Chapter 1: Refraction
(Itsuki's POV)
The rhythmic clatter of the train wheels against the tracks was a familiar metronome, one that had marked the tempo of my life for years – commutes to university, trips back home, journeys to interviews that hadn't quite panned out. But today, the rhythm felt different. Sharper. Each beat seemed to punctuate the transition from one phase of life to the next, tapping out a nervous anticipation that resonated deep in my chest.
April first. A day for new beginnings, notorious for foolish pranks, and now, the official commencement of my career as Itsuki Nakano, high school science teacher.
I smoothed down the front of my new lab coat-inspired blazer over a simple blouse – an attempt at looking professional, approachable, and faintly authoritative, a uniform for the role I was about to inhabit. It felt strangely right, more authentically me than the purely literary path some might have assumed I'd follow. The precise logic of scientific principles, the intricate beauty of biological systems, the explosive potential simmering within chemical reactions – this was the world that had captured my imagination, a passion solidified, perhaps paradoxically, during chaotic high school years filled with academic struggle and one relentlessly demanding tutor. My mother's quiet dedication as a teacher had laid the foundation, but wrestling with subjects that didn't come easily, under guidance that was often infuriatingly blunt yet undeniably effective, had cemented my desire not just to understand science, but to share that understanding.
Outside the train window, the familiar cityscape blurred past – a kaleidoscope of concrete, glass, and the fleeting green of meticulously maintained pocket parks. I clutched the strap of my shoulder bag, the leather cool beneath my fingers. Inside, nestled amongst meticulously organized lesson plans for introductory biology and chemistry, emergency titration supplies (a perhaps overly cautious inclusion), was a small, slightly worn photo charm clipped to an inner pocket. It depicted five smiling faces, barely eighteen, crammed together under a firework-streaked sky. A lifetime ago. A pang, familiar yet unwelcome, tightened around my heart. I pushed it down. Today was about the future, not the ghosts of shared curiosity and fractured bonds.
My stop arrived – Asahiyama High School wasn't nestled in the heart of the city, but rather in a slightly more suburban sprawl, promising perhaps a quieter environment than the bustling downtown schools. Stepping onto the platform, the morning air was cool, carrying the scent of lingering cherry blossoms and damp earth from an early spring shower. My heels clicked softly on the pavement as I followed the trickle of students in crisp uniforms, their chatter a buoyant counterpoint to my own internal hum of anxiety mixed with genuine excitement.
The school itself was… standard. A multi-story concrete building, functional rather than inspiring, with sprawling grounds that included athletic fields already dotted with early morning runners. A separate, newer-looking wing likely housed the science labs. As I passed through the main gates, a sense of ownership, however tentative, began to settle in. This was my school now. My place of work. My chance to finally apply years of study, to ignite curiosity in young minds.
The administrative office provided my official welcome packet and directions to the staff room. Navigating the unfamiliar corridors felt like being a freshman all over again, albeit one armed with a degree and a carefully constructed professional persona. Students glanced at me with mild curiosity – the new teacher, easily identifiable. I offered small, polite smiles, hoping they conveyed scientific enthusiasm rather than the nervous fluttering in my stomach.
Pushing open the heavy door to the staff room felt like breaching a final barrier. Inside, the air buzzed with low conversations and the scent of strong coffee mixed faintly with something chemical – likely disinfectant or leftover lab reagents clinging to someone's coat. Rows of desks filled the large space, clustered loosely by department. I spotted the section marked "Science & Mathematics," a slightly more chaotic corner filled with leaning stacks of textbooks, periodic table posters tacked to partitions, and the occasional stray beaker serving as a pen holder.
"Ah, you must be Nakano-sensei!" A friendly-faced woman with kind eyes and short-cropped hair approached me, extending a hand. Her name tag identified her as Tanaka Machiko, Head of Faculty Affairs. "Welcome to Asahiyama! We're thrilled to have you joining the Science Department."
Her warmth was genuine, a welcome balm. "Thank you, Tanaka-san. It's a pleasure to be here," I replied, shaking her hand and managing a smile that felt slightly less forced. "I'm very excited to get started."
She gestured towards an empty desk situated near the edge of the Science & Math cluster, close to the windows but a noticeable distance away from the main hubbub. "This will be your spot. Plenty of natural light for observing samples, eh?" she joked lightly. "Let me introduce you around briefly. Kimura-sensei, head of Science, is caught in a budget meeting, but he's eager to meet you later."
She led me through the cluster, introducing me to a few colleagues – Sato-sensei, the harried History teacher whose desk bordered their territory; Sasaki-sensei from Japanese Language, who offered a cheerful wave; and a couple of math teachers engrossed in discussing curriculum changes. My mind worked overtime filing away names and faces, trying to get a feel for the departmental landscape.
Then, Tanaka-san paused, her gaze shifting towards a desk positioned diagonally across the cluster from mine, perhaps separated by four or five other workstations. A figure sat there, back mostly turned, focused intently on what looked like physics equations scrawled across a notepad. "And that," she said, lowering her voice slightly as if imparting a piece of notable information, "is our other new recruit for Science and Math today. Also joining the department. Scored absolute top marks on the recruitment exams, a real asset. Uesugi Fuutarou-sensei."
The name slammed into me with the force of an unexpected chemical detonation. Uesugi.
My breath caught. The background chatter of the staff room seemed to recede, replaced by a high-pitched ringing in my ears. No. It wasn't possible. Not here. Not in my department. The city was vast, the teaching profession wide. It had to be a coincidence, a cruel alignment of name and circumstance.
As if sensing the shift in Tanaka-san's attention, the figure paused his writing and turned his head slightly, glancing over his shoulder towards us.
And the world tilted.
It was him.
Uesugi Fuutarou.
Seven years melted away in an instant, leaving behind the raw shock of recognition. He looked older, yes – the lines of his face sharper, more defined, carrying an air of weary maturity. His build was lean, economical, radiating that same tightly controlled intensity I remembered. His hair was neatly cut, professional. He wore a simple button-down shirt and slacks, standard teacher fare, yet on him, it felt like camouflage, obscuring the complex, often infuriating, ultimately unforgettable young man I once knew. His glasses were different, lighter frames, but they couldn't disguise the eyes behind them.
Sharp, intelligent, analytical eyes. The same eyes that had once scanned our failing test papers with undisguised exasperation, that had occasionally shown a flicker of grudging respect when one of us grasped a difficult concept, that had held a maelstrom of conflict on graduation day. But now… now they were different. The faint light, the reluctant warmth I sometimes glimpsed back then, was utterly absent. Replaced by a flat, impenetrable surface. Guarded. Empty.
He looked directly at me across the intervening desks. Recognition flared in his eyes – unmistakable, a split-second widening – before being ruthlessly extinguished, replaced by that same mask of cool, professional indifference. It was faster than a chemical reaction, a deliberate shuttering.
He gave Tanaka-san a brief nod of acknowledgment, his gaze flicking towards me for only a fraction of a second longer, registering my presence without truly seeing me. Then, he turned back to his notepad as if the interruption was minor, already dismissed.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, uneven beat. My polite smile felt frozen, unnatural. Tanaka-san, seemingly oblivious to the internal implosion occurring beside her, continued cheerfully.
"Well, I'll let you get settled in, Nakano-sensei. Don't hesitate to ask if you need anything!" She gave my arm a reassuring pat and bustled off towards her own office.
I stood there for a moment, rooted to the spot, my bag suddenly feeling immensely heavy. My assigned desk, waiting for me by the window, felt miles away. Across the room, Uesugi Fuutarou continued his work, a portrait of focused absorption. Or perhaps, deliberate disregard.
Forcing my legs to move, I walked towards my desk, acutely aware of the space between us. It wasn't immediate proximity, but it was a shared environment. A shared department. Shared colleagues. Shared professional goals. And a vast, yawning chasm of shared, unresolved history. Settling into my chair, I mechanically began unpacking my bag, laying out my planner, my pens, a framed picture of my sisters (a newer one, taken last year, our smiles perhaps a little more practiced, a little more adult) that I placed facing away from the room for now.
My mind raced. Top marks on the recruitment exams. Of course. His brilliance was never in question. But him, here? In the same field I had chosen? It felt… invasive. Competitive, almost, though the thought was absurd. My passion for science felt suddenly exposed, vulnerable, now that he was here, the embodiment of analytical prowess, potentially judging my approach, my methods, my very presence in his domain – or what felt like it.
The minutes ticked by. Other teachers arrived, greetings were exchanged, the low hum of pre-work activity filled the room. I tried to focus on my schedule, on the introductory lesson plans I'd prepared, but my gaze kept drifting across the room towards his desk. He seemed utterly self-contained, interacting only when directly addressed by a nearby math teacher, his responses concise, professional, revealing nothing personal.
The bell rang for the opening ceremony. Gathering my introductory notes with trembling fingers, I joined the flow of staff towards the gymnasium. The walk felt longer, charged with a new layer of anxiety. Finding a seat among the staff, my eyes inevitably scanned and found him, several rows ahead and to the side, seated with Kimura-sensei, the department head he hadn't yet met me with. He stared resolutely forward.
The principal's speech droned on. Diligence. Cooperation. Excellence. The words felt like static. My focus kept snagging on Fuutarou's impassive profile. Was this his attempt at a normal life? Had he sought refuge in the predictable structure of teaching, in the solvable problems of science and math, hoping to escape the messy complexities of human connection he seemed so determined to avoid?
Then came the introductions. "Nakano Itsuki-sensei, Science Department." I walked to the microphone, my legs feeling like poorly calibrated instruments. I bowed, spoke my prepared lines about the wonders of scientific inquiry, my enthusiasm for fostering curiosity. My voice felt thin, barely my own. I could feel hundreds of eyes, and somewhere among them, his.
His introduction followed immediately after mine in the departmental listing. "Uesugi Fuutarou-sensei, Science and Mathematics." He approached the stage with that same detached efficiency. "Uesugi Fuutarou. I look forward to exploring the principles that govern our universe with you this year. Let's pursue understanding diligently." Still blunt, still economical, perhaps even colder than I remembered. He bowed and returned to his seat without a flicker of expression.
The memory of graduation surfaced again, sharp and painful. His plea for friendship, our fractured acceptance. Had he truly believed it could work? Or was it a desperate, logical solution to an illogical emotional problem, doomed from the start? His presence now, his absolute refusal to acknowledge our past, felt like the final, damning answer to that question. From his perspective, we likely hadn't held up our end of the fragile bargain, letting the connection dissolve. And he, in turn, had sealed himself off.
Back in the staff room after the ceremony, the tension felt thicker. I retreated to my desk, burying myself in curriculum maps. Across the room, Fuutarou was approached by Kimura-sensei, the department head – a man with a slightly frazzled air and safety goggles perched on his forehead. I couldn't hear their exact words over the general hum, but I saw Kimura-sensei speaking animatedly, gesturing towards some documents. Fuutarou listened intently, nodding occasionally, his expression focused, analytical. He engaged with Kimura-sensei about departmental matters with a seriousness, a professional courtesy, that stood in stark contrast to the blank wall he presented to our shared past. Watching him slip so easily into the role of 'colleague' while pointedly ignoring the history between us sent a fresh wave of hurt and confusion through me.
I needed air. I needed space. When the lunch bell finally rang, I gathered my bento box and made my escape, not just from his visual presence, but from the suffocating weight of the entire situation. My assigned classroom, Room 312 in the science wing, felt like a sanctuary.
Sliding the door shut behind me, the relative quiet was a relief. The room smelled of lab disinfectant and old textbooks. Charts of cellular mitosis and the periodic table adorned the walls. Bunsen burners sat dormant on black-topped lab benches. This was my space. My laboratory. My teaching haven. Or it was supposed to be. Now, it felt like a temporary refuge in hostile territory.
Sinking into the teacher's chair behind the large demonstration bench, I opened my bento. Rice, tamagoyaki, stir-fried vegetables with tofu. Usually comforting, today it seemed bland, tasteless. My appetite had vanished, replaced by a knot of anxiety in my stomach.
Why science? Why this school? Had he known I might be here? Unlikely. He wouldn't have cared enough to track my career path. It was just… cosmic irony. Or perhaps, a challenge. A test of my own resolve, my own ability to compartmentalize.
My past relationships flickered through my mind. Kenji-san, the gentle literature student – kind, but lacking the intellectual fire that truly engaged me. Daichi-san, the driven cram school colleague – ambitious, but ultimately self-absorbed, unable to appreciate the quiet beauty of a perfectly balanced equation or the complex elegance of evolutionary biology. Had I been unconsciously seeking someone who could challenge me, debate with me, perhaps even infuriate me in that specific way Fuutarou had? Had his ghost lingered, setting an unspoken, impossible standard not just for romance, but for intellectual companionship?
And Raiha? Why hadn't she warned me? Her vague "doing okay" now felt like a deliberate understatement, perhaps born of loyalty to her brother's privacy, or maybe reflecting a genuine distance that had grown even between them. The thought saddened me.
My sisters… the inevitable phone call loomed like a dreaded practical exam. Nino's fierce protectiveness, Miku's quiet sensitivity, Yotsuba's earnest concern, Ichika's perceptive questions – exposing this raw nerve would unravel years of careful healing, or at least, attempted forgetting. No, the secret would have to hold. For now. The guilt of omission warred with the fear of the fallout.
He looked tired. That faint shadow under his eyes, the tension around his mouth – it wasn't just my imagination. This carefully constructed indifference, this retreat into pure logic and professionalism, maybe it cost him something too. Maybe the failed relationships Raiha hinted at weren't just collateral damage, but part of a pattern born from that initial, profound disappointment. The thought offered no comfort, only a deeper layer of shared, unspoken tragedy.
I forced down a few bites of rice, the act purely mechanical. The bell marking the end of lunch seemed to mock my paralysis. Splashing water on my face from the lab sink, I met my own strained reflection in the polished surface of a nearby cabinet. Focus, Itsuki. Be professional. Be the scientist. Observe, analyze, compartmentalize. Treat him as any other variable in this new environment.
But as I slid the classroom door open, heading back towards the staff room, towards the shared space that held the ghost of our past, I knew it wouldn't be that simple. His presence wasn't just a variable; it was a catalyst, threatening unpredictable reactions within the carefully contained experiment of my new life.
Returning to my desk felt like walking onto thin ice. I sat, deliberately arranging my materials, keeping my gaze fixed on my own workspace. Across the room, he was focused on his computer, typing with quiet efficiency. The distance felt both vast and non-existent. He was over there, yet his presence filled the room, a silent, magnetic pole pulling my attention against my will.
This year, I thought with a wave of weary resignation, would require more than just careful lesson planning. It would require navigating a minefield of memory, guarding against emotional fallout, and somehow, finding a way to teach science while standing in the shadow of the person who had simultaneously complicated and, perhaps unwillingly, confirmed my love for it. The refraction of the past through the lens of the present was proving to be painfully, blindingly complex.