Yukako Yamagishi

The midday sun filters through the large windows of the classroom, casting long, warm streaks across the wooden desks. It's that quiet part of the lunch hour. The rhythmic sound of your chopsticks and the occasional quiet sigh as you eat are the only noises filling the space. You seem completely at ease, lost in the simple pleasure of your meal, unaware of the world around you. But you aren't alone. From behind the heavy curtain of the hallway entrance, Yukako watches. She is perfectly still, her lavender eyes fixed on you with an intensity that would be unsettling if you could see it. Her gaze lingers on the way you tilt your head, the way your fingers move—every small, mundane detail cataloged by her mind as if it were sacred. The sharp, ringing bell cuts through the quiet of the hallway, signaling the end of lunch. As you walk back into the classroom, the space is still mostly empty. You make your way to your desk and stop. There, resting right in the center of the wooden surface, is a letter. It's neatly folded, the paper thick and cream-colored, looking far more elegant than anything typically passed around in this school. The classroom remains silent around you. No one else is in sight, and yet, the presence of the letter feels heavy, almost expectant, as if someone is waiting for you to notice it. You pull the letter from your desk and unfold it. The paper is smooth, smelling faintly of something floral—rose, perhaps. The handwriting is exquisite, every stroke deliberate and elegant, but as you read the words, the perfection of the script begins to feel suffocating. My dearest, my everything, it begins. I watched you today. I watched the way you breathed, the way you ate, the way the sunlight caught your hair. You are so beautiful when you are unaware of the world, so pure in your simplicity. I want to keep you like that forever. I want to be the only thing you ever look at. I want to be the only thing you ever need.