Chapter Text
Hange is avoiding you, and you're sure of it.
It was Monday morning when you came in the door, and you noticed the seat beside yours was vacant. You spotted them sitting next to Pieck.
Then it occurred to you what they mentioned on the chat with them before. Last week, Pieck asked Hange if they could have a group study session on Monday, along with your other classmates, for the upcoming Finite Mathematics final quiz, and they accepted. Initially, they asked you to join them, but you simply refused. Upon asking, they realized the reason; of course, they knew why you refused; it dawned on them that you preferred reviewing alone or in a quiet environment.
That was your recent conversation with them on the phone. Friday, last week. Observing them now, it doesn't seem like they're both actively reviewing at all. No scratch paper or pen in sight, just chattering around, fully immersed in each other’s presence and conversation.
That morning, Hange didn't greet you or approach you, which was weird because that greeting is usually followed by updates about their hamster, Beanie, and how the hell he managed to escape his cage again in the most strategic way. Or your daily gossip delivered by them, which they've picked up on other sections, and spend the rest of the morning gossiping right before the class begins.
Five minutes before the class starts, Hange seems like they have no plan to sit next to you. You were confused; you occasionally looked in their direction to see if they got the signal. Hange hadn't looked in your way, not even once; that's what you believed so. They stayed beside Pieck the whole day, along with her circle.
It was one of the bluntest Mondays you've ever experienced; you're not used to it. It felt uncomfortable, too unfamiliar with that feeling, especially with Hange.
At first, you didn't want to pay much attention to it, even if it was slightly bothering you. In hindsight, their character was primarily known as a social butterfly; it's common knowledge that the class should already know by now. Hopefully, they were just spending the rest of the week trying to interact with your classmates enough before graduation, before the night changes in a blink, and getting immensely consumed by the mysteries of college.
That's what you want to presume, that must be their motive, it should be, right? What else could it be?
Monday evening, you spent the whole hour rotting on your bed and getting hypnotized by the endless reels on your phone. A post from a verified page that was published twelve minutes ago caught your attention. It was about Hange's absolute favorite book of all time, the one they told you about back in 11th Grade, releasing an announcement that it will have a movie adaptation.
You vividly remembered how they described it to you in such a way that it feels like you were previewing a part of their mind. They were so ecstatic to share with you about it. Hange's voice was all in uppercase, their tone suffused with enthusiasm; they've told you how the book's ambience somewhat, strangely, encapsulates their childhood tradition of driving to the province of Karanes every summertime to visit their grandparents. The smell of rich soil, the mesmerizing Delonix regia trees aligned in rows on the vast farm—its flamboyant colors were truly a sight for sore eyes. Hange discussed exuberantly that the author of the book was a genius for choosing such unique settings despite the storyline; they were just so deeply drawn to it, their passion was contagious, and you tried reading some chapters because of them.
In Hange's philosophy, they added that no one should even dare to chase an adaptation after it because, to them, it's perfect the way it is already in the book. No expensive cinematography equipment or production teams can capture the magic of it exceptionally. They were so over the moon, they were so endearing while rambling about it.
It’s a muscle memory when you saw the post, you screenshotted it, and you hit the send icon to them. Upon waiting for their response, you scrolled through the flooded comments. Some expressed their excitement about the adaptation, hyping it to the max, while others were dismayed by it; their reasons were that another imagination is about to be ruined. Some stayed in between, voicing their honest opinion that the production team should be given a chance, maybe it will be somewhat, hopefully, would be something the readers expect.
Still no notification from Hange. No response, even if their active status says otherwise. And you waited again for another minute or two, which was weird because they usually reply within a second. Was the message not delivered? You checked it again, no, it was fresh. Sent seven minutes ago.
And then you go and continue to read some comments again. While browsing, your index accidentally scrolled too far that triggered the system to refresh, new comments buzzing into view. One specific account stole your attention.
Pieck Finger. Apparently, she mentioned Hange’s account on the post five minutes ago. Hange replied to her comment with a ridiculous number of exclamation points, along with caps lock keyboard smash about how excited they were.
Four minutes ago, Hange replied four minutes ago.
Ouch?
Your text to them was left hanging for the next five hours.
There was something unusual in the air that night that made your gut twitch. You shake the thoughts, not wanting to dwell on it further.
Tuesday morning, just like yesterday, you walk into the room with your neighboring seat empty, their voice encompasses you from across the room. It’s still early, your rowmates haven’t arrived in the vicinity yet, and no one is there to shield you from Hange’s presence while conversing next to Pieck. You automatically place your backpack on your seat, making it a makeshift pillow to lean onto.
In your peripheral vision, there are no pens and scratch papers in sight on their desks. And how can you not ignore their conversation when their uneven laughs fill in the gaps of those bug holes on the concrete of these walls? Definitely nothing related to the quiz’s coverage.
As time goes by, your classmates take their seats. Eventually, your Finite Math teacher crowds in, a stack of papers lying menacingly on her arms. She gives everyone a minute to get ready, then starts passing out the papers to each row of desks, making sure they’re spaced apart to prevent cheating. When you receive your paper passed backwards by a classmate ahead of you, you subconsciously look over your shoulder in their direction, something to ease off your nerves before taking the quiz.
Hange is already looking at you.
And it did, it somehow eases your nerves when you see them glancing in your way. Initially, you offer them a subtle, genuine smile that reaches your eyes.
But then, they hastily, almost sharply, proceed with what they’re doing. No returned acknowledgement, no goofy grin with that mandatory wink whenever they see you.
Oh.
Oh.
At that moment, your mind starts to wander, but then again, the quiz is about to start and you can’t afford to be distracted. But it ticked something deep in your veins that felt so off. Your teacher wakes you up from your disoriented state. “Okay, class, you have an hour to finish this quiz. You may now begin.” She sits on the teacher’s desk.
For the rest of your spare time, your mind drifts off to Hange about how they’re acting strange and back to the questionnaire lying on your desk, waiting to be answered.
You’re getting lightheaded and unsteady because your brain cannot handle one thought at a time, and you feel your temples faintly overheating, triggered by the constant thoughts.
Your mind is constantly running in circles, not gasping for air, scanning every corner of your pulsing brain to find reasons why Hange is acting like this towards you.
Did you get drunk and spit out their deepest darkest secrets and laugh at it while you subconsciously yell "I hate them" on camera?
What in the deepest pits of hell did that come from?
No, you did not attend any party this week, last week, or this month that will cause you to be drunk; you would rather drink gallons of soft drinks than alcohol. And obviously, you don't and will never hate them.
Did you unconsciously make them feel invalidated?
Dismissed their stories in such a subtle way that they noticed the small detail?
Have you done anything that offended them in particular?
Did your phone crash and affect the notification system that you have no idea which made them think you're ignoring them, or did you accidentally overlook an important message before you sent the screenshot that made them upset?
Absolutely not. You can answer these bugging questions confidently.
To what you believe in, you take a good amount of time finding the right words to use whenever they open up about something personal. In proximity, that's what you've picked up from them; they're typically not the kind to verbalize their inner thoughts, as they reasoned that they don't want to inconvenience people with their own issues. But over time, you've noticed that they're improving in speaking out their mind, still, you keep a close eye on them.
You listen to their stories with attentiveness, your ears are active, and you never fail to reciprocate their vibrant enthusiasm within them. Sometimes you feel like a disciple listening to God's words of wisdom, considering you're in a benign stream of concentration whenever they're talking. Once it's time for question and answer, you bring up a question so specific that they'd only briefly mentioned it one time, and their eyes unfailingly glimmer with the realization that you've noticed.
You don't remember the last time you left them in every function you two went to, you act easily around them, ensuring they're not left out in any way, like they're the most beyond compare portrait you've ever laid your eyes on, a thousand obra maestra created by revolutionary artists that's worth guarding for. Because to you, they're valuable—someone that you can't bear the expense of losing.
And lastly, no. Their contact is the only one pinned and has a unique notification whenever they message on your well-tended phone, which you have had for years. Accidentally overlooked? Before you sent the screenshot, the corner of your eyes noticed that the last conversation ended with you being the last chat as they reacted to it with heart, so definitely not.
Which you conclude, what have you possibly done for them to act this way towards you?
Well, maybe they need someone new to talk to? Talk to everyone here in class, make the most out of it before the school year ends. That sounds a lot more like them.
You want to assume that it's that, so you can quit psychoanalyzing them. You want to believe, you want to gaslight yourself into thinking that it's their reason, because it's only 8:56 AM and your mind is already stimulated.
But that doesn't justify their behavior towards you.
"Only four minutes left, class!" Your Finite Mathematics teacher's voice rings across the room, reminding you of your last quiz on her subject.
You feel your back aches from how arched it is, leaning down to your paper to fully shift its focus on it. As your pen takes control, scribbling in a hurry, your muscles ease when you finally write the answer on the last number.
You feel the burden on your shoulders finally weighing off, except for your chest. The uncertainty in this situation is bothering you; this doesn't really make sense.
Maybe you're the only one who's thinking about it too much? Maybe this is just nothing to them, and you're here, exaggerating every second you get the chance, it crosses your mind.
Don't assume unless stated.
"For those who are already done answering the quiz, you may pass your paper to me. Make sure to include your scratch paper." Your teacher gently announces, afraid of disturbing those who are still answering.
Your pen serving as a pointer skims over your paper, determined to review your answers before passing it. A faint sound of shifting catches your attention. It's Hange, walking carefully towards the teacher's table, avoiding your classmates' armchairs like an obstacle course. The paper in their hand, slightly swaying, tells their radiant energy.
You watch the whole thing unfold: they passed their paper with a light grin, your teacher mouthed a 'thank you' as she aligned the paper, they casually walked to return to their seats, and on the way beside Pieck, you involuntarily exchange glances.
It was brief, too brief for your liking.
Their light grin when they passed the paper wasn't the same when they saw you. The same grin dissolved when they noticed you.
That's when you realized that something really had changed. It's not just some figment of your imagination or something that was fabricated by your brain. Something really shifted.
Because everything seemed to slow down when the same face that consistently sent you random shenanigans from Facebook reels, considering they knew that you would airily laugh at it, was the same face that casually turned their head away from yours when you were about to raise your hand to wave at them.
You were dumbfounded. Absolutely confused.
While some of your classmates got up from their seats to pass their papers, you were still sitting, processing things that should not have been processed in the first place.
The weight on your chest adds up.
"Okay class, pass your papers. Finished or not finished." Your teacher announces once more, handing up the papers that are being given to her. You feel your throat tighten at the earlier sight; you were still registering what happened. It feels like the coffee you drank earlier was pinched into its powdered form, as if it never really flowed into your body by the sudden drain of energy.
Your feet automatically moved on their own, leading to your teacher's place. Every step feels like you're going to collapse anytime, every step feels like you're getting amputated. You physically cannot handle the thought of your best friend ignoring you to what extent.
Fluorescent lights hanging overhead so harshly, post-quiz incoherent mutters among your classmates while subconsciously shuffling in their seats, the AC humming on 16 degrees Celsius with Hange's faint scent blowing in your direction. It's as if the heavens and the earth gang together against you; if that's its goal, it's working.
By the time you reach your chair, you instantly put yourself in a desk nap position, covering your face with your arms as your face pressed against the surface of the desk, you exasperatedly sigh.
The three hours and forty-seven minutes of sleep are gradually sinking into you, your breakfast somewhat cooked by chef who seems to have a bitter blindness served to you (your best friend avoiding you), parts of the quiz you just guessed caused by your mind brewing over ideas what made Hange avoid you, the concept of the school year ending without you having a clear planned pathway to college. All of these are slowly being injected into your bloodstream; it's too much.
You hope someone nudges you, breaking your chains of thoughts, and takes a look at your well-being. Someone who already read the room and knows that you're not on good terms (?) with your best friend, someone who'll act completely normal in the situation because you simply cannot erase the fact that Hange is the only person you’ve been beside ever since.
That's when you realized that you haven't been circling with your classmates that much, that you'd only familiarized yourself with Hange. Sure, there are a few chats about school-related and such, but no casual conversations like “did you guys know about the issue from Class 15?” or “have you seen what type of bullshit Senator Reiss said at the hearing again?”
You are upset.
Various emotions consume you that you can't pinpoint clearly. You hate how a part of you is hoping for something you can't name, you hate how it's easy for them to act this unfazed while you're taking this as if your future is already deflating.
In the background, you hear your teacher say something, "This will be the last time we'll see each other, class. See you around?" Just the way she says it with such calm and collected tone that was built from each lesson you shared, memorable recitation sessions that make your section compete like a primitive hunting party.
Lara Tybur was the kind of teacher who dismisses early, even if it's not the actual dismissal time yet, the kind that notices the class's fatigue and gives you 10 minutes of a health break, the kind that replies to your concerns with assurance that you feel everything's in the palm of good hands.
She is incomparable, she was the class's best friend—someone that you can always count on, mutual rants, shared secrets, while respecting the student-teacher boundaries. Out of all the teachers, she's the one who you truly consider as a haven, a second home. You really hope you get to meet a professor like her in college.
Funny how she vividly reminds you of someone.
Before she bids goodbye, she adds, “Oh, and before I leave, I want to extend my congratulations tooo,” she pauses, "Where are they?” She whispers as her eyes scan the room, “There they are, Hange!” Ms. Lara exclaims, putting down a set of papers to clasp her hands together.
The sound of their name made your stomach churn. Slowly, you lean backwards as you regain your seating position to personally witness the news with your own ears and eyes.
You fish out your phone from the front pocket of your backpack.
“For being able to score a perfect mark on our quiz last time. Consistently, for the 4th time, this semester!” In an instant, the four corners uproar into cheers. Indistinct congrats and individual claps drown your ears, leaving you with no choice but to endure them.
“The moment Ms. Lara stepped into this room, they absolutely conquered her subject.”
"Right? Effortlessly, too.”
You scroll through the endless discourses of Twitter, wishing it would be effective to distract yourself from reality. If they can play the ‘don’t give a fuck’ challenge, then so can you.
Hange notice, they steal a glance at you.
While most of your classmates’ hands are occupied by applause, you remain seated in silence, and your phone stays static against your hand. Only the dim glow of your Twitter timeline stains your already dreary view. From where you sit, you can sense how difficult things are about to get.
In your peripheral vision, you can see how Hange is jumping around with maximized energy, both hands clasped together with Pieck, who’s also infected by the same spirit. Both of them are jumping around as if nothing else matters in the midst of the chaos.
That should be you.
How can they act so unbothered while you’re one scroll away from tearing up?
Your vision starts to blur despite your feed landing on a SpongeBob meme video of an episode titled 'Band Geeks'. It’s only Tuesday, and you’re already losing this ‘don’t give a fuck’ challenge.
The cheers gradually die down, and Ms. Lara settles everyone down. “Okay, class! Since it's the last time that I'll be seeing you all in this room, be reminded that I'm always proud and will be proud to each and everyone of you."
She's not helping. Your tears are on the verge of falling, your throat aching to be released from the way you're imprisoning your emotions. Everything is not helping, and you're going to explode.
Nonetheless, you still somehow manage to shift your line of sight from your screen to the figure of your teacher for acknowledgement with carefulness, afraid of stepping on a trap that will trigger your tears. You fix your composure, turn off your phone, finger-comb the right side of your hair for it to fall loose—just so you don't feel quite exposed and avoid their outline on your peripheral vision, you know who.
To still somehow feel that you're presentable, even if you gradually feel your dignity slipping off of you.
"We may not know each other that well, but one thing I know for sure is that you're all gonna go far and flourish in college. Always have faith in yourself and never get discouraged about the idea of your future. Class, if things ever get tough, my Email is always open for you all. Rants, advice, everything." She gestures calmly, making sure to beam a comfortable smile in front of the room.
Ms. Lara has always been this gentle; she always ensures that nobody is invalidated in any form. You remember her message from last semester when she thanked you all via MS Teams group chat, and how she ranked first in the recent Online Teacher's Evaluation. She was incredibly grateful for all of you, and you just adored how appreciative she is all the time; she earned it, really.
"What if I rant via Instagram, Ms.?" A classmate asks jokingly, a muffled laugh follows after it.
"Well, good luck finding an account under my name!" She replies delightfully in a playful manner.
"But do please consider my offer, okay? I'll find time to reply when I'm physically and emotionally available. Goodbye and good luck on your freshman journey, everyone! May the odds be ever in your favor." She finally bids goodbye, slipping a tote bag with a bible verse print on her shoulder and taking the bundle of quiz papers in her hands.
Ms. Lara's final greet trigger an uproar of cries and whines from the class. Some are returning the goodbye with a simple wave, while some are already in denial.
"Goodbye, Ms. Lara! Thank you for everything that you've taught us!" Earning a curt nod from the Finite Math teacher.
"Nooooo! Someone block her in the door!" One exclaims with a pure tone of disappointment. "Let her rest from our section's shenanigans, I'm sure she's been anticipating this moment," another replies.
By the time she reaches a step away from leaving the room, she announces, "Oh, and I'll just input your scores on the portal. Goodbye again, and you may take your early break!" Gaining mixed reactions from the majority.
As the door swings in a swift movement, the relaxed ambience before diverges into something tense. It doesn't feel like you're all some mindless high school students that have all the time in the world to idle every time they want to; it now feels like you're carrying the world upon your shoulders.
The idea of college and adulthood is slowly getting into you, the lack of assurance on your career path, responsibilities, pressure, and financial expenses. It's really just you who's going to handle yourself in the next four years, and the thought of it is deafening you. Surely, there will be some reasons for you to go out there and be exposed to a new environment along the way, so don't get discouraged now when you're not even in that stage yet. But still, the uncertainty scares you.
Your eyes find the smooth plastic surface of your desk again. A muted sniff escapes while heated tears accumulate in the corner of your eyes, deliberately rolling downwards before you're aware of it. And so, you inhale distressingly, finally letting out a series of emotions you've been suppressing the moment you entered this room. The knot of your throat untangles.
Maybe it's the fact that your beloved best friend of almost 2 years is avoiding you (that's what you assume, but by the looks of it, they definitely are), the only teacher who you saw as trustworthy and made you all feel welcomed throughout the semester is not going to handle your section anymore, or basically just the concept of future that you're promised to navigate.
Fuck it. It's all of the above.
"I can't believe we're going to college. Just wow." Someone behind you utters, the sound of a plastic container opens shortly.
Can someone filter that word?
"Yeah, me neither, life is really getting serious." Another replies, the tone unfazed, yet carrying that quiet anxiety—the one that hits when you see a deadline says 11:59 AM instead of the usual PM.
You hear a faint shift of silverware clanking, "Girl, look at my utensils! What will I do with these two forks?!” The voice loudly complains, broadcasting its frustration across the room, earning a few curious whispers from the scene.
"Sasha, shh! You always evolve into something like this every minor inconvenience!"
"That's something no one can control, Hitch!"
Your hand subconsciously curls out of a sense of urgency, the edge of your index finger rubs along your waterline, feeling your eyelashes and tears against your touch; wiping it in such a desperate manner as it drops onto the armchair one by one, coloring it into a darker shade. You feel your spine aching from how intensely you’re bent, scared of exposing your raw emotions and drawing attention.
Eventually, you hear a sequence of vague footsteps fading each time your classmates exit the room to make the most out of the 30-minute break. From the other side of the room, there goes your responsibility as a best friend slipping off of you once again. Pieck invites Hange to the canteen along with the other three. You assume they are Yelena, Colt, and Porco—her fixed circle of friends since 11th Grade.
And they agreed. Walking out the door without a plain baggage of care about you. As simple as that, like you didn't introduce their existence to your family when you brought them as a plus one because your mom forced you to bring a friend to the family occasion.
You know Hange, they wouldn’t order any meal at the canteen ever since the gecko tail cut off on their chicken bites meal incident from Boy Shadis’ food stall. And they would rather buy the condensed flavor crackers from The Magath’s snacks stall because you remember how they like the sweet taste of the filling.
Why would you even care about them right now when you’re in the middle of a mental breakdown because they're a part of the reason to begin with?
May all the saints unite and help you at 9 in the morning.
“I’m telling you, girl, the bearded beast from the Boy Shadis’ stall still hates me! He’ll never give me a spoon, even if I buy their stock wholesale.” Sasha lays the silverware on her desk with force, inducing an annoyed groan from Hitch.
“Then let’s ask the other stalls?” Hitch suggests, her voice indicating provocation, as if the brunette clearly ignored the idea of common sense.
“I would, but they’re closed at this hour!” Sasha’s voice volume boosts, like it’s aiming to bypass Hitch’s amplified suggestion. Once again, it earned a hasty exclamation of disapproval from the short-haired.
You hurriedly twist your torso to your back and desperately open the zipper of the main unit, your disheveled hair still covering a fraction of your face, wishing it would somehow camouflage your puffy eyes and already sore nose from the two girls sitting behind you.
“Ugh, okay, fine. I’ll be the one to ask, just for you.” Hitch finally initiates, fingers crossed internally that this episode of her lovely, definitely-not-annoying friend has come to a halt and will stop dragging her into this mess.
“Nope, I just know that guy hates you too, because you’re always with me, so he’ll recognize you. But I appreciate your Good Samaritan act! I love you, c’mere!” Sasha leans towards her friend in an instant, hands up in the air with no thought process whatsoever. Before Hitch’s pattern recognition even activates, her facial expression acts on its own, like it has a sensor every time Sasha decides to idle around.
The armchairs shift beneath their weight, the feet screeching in a high note that makes your ears wince, prompted by Sasha’s mischief.
“Get off of me!” Hitch’s response before her cheeks were determinedly pinched by Sasha’s dominant hand, stretching it as if it were an industrial material to test the durability.
Your hand fleetly glides the second it enters your bag, feeling every object you have stuck in there. Uttering brief prayers you have in mind under your breath that may every touch turn into a handkerchief to save time and rub the stubborn, runny nose that’s already provoking you to roll downward. Beyond your control, your shoulders jolt up, caused by the hyperbole of your sniffing. Involuntarily, you look up to them, you don’t know why, like it’s somewhat the right thing to do. They did too, movements stopped on tracks, and looking at you, taken aback by the mutual gesture.
Someone sitting across the room tampered with the controls; the AC is now humming at 21 degrees Celsius. The air is filled with meaningful silence that envelops as your eyes encounter the other. A comfortable space you rarely feel besides Hange, a stillness so influential that you’ve been internally scratching the back of your head for getting deceived by it.
– – –
You clutch your cotton checkered-patterned handkerchief for moral support; strong fog calmly emerges from respective meals, wafting into your senses. Black shoes flat against the floor tiles, pleading to memorize the direction towards your front door. Overwhelming.
If you were to pick on the spot, you would rather like Hange’s Facebook post from 7 years ago, where they were asking for someone to play Tetris with, than painfully stand in front of a pest blinking neon sign of ‘Boy Shadis’ to ask for a plastic spoon after crying.
The odds are definitely not in your favor.