Whispers Beyond The Desk

Chapter 10: Glass Walls



There were days when Mizuki Ayane could recite every student's name, birthday, and career aspiration without even consulting her notes. She prided herself on her attention to detail—her consistency, her professionalism. Especially now, as the youngest homeroom teacher in the school, she understood what was expected of her: reliability, neutrality, distance.

And yet, despite her best intentions, she had let something shift.

She saw it now.

In the way her colleagues paused when she walked into the faculty room.

In the glances exchanged when her name was paired with Takashi's in staff files.

In the unnerving awareness that somehow, through nothing more than small kindnesses, she had created ripples.

So, she began to build walls.

---

The change was immediate, though subtle.

Mizuki no longer looked at Takashi when she addressed the class.

She kept her voice even and businesslike, her hands always folded neatly in front of her, her eyes trained somewhere over the heads of her students when she spoke.

If Takashi raised his hand, she responded politely but briefly. If he lingered after class, she busied herself with papers and didn't meet his gaze. She no longer called on him for tasks or asked his opinion on classroom decisions.

To anyone else, it looked like she was simply rotating responsibilities, sharing the spotlight.

To Takashi, it felt like erasure.

---

He noticed it the following Monday when he arrived early to help with homeroom preparations. He'd always taken pride in the small moments—adjusting the board, refilling chalk, folding student handouts. Mizuki had always greeted him with a warm, almost casual smile.

Today, she merely nodded.

"Morning, Arata-kun. You can leave those here. I'll finish setting up."

He hesitated. "I don't mind—"

"I'd prefer to do it myself today."

Her voice wasn't cold, but it was firm. Professional. Distant.

He placed the papers on the desk and stepped back.

"Understood."

---

Throughout the day, she maintained that same controlled distance. No lingering glances, no shared half-smiles over a student's quirky answer. She treated him exactly as she did every other student.

Which, ironically, only made her behavior stand out more.

To Takashi, it was like watching a painting be slowly washed of color.

---

On Wednesday, the class worked on a group project. Mizuki moved from team to team, checking progress, offering guidance. When she reached Takashi's table, she didn't look at him directly.

"Remember to structure your points clearly," she said, eyes scanning the sheet in front of them. "And cite at least two references. That goes for all of you."

She turned to leave, but Takashi stopped her.

"Sensei?"

She paused.

"Yes?"

His throat tightened. The other students looked up.

"I… wanted to ask if I could still submit the extra credit project we discussed."

She didn't meet his eyes.

"That arrangement was made before the schedule changed. I'd prefer if you focused on the main assignments now."

He nodded.

"Right. Understood."

She walked away.

And something in him cracked.

---

After school, he waited by the front gate, pretending to look at his phone as Mizuki walked past with a group of teachers. He didn't try to speak to her—just watched.

She didn't notice him.

Or maybe she did, and chose not to show it.

He wasn't sure which felt worse.

---

In the faculty room, Mizuki sat at her desk, staring blankly at her computer screen. Her inbox was full of lesson plans and feedback forms. None of it felt real.

Her hands trembled slightly as she typed. She had convinced herself that professionalism meant removing emotion.

But it didn't feel clean. It felt hollow.

She missed the small sparks—the quiet look of understanding Takashi sometimes gave when she spoke about literature, the thoughtful questions he asked when no one else stayed after class.

She missed the version of herself she'd been able to share only with him.

But this was safer.

And safe was necessary.

Wasn't it?

---

Friday arrived with the muted gray skies of late autumn. The class buzzed with excitement about the upcoming school trip, but Mizuki stood at the front with a clipboard, her expression composed.

As she called out names for room assignments, her tone never wavered.

"Arata Takashi… you'll be in Room 3 with Suda and Nishimura."

Takashi nodded. "Got it."

Not even a flicker of recognition passed between them.

Later, when she handed out itineraries, her hand brushed his accidentally. He pulled back slightly. She didn't react.

But inside, her stomach twisted.

She hated this. The silence. The self-imposed barrier.

Yet she reinforced it, day after day.

Because reputation was everything. And rumors, once born, never truly died.

---

After school, Mizuki remained behind to finish some reports. She thought the building was empty until she heard footsteps outside the classroom.

Takashi stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame.

"Sorry," he said. "Didn't mean to startle you."

She straightened. "It's alright. Do you need something?"

He stepped inside slowly. "Not really. Just… didn't want the week to end like this."

She looked down. "Arata-kun…"

"I know," he interrupted gently. "You're being careful. Professional. I get it."

She stayed silent.

"I just want to say—I never meant to cause trouble. I never thought about how it would look to others. But I never crossed any line."

"I know you didn't," she said quietly.

"Then why does it feel like I'm being punished?"

Her eyes lifted, and for the first time in days, they met his.

"I'm trying to protect both of us," she said.

"I don't need protecting," he whispered.

She smiled sadly. "Maybe not. But I do."

Silence stretched between them.

"Then I'll give you space," Takashi said. "But just know… I never felt anything wrong about the way you treated me. It was the one place I could actually breathe."

She swallowed hard.

He turned and walked away, leaving the room quieter than it had ever felt.

---

That night, Mizuki sat alone in her apartment. She poured herself a cup of tea and stared at the flickering candle on her table.

She thought of her students, her reputation, her responsibilities.

And then, she thought of Takashi—of his quiet resilience, his eyes when he asked hard questions, his voice as he spoke of breathing freely.

And she wondered if building walls would keep her safe…

Or just leave her isolated inside them.

But for now, she would maintain the distance.

Until she could decide if this quiet was discipline—or a mistake she didn't know how to undo.


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