"Tomorrow after school. Be ready."
Sakura Yamato's words echoed in my head louder than the frantic beating of my own heart. Tomorrow. As in, less than twenty-four hours away. The reality of what I'd agreed to hit me like a runaway train. Pretending to date the most popular girl in school, starting with a public hand-holding demonstration at the school gate. The sheer audacity of it made my palms sweat just thinking about it.
After Sakura-san left the clubroom, radiating an almost manic energy about 'strategy' and 'project visibility,' Kenji finally recovered from his state of shock.
"Hiroshi," he said, his voice hushed, like we were discussing a top-secret government conspiracy. "Are you insane?"
"Probably," I mumbled, picking up my neglected copy of Botchan. It felt oddly heavy.
"You're going to pretend to date Sakura Yamato? The Sakura Yamato? What if someone finds out? What if it goes wrong? Your quiet, normal life is about to be bulldozed, paved over, and turned into a theme park of public humiliation!"
"Thanks for the visual, Kenji," I sighed, running a hand through my already messy hair. "Look, it's for the club. Her grandmother founded it. It means something to her. And... I don't know. It's already decided."
Kenji stared at me for a long moment, then unexpectedly clapped me on the shoulder, hard enough to make me wince. "Alright. Alright. You're doing this for the club. And maybe for the sheer, unadulterated madness of it. As your best friend, it is my duty to witness this train wreck up close. And possibly document it for future generations." He pulled out his phone, a mischievous glint in his eye.
"Don't you dare, Kenji," I warned, though I knew resisting him was pointless.
Yuki Nakamura chose that moment to finally speak, her voice quiet but clear, cutting through Kenji's theatrics. "Fake relationships require consistent narratives. Avoid contradictory statements. Coordinate public appearances."
Kenji and I both stared at her. She was still looking out the window.
"Right," Kenji said slowly. "Notes taken, Nakamura-san. Thanks for the... strategic advice."
Yuki simply hummed in response. The two first-years were still too bewildered to contribute, probably questioning their life choices that led them to the Classic Literature & Film Society.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of anxiety. Every time I saw Sakura-san in the hallway (which was often, she seemed to be everywhere important), my heart leaped into my throat. She'd give me a small, almost imperceptible nod or a tiny smile that nobody else seemed to notice. To the rest of the school, she was just the radiant Sakura Yamato. To me, she was the co-conspirator in the most terrifying plan of my life.
Sleep that night was fragmented. My dreams were a chaotic mix of holding hands with a cardboard cutout of Sakura-san, being chased by angry club advisors wielding disbandment papers, and Kenji commentating on my failures with a megaphone.
The next day felt interminable. Classes crawled by. Every time someone looked in my general direction, I wondered if they already knew, if the news had somehow leaked telepathically. Of course, nobody knew. I was still Hiroshi Tanaka, average second-year. The world hadn't changed yet.
But it was about to.
Finally, the last bell rang. The familiar sound of students packing up, chairs scraping, and the general joyful chaos of the end of the school day filled the air. My stomach twisted into knots. This was it. Zero hour.
I made my way slowly towards the school gate, trying to look casual, like I didn't have a secret rendezvous with a school idol to stage a fake public display of affection. Kenji walked beside me, offering mostly unhelpful commentary.
"Okay, remember the plan? Casual but noticeable. Romantic, but not too much. Like you just couldn't wait another second to hold her hand," he whispered, grinning.
"Shut up, Kenji," I muttered, scanning the crowds of students pouring out of the main building.
And then I saw her.
Sakura-san was standing slightly to the side of the main flow of traffic near the gate, talking briefly to a couple of girls who were likely her friends. Even from a distance, she looked perfect – her uniform neat, her hair falling just right, her smile effortless as she said goodbye to them.
She glanced up, her eyes meeting mine across the sea of students. Her smile didn't waver, but I saw a different emotion flash in her eyes – determination mixed with a flicker of something that looked a lot like nervousness. She felt it too.
She finished her conversation and started walking towards me. My palms were definitely sweating now. I subtly tried wiping them on my trousers.
As she got closer, the natural ebb and flow of students around the gate seemed to slow down. More eyes were drifting towards her. Then towards her, and the incredibly average guy she was walking towards. Whispers started, like a ripple effect.
"Is that Yamato-san?" "Who's she going to?" "Is that... Tanaka?" "Tanaka?" "Why is Yamato-san walking towards Tanaka?"
The whispers were soft, but in the sudden, focused silence around our immediate area, they sounded deafening to me. I felt a blush creeping up my neck.
Sakura-san reached me. She offered me that small, genuine smile again, the one I'd only seen in the clubroom. Up close, I could see the faint tension around her eyes.
"Tanaka-kun," she said, her voice calm despite the surrounding buzz.
"Yamato-san," I replied, trying to keep my voice from cracking.
There was a brief, pregnant pause. The air crackled with unspoken expectation. All those eyes were on us. Waiting.
This was the moment. The Handshake of Doom.
She extended her right hand, her fingers slim and elegant. My own hand felt clumsy, sweaty, and ridiculously large by comparison. Hesitantly, I raised my hand to meet hers.
Our fingers touched. There was a brief, awkward fumbling as we both adjusted, trying to figure out how hands were supposed to fit together naturally when you were consciously trying to hold them. My thumb felt weird. Her palm was soft.
And then our hands linked.
It was just holding hands. Millions of people did it every day. But with the weight of our secret plan, the eyes of the entire school (or at least, the significant portion exiting the gate), and the sheer surrealness of whose hand I was holding... it felt monumental. Earth-shattering.
A collective gasp swept through the nearby crowd. The whispers intensified immediately.
"They're holding hands!" "Yamato-san and Tanaka-kun?!" "Since when?" "No way!"
I kept my eyes focused forward, trying to project an aura of casual boyfriend confidence, which was about as convincing as a paper umbrella in a hurricane. My face felt hot enough to melt asphalt. I could feel the tremors of suppressed shock and gossip rippling through the air.
Sakura-san didn't look at the crowd. She kept her gaze focused ahead, a small, private smile on her face. Her grip on my hand was firm, reassuring, almost as if she was lending me some of her own composure.
We started walking, a slow, deliberate pace towards the school gate. Every step felt like navigating a minefield of curious stares.
As we reached the gate, a familiar voice cut through the buzz.
"Hiroshi! Yamato-san! Hey!"
My stomach plummeted. It was Kenji, jogging up to us, trying (and failing) to look casual. Beside him was Aiko Sato, my childhood friend, her cheerful expression replaced by one of absolute, wide-eyed astonishment.
"Kenji! Aiko!" I mentally screamed. This was not part of the plan! Kenji knew, but Aiko didn't!
Sakura-san's grip on my hand tightened almost imperceptibly. She maintained her serene smile.
"Sato-kun, Aiko-san," she greeted them politely, her voice calm.
Aiko just stared at our joined hands, her mouth slightly open. "Hiroshi... your hand... Yamato-san's hand..."
Kenji, bless his dramatic soul, stepped forward, a grin fighting its way onto his face despite the shock in his eyes. "Well, look at you two! Walking home together? Holding hands? Guess the news is true, huh?" He winked at me, a clear signal that he was going to play along, but his eyes were asking a million questions.
Aiko's head snapped to Kenji. "News? What news?!"
This was going to be a long walk home. Or, well, a long few weeks. Or months.
What had I gotten myself into? Again.