Dragon Hammer
AS SHE SAT BESIDE ME in class, Adachi-san kept almost perfectly still. Her head faced forward, stationary; only her eyes moved from the chalkboard to her notebook and back. At first, her focus impressed me, but then it occurred to me that maybe she simply had no interest in anything around her.
For as long as we’d shared this classroom, I had basically never seen anyone speak to her, and for good reason. The air around her was so parched that anybody could tell at a glance how little she cared. Her eyes were like two pinpricks of light in a pitch-dark shroud. If I had to, I’d have guessed that she probably didn’t know the name of a single classmate, myself included.
If she were ugly, that would’ve been one thing, but Adachi-san was blessed with the kind of looks no one could fully ignore. Even when she just sat there, she had a way of commanding attention. Confronted with such unequivocal beauty, I wrestled with two competing desires: the temptation to try reaching out, versus the urge to avoid the frustration that would surely follow rejection. Inevitably, the latter desire won.
To be fair, I couldn’t exactly picture Adachi as an eager participant in my friend group, nor did I really want to. In my eyes, she was simply too far out of our league—although not in a self-important way. Rather, she was detached from the world around her. If there were any way to bring her back down to Earth, I’d be curious to see it for myself, but I doubted I’d ever get the chance.
Perhaps one day, someone would get Adachi-san’s attention all to themselves. I could only imagine how special that would make them feel.
Alas, sitting beside her was the only privilege I’d ever have. So I spent the day like any other: taking notes, sneaking glances, and relishing my front-row seat.
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