Chapter 1: Hottie Radar: Activated
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They say your first day in high school is something you never forget.
Which is hilarious, because I forgot where my classroom was three times and walked into the faculty lounge trying to act like I owned the place. I even nodded at a teacher like we were old war comrades. He did not nod back. Probably because I was sweating like a guilty politician and clutching my backpack like it contained state secrets. Which, in a way, it did. My lunch.
While other people remember the anxiety, the nerves, the existential panic of being tossed into a building full of judgmental strangers and fluorescent lights. I was distracted by something else.
New school. New faces. New hotties.
Yes. Hotties. Plural. I had not even reached my locker and I was already knee-deep in emotional side quests involving eye contact and imaginary conversations where I was charming, mysterious, and knew how to lean against a wall without looking like I needed medical assistance.
And these girls were not just ordinary hotties. Oh no. I am talking about the kind of girls who glide through a hallway and make physics reconsider its rules. Girls with that cinematic aura like they were personally drawn by a sleep-deprived romance manga artist with trust issues and a pen full of glitter.
There was one with a ponytail so perfect it could have solved world peace. Her laugh? It didn't just echo. It shimmered. The kind of girl who made me reconsider my life choices, my wardrobe, and whether I should start writing poetry in secret.
Meanwhile, I was standing there sweating and composing bad haikus in my head like:
Ponytail divine
Heart attack in school uniform
Please look my way once
They say first impressions matter.
Which is tragic, because mine involved dropping my student ID, attempting to recover it with a dramatic spin move, and somehow punting it directly into a storm drain like I was being coached by fate and embarrassment.
So yes. First day of high school. Unforgettable.
Not because I made my mark.
But because I realized my romantic life was already being directed by a drunk scriptwriter with a flair for tragic comedy and slow zoom-ins on failure.
Welcome to my life. Please keep your expectations low and your laughter on standby.
-----
I made my way to the school gates, backpack dangling over one shoulder like I was starring in a very low budget teen drama that only aired in my imagination. My heart thumped with a rhythm that hovered somewhere between hope and whatever drumbeat plays when you are about to make a total fool of yourself on national television.
Was I excited? Yes. Unreasonably so.
But not the kind of excitement that comes from solving equations or reading something academic without falling asleep twice. No. This was the kind of giddy chaos that hits when you are secretly hoping to meet the love of your life before third period. Ideally near a vending machine. With dramatic lighting.
Am I a hopeless romantic?
Absolutely not. How dare you. I am a deeply logical, rational, emotionally grounded person.
Fine. Yes. Guilty. I am the human embodiment of a heartfelt montage. The kind of guy who sees a girl smile once and immediately starts naming our future cats. Plural. Mochi and Soba. I have it all planned.
High school was supposed to be a fresh start. A reset. A blank page waiting to be scribbled on with glittery mistakes and poorly thought out decisions. At least, that is what the motivational posters and suspiciously peppy guidance counselors said.
And me? I wanted to believe it. Needed to. I had been carrying around enough awkward middle school trauma to qualify for a loyalty card.
My name is Ryuji Takahashi. I am a painfully average teenage boy equipped with an overactive imagination, unrealistic expectations, and what my doctor has not officially diagnosed but I like to call Main Character Syndrome.
Yes. I said it. I narrate my own life. In real time. Sometimes with background music. Sometimes with commercial breaks. I wait for meet-cutes. I expect emotional arcs. I have rehearsed dramatic rain scenes in the mirror and let me tell you, I crushed them.
If my life were a romantic comedy, and I am thoroughly convinced it is. I would be the awkward but lovable lead. You know the type. Hair always slightly messy. Probably talking too much. Emotionally constipated but charming in a way that makes you root for him anyway.
Except there is no laugh track. Just a series of internal monologues and the occasional voice in my head that sounds suspiciously like a sarcastic narrator who refuses to shut up.
And yes. That narrator is me.
Welcome to the story.
I hope you brought popcorn.
I had rehearsed my first day fantasy more times than I could count. And believe me, I can count pretty high. Picture it. I crash into a girl right at the front gate. Her books fly. Her hair catches the sunlight like a shampoo commercial. Our eyes meet in slow motion. Sparkles float in the air for absolutely no scientific reason. The world pauses. Cue orchestral string section.
Boom. Opening credits roll. Directed by fate. Produced by hormones.
That was the dream.
But reality, as always, had its own script. And guess what? I was not holding the pen.
Because if the universe has one defining personality trait, it is not love. It is comedy. Tragic, poetic, slapstick comedy. The kind where the banana peel is invisible and the fall is emotional.
And me? I was walking straight into it. No helmet. No script rewrite. Just vibes and extremely poor decision making.
Still, this was my story. I could feel it in my soul. My arc was beginning. The stars were aligning. Destiny was doing finger stretches offstage, ready to make her entrance.
And if the laws of romantic comedy logic held even a fragment of truth, if there was even one scene from all those anime, dramas, and horribly addicting dating sims that reflected real life, I was absolutely going to get the girl.
Right?
Right...?
---
| CUE THE RECORD SCRATCH |
Author's Note:
Voice of god. Call it what you will. Just know I warned you.
Before we dive any deeper into this delusion, I should probably issue a disclaimer the size of Tokyo Tower.
Our so-called "main character"? Ryuji Takahashi. Age sixteen. Emotional mess. High school rookie. Current holder of the world record for most internal monologues per minute.
Fun fact. He has never been on a date.
Not once.
Not even close.
No soft brush of fingertips under the cherry blossoms. No whispered confessions under shared umbrellas. No anime eye sparkles. No accidental fall-onto-the-girl situations. Nothing. Zero. Zilch.
And no, it is not because he is a jerk. I mean,, he's probably not. I recycle. I let people merge in traffic. That counts, right?
Anyway.
You may now return to your scheduled programming.
This story is not going to write itself.
But I sure as heck am going to narrate the life out of it.
---
Back to Ryuji:
Let us talk about me. Not in a narcissistic way. More like a tragic documentary voiceover narrated by a guy who eats instant noodles for dinner and wonders if his pillow knows too much.
People say I have "those eyes." You know the ones. The kind that look like I am seconds away from challenging someone to a dramatic rooftop duel over the last steamed bun. Very intense. Very anime villain energy. The truth? I just look like that when I am thinking about nothing. Or breathing. Or trying to remember if I left the rice cooker on.
So no, I am not exactly what you would call approachable. My face says "do not talk to me unless you want to meet your ancestors." But underneath this unintentional death glare is a guy who binge-watches romance anime, cries during emotional love confessions, and dreams, yes, actually dreams that someone might one day look past the scowl and see the emotional spaghetti pile underneath.
And yes, I know how that sounds. Pathetic. Cringe. Simp behavior. Whatever. Welcome to my brain. You paid for the tour. No refunds.
I pretended to care about first impressions. I really did. I even practiced my smile in the mirror the night before like some emotionally wounded beauty pageant contestant. But if there is one ironclad rule I have learned about surviving high school, it is this.
Lower your expectations. No. Lower than that. Now dig. Now bury them.
That way, life cannot disappoint you.
It can only surprise you.
Usually with something worse.
But hey, maybe this time it would surprise me with something better.
Or at the very least, not give me a wedgie on the emotional level.
-----
The bell rang.
Sharp. Echoing. Accusatory.
Naturally. I was already late.
Because what kind of self-respecting romcom protagonist arrives on time? That is rookie behavior. I was going full chaos mode from day one.
With absolutely zero grace, I launched myself through the gates. Backpack bouncing like it was trying to escape. Shoes slamming against pavement like I owed them money. Heart pounding with all the drama of a final boss entrance.
And then it happened.
Time slowed.
Music swelled in my head. A string quartet and a choir of angels, probably illegal in three prefectures, started playing without permission.
And everything, everything.. stopped.
She stood just ahead. A glowing silhouette framed by golden morning light, like the universe decided to flex its cinematography budget all at once. Her hair moved in slow motion. I swear it had its own wind machine. Her profile gleamed like the cover of a limited edition shoujo manga.
Mikaela Sato.
Yes. That Mikaela Sato.
Her name practically glowed in cursive above her head. If she had sparkles around her, I would not even question it. Rumors followed her like enchanted butterflies. Top scores in every entrance exam. Sweet. Polite. Smart. Stunning.
She did not walk.
She floated.
And yes. I noticed them.
Her chest.
Look, I am not proud. But I am also not blind. Gravity clearly saw her coming and just gave up. The situation was respectfully impossible to ignore.
Do not judge me. I am a teenage boy with functioning eyes and a pulse. You want poetic inner growth? That comes after the hormones stop throwing furniture.
I nearly tripped over air. My brain packed its things and left. My heart took off running like it had no idea what organ responsibility was. But I had to say something. Anything. Words. Human words.
"Uh, h-hey! I'm... Ryuji. Class 1-A. Yeah. H-hi."
Smooth. Like falling face first into a gravel parking lot.
But then, miracle of miracles.. she smiled.
"Mikaela Sato. 1-A too," she said, voice like soft piano and impending heartbreak.
She was my classmate.
Classmate.
The word echoed inside my skull like a cosmic bell being hit by destiny with a metal pipe.
Classmate.
I was not ready.
Destiny had a name. And apparently, she wore our school uniform like it was made of stardust and serotonin.
---
Author's Note:
Just when our brave idiot thinks he is finally grabbing fate by the collar...
The universe calmly adjusts its gloves and says, "Oh, we are just getting started."
---
A shriek tore down the hallway like it was trying to break the sound barrier.
Not the horror movie kind. Not the "there is a masked guy with a chainsaw behind you" kind. No, this was worse.
This was the "Brace yourselves. The Queen of Mayhem has arrived" kind.
"SHE'S HERE. MOVE IT."
Pandemonium. Absolute chaos. Students scrambled like someone had dropped a Mentos into a soda bottle and yelled run. Lockers slammed. Backpacks were sacrificed. A textbook went flying and clocked someone in the face. I am not proud of how loudly I laughed.
And then she entered.
Akira Suzuki.
If you need one word to describe her, that word is unstoppable. Two words? god help you. She was chaos in combat boots. The human version of a boss battle you are not leveled up for. Black leather jacket. Piercing glare. Walked like she owned the building, the school district, and possibly your soul.
She did not walk. She commanded the floor like it owed her rent.
And if you even thought about standing in her way?
Rest in peace. Say hi to your ancestors.
The entire hallway tensed. I mean everyone. People froze mid-step. A kid dropped his bento and did not even try to pick it up.
And then something weird happened.
Akira locked eyes with Mikaela.
She froze.
No, I am not being dramatic. Full stop. Complete emotional blue screen.
Her cheeks turned pink. Pink.
Akira "break your kneecaps for fun" Suzuki… blushed.
Her shoulders sank. Her posture turned soft. Her death glare melted into something I can only describe as sparkly. It was like watching a lioness suddenly become a shy anime schoolgirl. I checked the ceiling for falling meteors. Because surely this meant the end times were here.
She walked up to Mikaela.
No. Shuffled.
Like a nervous girl with a secret crush and a love letter in her sleeve.
The hallway was silent. Utterly silent.
Even the walls were watching.
And in that stillness, that emotionally confusing tension thick enough to butter toast, I realized something truly wild.
Akira Suzuki, predator of the school food chain, was not just interested in Mikaela.
She was her best friend.
I could not process it.
I mean, sure, opposites attract and all that. But this was not just oil and water. This was lava and iced tea.
How?
Why?
Was this a dream? Was I dead? Had I hit my head during morning assembly and now I was trapped in some alternate universe where logic took a sick day?
I did not know.
All I knew was that Akira looked at Mikaela like she hung the moon and also baked cookies during lunch break.
And this?
This was only the beginning.