-sensei. Applied statistics integration is typically reserved for second-term optional modules." He paused, then added with finality, "My syllabus is available on the shared faculty drive if you require detailed benchmarks." He looked back down at his work, the conversation terminated as cleanly as a guillotine drop.
My cheeks flushed. It wasn't an outright refusal, but it was a clear signal: Do your own work. Do not collaborate. Do not engage. The dismissal stung more than the curt greeting. It wasn't just personal avoidance; it was professional siloing, deliberate and cold. He could have simply said, "Let me check my schedule," or "Interesting idea, let's look at it later." But no. Efficiency dictated the shortest path to disengagement.
Retreating to my desk, I felt a familiar indignation rise. The Itsuki who argued about study methods, who pouted over unfair accusations, stirred beneath the professional veneer. It wasn't just about the past anymore. It was about basic collegiality. He was being unnecessarily difficult, deliberately obtuse. Rude, even.
My resolve hardened. This wasn't just about dredging up old feelings; it was about functioning in a shared professional space. And maybe, just maybe, about refusing to let him completely wall himself off. He might be brilliant, but his interpersonal skills, if this was any indication, hadn't improved. Perhaps they'd even regressed.
My students, thankfully, provided a welcome counterpoint to the staff room chill. Their energy, their questions, their occasional moments of collaborative chaos, grounded me. Walking down the corridor one afternoon, I overheard Kenji Sato and Haru Watanabe engaged in a typically animated debate.
"…no way, man, terminal velocity depends on surface area and shape, not just mass!" Haru insisted, gesturing emphatically.
"Yeah, but if the mass is high enough, air resistance becomes negligible relative to gravity, right?" Kenji countered, scribbling furiously on a notepad. "Sensei explained the drag coefficient formula…"
Seeing me approach, they paused. "Nakano-sensei!" Haru beamed. "We're arguing about the physics field trip permission slips!" (A blatant lie, but a common deflection tactic).
I smiled. "Permission slips are due Friday, Watanabe-kun. But keep exploring those physics concepts. Curiosity is key." Their enthusiasm, even when misdirected, was infectious.
It was later that day, while tidying the lab after class, that Yumi Tanaka lingered hesitantly by the door.
"Sensei?" she began, twisting the strap of her bag.
"Yes, Tanaka-san? Is everything alright?"
"Um… it's just… about Uesugi-sensei?" she whispered, glancing around as if worried about being overheard. "The math teacher?"
My internal static crackled. "Yes? What about him?"
"Well…" she hesitated. "Some of the first-years find him… kind of scary." She rushed the words out. "He's really smart, everyone knows that, and he explains things clearly… but he never smiles. And sometimes, if you ask a question he thinks is obvious, he just… stares at you. Like you're wasting his time." She shivered slightly. "Is he always that serious?"
I leaned against a lab bench, choosing my words carefully. Yumi's perception validated my own observations, but confirming it felt disloyal, somehow. "Uesugi-sensei is… very focused, Tanaka-san," I said diplomatically. "He takes his subjects very seriously and expects students to do the same. Sometimes that intensity can seem intimidating." I forced a reassuring smile. "But his explanations are thorough, aren't they? Focus on learning from his clarity. Don't worry too much about his expression."
Yumi nodded slowly, though she still looked apprehensive. "Okay, Sensei. Thank you." She scurried off, leaving me alone in the quiet lab.
Scary. Intimidating. Doesn't smile. So, it wasn't just me. His coldness wasn't a targeted campaign; it was his default setting, at least here. But knowing that didn't lessen the sting of his specific dismissal of me. If anything, it made it worse. If he was capable of building even a purely functional rapport with students, why was basic collegiality with me, someone from his past, seemingly impossible?
The frustration that had been simmering reached a boiling point. This silent treatment, this pretense that seven years of shared history hadn't happened, was more than just awkward; it was insulting. It invalidated everything – the late nights studying, the shared anxieties, the triumphs, even the painful ending. He wasn't just being professional; he was being deliberately cruel, hiding behind a facade of logic and efficiency.
Doesn't he remember? The question echoed in my mind, insistent now. Was it all truly meaningless to him? Did that plea for friendship on graduation day mean nothing? Or does he just not care? The last thought landed with a sickening thud. Maybe that was it. Maybe, from his perspective, the connections had proven non-essential. Maybe he genuinely didn't care about rekindling anything, even basic civility.
No. I wouldn't accept that. Not without confirmation. I wouldn't let him simply erase our past with silence. He owed me… he owed the memory of our shared experience… more than that. He owed us an explanation, or at least, an acknowledgment.
Standing there amidst the Bunsen burners and beakers, the tools of logical inquiry, I made a decision fueled by emotion, not reason. I couldn't force him to feel something he didn't, couldn't magically repair the fractures of the past. But I could force him to acknowledge the present. I could refuse to participate in this charade of mutual invisibility.
He wanted walls? Fine. But I was done bumping gently against them. It was time to knock. It was time to demand why they were there. The next opportunity I had, I wouldn't offer polite overtures. I would confront the silence head-on. He might retreat further, he might lash out, but at least it would be a reaction. Anything was better than this suffocating, dismissive inertia. The experiment in cautious coexistence had failed. It was time for a more volatile approach.