Sensei- Chotto Yasunde Ii Desuka -rj01292809- | Certified · 2027 |

“Sensei,” he said again, quieter this time. He reached out, his long fingers hovering just above Akira’s wrist but not touching. A question. A pause. “Chotto yasunde ii desu ka?”

And for the first time in weeks, Akira Sugimoto let their eyes close. The red pen rolled off the desk and onto the floor. The clock ticked. The wind brushed against the windowpanes. And Haruki Saito sat in the fading light, watching over his tired teacher, keeping the world at bay.

“Feeling better?” he asked.

They hadn't heard the door open.

The silence stretched. The tick of the clock seemed louder. Then, Akira stood up, legs unsteady. They didn’t walk to the sofa. Instead, they sank onto the floor, leaning back against the solid, cool wood of their own desk. They pulled their knees up and rested their forehead on them. It wasn’t comfortable, but it felt less… vulnerable than lying down.

It was such a simple, kind question. And for some reason, it broke something small inside Akira. The forced smile faltered. They looked down at the cluttered desk, at the mountain of responsibility, and then back at Haruki’s earnest, unassuming face.

“I… I don’t have time, Saito-kun.” Sensei- Chotto Yasunde Ii Desuka -RJ01292809-

The voice was soft, almost a whisper, yet it made Akira flinch. They looked up to see Haruki Saito, a student from Class 3-B, holding a stack of returned library books. He was a quiet boy, the kind who vanished into the background, but his eyes… his eyes had always seen too much.

He picked up the fallen red pen and placed it carefully on top of the unfinished stack of essays. Then he stood, bowed his head once, and walked silently out of the library, leaving Akira alone with the lingering warmth of a grey cardigan and the memory of being seen.

Haruki didn’t comment. He simply moved his chair, positioning himself between Akira and the library door. A silent guardian. He took off his own cardigan – a soft, grey thing that smelled of laundry soap and old paper – and gently draped it over Akira’s shoulders. “Sensei,” he said again, quieter this time

Haruki tilted his head, observing the empty coffee cups, the faint shadows under Akira’s eyes, the way their hand trembled slightly as it reached for the next paper. The air in the library felt thick and lonely.

Akira nodded slowly, the knot in their shoulders loosened to a dull ache. They pulled the cardigan tighter, not yet ready to return it. “Thank you, Saito-kun.”

“I know.” Haruki didn’t leave. He placed the books on the return cart with careful, deliberate movements. Then he walked closer, stopping on the other side of the teacher’s cluttered desk. “You’re still here, too.” A pause

Akira let out a shaky breath. The offer was absurd. Unprofessional. A student shouldn’t be taking care of their teacher like this. But the exhaustion was a physical weight. “I’d fall asleep,” Akira whispered, the admission feeling like a surrender.

“Sensei?”