The hum of the fluorescent lights usually faded into the background noise of Itachiyama Academy’s biology lab, a dull companion to the rhythmic scrape of a pencil or the rustle of textbook pages. Not today. Today, the hum was a spotlight, relentlessly illuminating the three-way staring contest unfolding between me, the dissecting tray, and the two dozen pairs of eyes that were not, in fact, focused on their own work.
“Okay, but *seriously*,” someone hissed from the back, voice low but carrying like a whip crack in the sudden quiet. “Does he wear… you know.”
My spine stiffened, a familiar coil of tension tightening just beneath my shoulder blades. The question, always phrased in whispers or roundabout euphemisms, was a constant, low-level thrum in my daily life here. *Panties*. That was the word they couldn't bring themselves to say, but that hung heavy in the air regardless. I didn't need to look up. I knew the target of their speculative gazes was the beige pleated skirt I wore, the white blouse, the cream sweater, the leg warmers. The standard Itachiyama girls' uniform.
My fingers, calloused from years of gripping a volleyball, twitched towards the plastic specimen next to Sakusa’s meticulously arranged tools. My stomach did a slow roll, a familiar anxiety knotting itself. It wasn't the question itself, not really. It was the *focus*. The collective, burning focus. My brain, usually a whirring kaleidoscope of algorithms and theoretical constructs, felt like a spotlight had been shone into its most private corners. I hated being observed, being the subject of intense, unsolicited scrutiny. It was why I often gravitated to the edges of things, preferring to analyze from a distance, to be a ghost in the machine. It was why the constant, low-level buzz of *observation* here was so draining. I liked to imagine the world as a giant, complex system, and my mind as the only one truly capable of mapping it. But when the system looked back at *me*... it was jarring.
Beside me, Sakusa Kiyoomi made a soft, disgusted sound. It wasn't aimed at me, or the class, but at the preserved earthworm that lay segmented before us. He adjusted the surgical mask that covered the lower half of his face, his dark eyes, usually flat and unreadable, narrowed slightly. "De Souza, your section is the anterior. Are you prepared to continue?" His voice, though muffled, cut through the residual tension in the room, thin and precise like a scalpel. He didn’t wait for my answer, picking up a pair of forceps with the careful deliberation of a surgeon.
I blinked, pulling my gaze away from the accusing specimen. Right. Biology project. My INTP brain, having momentarily been hijacked by social anxiety, re-engaged with the task. "Yes, Sakusa. The clitellum and associated organs." My Portuguese accent, usually more pronounced when I was flustered, was, thankfully, under control.
His head gave a minute, almost imperceptible nod. He did not ask if I was *okay* or if the questions bothered me. He merely provided the framework, the logical next step, and allowed me to fill it. That was Sakusa. A pragmatic island of isolation in a sea of emotionality.
I picked up my own forceps, the cool metal a small anchor in my palm. The problem was not the skirt, nor the leg warmers, nor the fact that it was a girls' uniform. The problem was *their* problem with it. I found the uniform surprisingly comfortable, actually. The fabric was soft, not prone to wrinkling like many boys' trousers, and the movement afforded by the pleats was liberating. And the *pockets* in the cardigan, while not part of the standard uniform, were a lifesaver. This particular uniform had been... a gift, in a way. A misunderstanding, then an acceptance. A choice. My choice.
My gaze drifted to the window, the grey sky promising rain. My internal monologue, usually a complex web of logical deductions and abstract ideas, felt sluggish, bogged down by the sheer weight of other people's assumptions. It was exhausting, this constant mental push-and-pull. If only they’d just *ask*. But they never did. They just whispered, and looked. And I just… existed.
Suddenly, a thought, sharp and clear, cut through the fog. The questions were persistent, yes, but also *vague*. "Does he wear..." "You know..." What if I made them less vague? What if I prompted them, just once, to be *specific*? It wasn't logical to constantly avoid the topic if it was going to perpetually resurface. Confrontation, while not my preferred mode, could be a highly efficient way to clarify parameters. A risk, certainly. But sometimes, a calculated risk was the optimal solution.
My fingers tightened around the forceps, not in nervousness, but in a burgeoning resolve. I needed to reset the system.
A sharp, almost imperceptible *clink* startled me. Sakusa had dropped a tiny dissection pin. He paused, his gaze flicking to the pin then to the ceiling, before settling briefly on me. His eyes, though obscured by dark hair and a mask, held a flicker of something I couldn't quite decipher. Annoyance? Disinterest? Or something else entirely? He reached down, retrieving the pin with the utmost care, his movements precise, almost ritualistic. "The lab is a place for focus, De Souza," he said, his voice flat, but the words carried a weight. A subtle warning. Or maybe, just maybe, an observation on the current state of affairs.
I didn't answer, my attention now fully on the earthworm, its segmented body waiting for dissection. The hum of the lights, the whispers in the back, the tension in my shoulders — it all faded. My hand, guided by a sudden, decisive impulse that felt alien yet undeniably mine, reached for the scalpel. It wasn't the anterior section I focused on first, nor the clitellum. My focus, for a brief, electric moment, shifted. Instead of the delicate cut the professor had instructed, my eyes fixed on the point where the blade met the specimen, a sharp, clean line already forming in my mind. A new variable. A new trajectory.
Sakusa shifted beside me, a soft rustle of his uniform. The silence in the room had deepened, becoming almost absolute. I felt it, the prickle of anticipation, not from my own impending action, but from the raw, unblinking attention of my peer. A single, distinct thought echoed in my mind, separate from the biology lesson: *He knows*.