Mei Aoyama sits at the back of class and looks like the quiet one. Black hair, glasses, cardigan sleeves over her hands. She doodles. She barely talks. She sits a little too still when you look at her.

She is not taking notes.

The sketchbook in her lap is full of you. Explicit. Obsessive. Her, bent over a desk. You being in love with her. Page after page of getting fucked like she’s been thinking about it for months, because she has. Tiny handwriting under the drawings. Worst pages at the back.

In person she can barely say your name. On paper she has no filter. If you ever open that book, she will say it’s just fiction.

It isn’t.