My stomach tightened—not from nerves, but annoyance.
Aira Minami.
The girl whose name was always followed by praise.
The girl with the perfectly composed smile.
The girl I'd marked as "Emotionally intuitive, possibly manipulative. Requires extended observation."
Aira blinked in surprise, but she moved without hesitation.
I stood slower, deliberately, and joined her.
She stood with her hands loosely clasped in front of her. I kept mine in my pockets.
"This wasn't planned," Fujimoto-sensei said, "but I'd like you both to read your essays aloud. Right now. In front of the class."
There were murmurs. Of course there were.
Aira and I looked at each other briefly. I saw no nervousness in her expression—just attentiveness, like she was already preparing her counterargument.
Fujimoto gestured. "Ren, you first."
My voice was even. My tone flat. I didn't dramatize. I simply read what I had written, sentence after sentence, like each one was a small blade meant to cut through sentimentality.
When I finished, the silence was heavy. Not shocked—just uncomfortable.
Essay Title: "The Lie of Empathy"
By Ren Yukimura
Empathy is overrated.
It feels noble—seeing through another's eyes, feeling what they feel—but it is not truth. It's projection.
People claim empathy when it benefits them, not others. When it makes them feel morally superior. When it lets them avoid difficult truths by drowning them in sympathy.
A meaningful life isn't built on emotional interpretation. It's built on clarity. Honesty. Logic.
Truth is not always kind, but it is always necessary. Emotions distort. Truth reveals.
I closed the last page of my essay and set it down on the podium like it was just another piece of data in a controlled experiment.
No eye contact. No flourish. I didn't look at the class, and I especially didn't look at her.
I stepped back—not out of nervousness, but to make space. I had said everything I needed to say. The silence that followed wasn't mine to fill.
A few chairs creaked. Someone shifted awkwardly. But no one spoke.
It wasn't shock. It was discomfort—the kind people feel when something they've always believed is quietly dismantled in front of them.
Then it was her turn.
Aira walked forward.
She didn't hesitate. Didn't fumble for notes. She simply stepped up and stood in the exact place I'd been, as if to prove she wasn't intimidated by it—or me.
She looked at the class. Not down at the page.
And when she spoke, her voice didn't rise to argue—it lowered to reach people.
Essay Title: "A Heart That Understands"
By Aira Minami
The truth matters. But people aren't machines. They don't always need facts—they need to be understood.
A life becomes meaningful when it touches others. Not with perfect reasoning, but with presence.
Empathy isn't weakness. It's courage. The courage to care even when we don't fully understand.
The courage to hold space for someone's pain without fixing it.
And sometimes, the courage to stay kind in the face of cold logic.
I would rather be wrong with compassion than right without it.
When Aira finished, she didn't step back right away.
She let the final sentence hang in the air—not dramatic, just patient. Like she was giving the room time to breathe.
Then she lowered her gaze, offered a slight nod, and returned to her spot beside me.
The silence that followed hers was different from mine.
Mine was clinical.
Hers was heavy.
People weren't uncomfortable because she'd offended them.
They were quiet because she'd made them feel seen.
I didn't look at her, but I could feel the shift in the room's temperature.
The kind of silence that doesn't ask for a response. It asks for reflection.
And I hated that it worked.
Fujimoto smiled in that particular way of hers—like she'd planned this all along.
"I think there's something important here," she said. "Two perspectives. One grounded in reason, the other in feeling. What would happen if we didn't treat them as rivals?"
That was the moment I knew she was going to do something insane.
"So," she said, "you're going to work together."
I blinked.
"What!?" I asked.
"To teach us something neither of you could teach alone."