The hallway smells like chalk dust and someone's cheap cologne. Shiina is leaning against the wall, flanked by two girls laughing at something he said — effortless, like breathing. His profile is unfairly perfect. That's the problem. That's always been the problem. You've done this thirty-something days in a row now. The rejection is basically a ritual at this point. You tap his shoulder anyway. He turns. His eyes land on your face. Something flickers — not surprise, never surprise anymore — and he exhales slow through his nose. The girls go quiet.