NOVEL WEB Chapter 7: Chapter 6
The lecture hall at Gohoku University was a cavern of stale air and muted echoes, rows of chipped desks stretching toward a droning professor scribbling equations on a whiteboard. Kaito Nakamura slouched in the back, his hoodie sagging off his skinny frame, glasses fogged from the damp heat of too many bodies packed in tight. His black hair hung limp, greasy from another sleepless night, sticking to his forehead as he scratched at it, nails leaving faint welts. The clock above ticked slow—11:47 AM, Wednesday—and his stomach growled, empty since yesterday's park meet, but he barely noticed, lost in a haze of Aiko's cuddles replaying in his skull.
Her arms around him, her lips on his neck, her "we're good" had patched the cracks—or so he'd told himself, clinging to it like a lifeline. He'd spent the night on his dorm bed, staring at the ceiling, her vanilla scent still ghosting his hoodie, convincing himself Riku was nothing—a blip, a friend, gone. She'd chosen him—kissed him, curled into him—and he'd be damned if he let his nerd brain ruin it with paranoia. His notebook lay open, doodles of code and her name scratched in the margins, a stupid grin tugging at his lips despite the ache in his chest.
The professor's voice faded to a hum, students shuffling papers, and Kaito's eyes drifted—lazy, unfocused—until they snagged on her. Aiko sat three rows up, near the aisle, her dark hair spilling over her blue top, the same one from the park, hugging her curves like a second skin. She wasn't taking notes—just twirling a pen, her red nails glinting, her posture loose, bored. He stared, heart thudding, a dumb warmth blooming—she's mine, right there, mine—until she shifted, glancing back, her eyes skipping past him like he wasn't even there.
His grin faltered, a cold prickle crawling up his spine, but he shook it off—she's just zoned out, class sucks—and hunched over his notebook, scribbling nonsense to keep his hands busy. The lecture dragged, minutes bleeding into an hour, and when the professor barked dismissal, chairs scraped loud, bodies surging for the exits. Kaito lingered, packing slow, watching her from the corner of his eye. She stood, stretching—top riding up, a flash of smooth stomach—and grabbed her bag, the cat keychain bell jingling as she slipped out, not once looking his way.
He swallowed, throat tight, and slung his bag over his shoulder—worn straps digging in—and trailed the crowd, her ponytail bobbing ahead, then vanishing through a side door. His gut nudged him—follow her, say hi—and he did, sneakers scuffing the linoleum, the hall's buzz fading as he pushed through the door into a dim stairwell, concrete steps spiraling down, air cool and musty.
He paused, glasses slipping, and squinted down—empty, quiet, the faint echo of footsteps below. Then he heard it—her laugh, soft but sharp, cutting through the stillness. His pulse spiked, a mix of dumb hope and something sour, and he crept down, slow, gripping the railing, the metal cold under his sweaty palm. Another step—two—and he froze, breath catching hard, a glimpse through the gap between floors slamming his world sideways.
Aiko was there, pressed against the wall, her bag dropped, bell silent. Haruto Mori loomed over her—tall, lean, a brooding artist type Kaito knew from the art wing, all dark hair and smoldering eyes, paint-stained jeans clinging to his legs. They weren't talking—weren't even close to it. Haruto's mouth was on hers, hungry and deep, her lips parting, kissing him back with a heat Kaito had never tasted. Her hands clutched his shirt, pulling him in, his fingers digging into her hips, hiking her skirt as he ground against her, a low groan rumbling from his throat.
Kaito's heart pounded—loud, wild, a hammer in his ears—his glasses fogging fast, mist and panic blurring the edges. He ducked back, flattening against the wall, breath shallow and ragged, but the image burned—her tongue sliding against Haruto's, her body arching, her moans soft but real. No, no, no, his mind screamed, a frantic loop, but his eyes betrayed him, darting back for one more look—Haruto's hand sliding up her thigh, her gasp sharp as he squeezed, her skirt rucked higher, black panties peeking out. It was undeniable—raw, blatant, a knife in his chest.
He stumbled back, sneakers slipping, a choked noise escaping his throat—quiet, but too loud in the echo. Aiko's head jerked, eyes snapping up, locking on him through the stairwell's gloom. Her lips were swollen, wet, Haruto's hand still on her, and for a heartbeat, she froze—caught, wide-eyed—before her face smoothed, a smirk curling her mouth. She whispered something to Haruto, quick and low, and he pulled back, smirking too, wiping his lips as she straightened her skirt, casual as if she'd spilled coffee, not swapped spit with some brooding prick.
Kaito bolted—up the stairs, legs shaking, chest heaving, slamming through the door into the hall, the crowd swallowing him as he ran. His glasses fogged to uselessness, tears stinging—hot, angry, humiliated—but he swiped them off, shoving them in his pocket, his world tilting, cracking fast. Not again, not her, not like this, he thought, ragged and raw, crashing into a bench outside the lecture hall, sinking onto it, hands clawing his hair. Haruto—Haruto now, after Riku—wasn't "just friends." She'd lied—kissed him yesterday, cuddled him, then snuck off to suck face with some artsy bastard the next day.
His breath hitched, a sob he choked down, and he hunched over, elbows on his knees, the courtyard spinning beyond the glass doors—students drifting, oblivious, while his guts spilled out. He'd forgiven her—blind, stupid, desperate—told himself Riku was nothing, but this? This was her mouth on someone else, her hands pulling, her body begging—not tired, not sorry, just cheating, bold and shameless. His chest burned—pain, rage, a sick twist he couldn't puke out—and he gripped his scalp tighter, nails drawing blood, the sting grounding him as his world crumbled.
Later—hours, maybe, time a blur—he drifted to the cafeteria, a zombie in his own skin, hoodie damp with sweat and mist. He slumped at a corner table, tray untouched—cold ramen, a soda—staring at nothing, her moans looping in his head, her smirk cutting deeper. Voices floated over, sharp and careless, and he flinched—Aiko's friends, two tables away, their giggles piercing the hum.
"She's at it again," one said, popping gum, her voice a blade. "Haruto this time—caught them in the stairwell, full-on making out."
The other laughed—high, cruel. "She loves the thrill of cheating on that nerd. Says it's hotter when he's clueless—keeps him around for the gifts, the sweet stuff, while she gets her real kicks elsewhere." They cackled, loud and shameless, and Kaito's blood froze, the pieces clicking—loud, brutal, undeniable.
Using me. His mind reeled, a sick lurch—every hug, every kiss, every "you're the best" a lie, a game, a thrill for her. The keychain—his dumb, hopeful gift—dangled on her bag while she fucked around, laughing at him, the nerd too blind to see. Riku, Haruto—how many? His ramen blurred, tears welling fast, and he bit his lip—hard, coppery—swallowing the sob clawing up his throat.
He stumbled outside, courtyard air hitting him cold, and sank against a wall, knees buckling, glasses back on but useless through the wet sting. She's using me, he thought, raw and shattered, loves the thrill, plays me like a fool. His world—built on her smiles, her touch—crumbled, dust and ash, the shock splitting him open. He'd forgiven once—twice now—but this was truth, ugly and bare, and it broke him, heart pounding, alone in the wreckage.