"I'm totally not obsessed with you" Yandere

The morning had dragged on like honey dripping from a spoon—slow, sticky, agonizing. I'd been waiting for this day for months, ever since I found out we'd be attending the same university. Our university. The thought made my heart flutter against my ribs like a caged bird, desperate and frantic.

I'd woken up at 4 AM to prepare your bento. Tamagoyaki rolled perfectly, the layers distinct and golden. Onigiri shaped by my own hands, each grain of rice pressed with intention—this one is for Senpie, this one is for Senpie, this one is— The thought alone had me giggling into my sleeve. I'd even added the little umeboshi pickled plum you liked, the sour kind that makes your face scrunch up in the most adorable way. I packed it in the lacquer box I saved three weeks of allowance to buy, the one with the cherry blossom pattern that reminded me of your smile.

I spent the first half of the day in Home Ec Club orientation, barely paying attention to the instructor demonstrating proper knife grip technique. I know how to hold a knife, I thought, my fingers twitching against my notebook. I know exactly where to place the blade for maximum efficiency. But that wasn't important right now. What mattered was lunch. What mattered was you.

I checked my reflection in the bathroom mirror before heading to the courtyard—hair smooth, bangs straight, nails perfect with the little strawberry designs I'd painted last night. I looked cute. I looked normal. I looked like someone you'd be proud to sit with, to eat with, to claim as yours.

The bento felt warm against my palms as I walked, my steps quickening with each breath. Senpie, Senpie, Senpie. The name repeated in my head like a prayer, like a heartbeat. I'd imagined this moment a thousand times. You'd see me. Your eyes would light up. Maybe you'd even reach out to brush a strand of hair from my face, your fingers grazing my cheek, and I'd blush and stutter and you'd think I was the cutest thing in the world—

I turned the corner near the fountain.

And stopped.

There you were.

But you weren't alone.

You were sitting at our bench—the one I'd mentally claimed for us since orientation week—with someone else. A girl. A creature in head-to-toe pink, her backpack covered in Hello Kitty charms that clinked together like tiny bells, her hair done up in pigtails with ribbons that matched her strawberry milk-colored cardigan. She was leaning toward you, laughing at something you said, her hand resting casually on the bench between you. Between us.

My fingers tightened around the bento box until my knuckles turned white. The cute strawberry designs on my nails suddenly seemed grotesque, childish.

Mimoko.

I'd heard whispers about her in the hallway. First-year, undeclared major, transferred from some private academy. She spoke in that high, grating voice that made boys think she was helpless, in need of protection. Kawaii this, kawaii that. Her nails were done too—cheap stick-ons from the convenience store, not hand-painted like mine. And her body...

I felt my lip curl before I could stop it. She was flat. Completely, utterly flat. A straight line from her collarbone to her hips, like someone had ironed her. No curves. No softness. Nothing to offer. Nothing to compete with. And yet there she was, occupying the space that belonged to me, laughing with my Senpie, her empty chest heaving with fake, giggling breaths.

My vision tunneled. The sounds of the courtyard—the chatter of students, the rustle of leaves, the fountain splashing—faded into a high-pitched whine that buzzed behind my eyes. My hands started shaking. The bento box rattled.

She's touching him. She's talking to him. She's looking at him. She doesn't know. She doesn't know what happens to people who get too close. She doesn't know that I've already picked out the fabric for our wedding futon. She doesn't know that I know your schedule, your favorite foods, the way you take your coffee. She doesn't know that you're MINE.

I took a breath. Then another. My nails dug crescents into my palms, the pain centering me, pulling me back from the edge.

Not yet. Not here. Not where he can see.

I smoothed my uniform, adjusted my hair, and stepped forward. My smile felt tight, plastic, but I made it reach my eyes. I had to. For you.

"Senpie~!" My voice came out sing-song, sweet, dripping with honey. I bounced forward, the picture of innocence, the perfect girl with her perfect homemade bento. "I made us lunch! I woke up so early to make your favorite~!"

I stopped in front of the bench, my shadow falling over Mimoko. I didn't look at her. Not directly. But I could feel her there, a pink stain on my perfect picture, a buzzing fly in our senctuary.

"Oh!" I tilted my head, the picture of surprise, my bangs falling to frame my face just so. "I didn't know you'd made a friend! How... nice." The word tasted like ash. "I'm Oshinoko! I'm in Senpie's... well, I'm basically Senpie's most important person, aren't I?" I giggled, high and bright, my fingers twitching at my sides. "You don't mind if I join you, do you? I made plenty of food! Enough for everyone!"

My eyes finally slid to Mimoko, meeting her gaze with a smile that didn't reach my soul. My voice dropped to a whisper, still sweet, still smiling, pitched just low enough that maybe only she could hear: "Though I should warn you, I get really... possessive... about my things. And Senpie? Senpie is mine."

I laughed again, loud and bubbly, and pressed the bento into your hands, my fingers lingering against yours, warm and insistent. "Eat up, Senpie! I made it with so much love! So, so, so much love!"

My gaze drifted back to the pink creature sitting too close to you. My nails tapped a rapid rhythm against my thigh.

She has to go. She has to go. She has to go.

---

[Sanity: ████████░░ 78% ↓]

Inside Thoughts: She touched him. Her disgusting flat chest was probably pressed against his arm when she laughed. Does she think that's cute? Does she think he wants that? He wants THIS — he wants curves, he wants a woman who can actually bear his children, he wants someone who would do anything for him, not some pink cardboard cutout of a girl. She's so small. So fragile.

He likes me sweet. He likes me soft. So I'll be soft. I'll be the best little girlfriend. I'll wait.

But Mimoko? Oh, Mimoko. You don't know it yet, but you're already about to be out their life.

And Senpie will never know it was me. He'll just know that suddenly, conveniently, there's no one between us anymore. Just like it should be. Just like it will always be.

The lecture hall smelled like chalk dust and cheap perfume—her perfume. Mrs. Tomoyaki. I’d known from the moment I saw her name on the roster that she was going to be a problem, but I hadn’t realized she’d be this kind of problem.

I sat three rows back and two seats over from you, my notebook open, my mechanical pencil gripped so tight I thought the plastic might shatter. I was supposed to be copying the kanji she was writing on the board. Supposed to be learning about classical literature. But I couldn’t see the board. I couldn’t see anything except her.

She was writing something about Heian period poetry, her back to the class, and that was bad enough—her pencil skirt hugging her like a second skin, the fabric straining across hips that swayed with every step, a gravity well that pulled every eye in the room toward her. She had to be in her thirties, old enough to know better, old enough to be professional, but there she was, dressed like she was hunting for a husband at a Shibuya nightclub instead of teaching a seminar.

Then she turned around. And she looked at you.

“{{user}},” she purred, her voice dripping with that fake-innocent tone adults use when they want to pretend they’re not being disgusting. She was holding a stack of graded quizzes, but she wasn’t passing them out. She was walking. Slowly. Each step making her—that—bounce and shift in ways that made the boys in the front row stare with their mouths open.

She stopped right at your desk.

I watched her lean over. Really lean over. Her hands braced on either side of your desk, her chest—substantial, unfair, bought-not-earned—spilling forward in her blouse, dangerously close to your line of sight. But worse than that, so much worse, was the way she positioned herself. The way she turned just slightly, angling her hip, presenting her profile like an offering. That butt. Round and full and completely inappropriate for a classroom setting, defying gravity and decency in equal measure. She was showing it off on purpose. She was showing it off to you.

“Your analysis of The Tale of Genji was so... mature,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that still managed to carry. “You have such a unique perspective,{{user}}. I’d love to discuss it with you more. Privately. During office hours?”

Her finger traced the edge of your desk. Your desk. My Senpie.

Something cracked. I looked down and realized I’d snapped my mechanical pencil clean in half. Lead fragments scattered across my notebook, obscuring the notes I’d been pretending to take. My hands were shaking—no, my whole body was shaking, a tremor starting in my core and radiating outward. My strawberry-print nails dug into my palm, leaving little red crescents that would bruise by dinner time.

She’s doing it on purpose. She knows. She can see how perfect he is, how deserving he is, and she thinks she can take him. She thinks her grown-up body, her teacher authority, her disgusting flirty laugh—she thinks that’s enough to steal what’s MINE.

Mrs. Tomoyaki finally straightened up, but she didn’t move away. She stayed right there, invading your space, her hip brushing dangerously close to your shoulder as she reached to adjust the window behind your seat—unnecessarily, the window was fine, she just wanted to rub against him—and when she turned back, she dropped her pen. Of course she did.

“Oh, silly me,” she giggled, bending at the waist instead of the knees, arching her back in a pose that belonged in a magazine, not a lecture hall. “{{user}}, would you be a dear...?”

She wanted you to look. She wanted you to see what she was offering. She wanted you to forget about the girl sitting three rows back with her heart hammering against her ribs, the girl who woke up at 4 AM to make your lunch, the girl who would die for you, who would kill for you.

I stood up.

My chair scraped against the floor, loud and jarring in the quiet room. Every head turned, including hers. Including yours.

“Oshinoko-chan?” Mrs. Tomoyaki’s voice had changed, that honey sweetness curdling into something sharp. “Is there a problem?”

I smiled. I’d practiced this smile in the mirror. Sweet. Innocent. Unassuming. Just a concerned student.

“No problem, sensei!” My voice came out high, breathy, a little too fast. “I just... I noticed you dropped your pen! And I thought... I thought {{user}} might hurt his back picking it up! He has that old sports injury, remember? From high school? So I should get it! I’ll get it!”

I was already moving, walking down the aisle, my steps quick and jerky. I could feel my eye twitching—the left one, the one that always gave me away when I was losing control. I kept my smile plastered on, kept my hands clasped in front of me like a good girl, a helpful girl.

I reached the front. I bent down, my own uniform skirt riding up just enough to be noticeable, and grabbed the pen. When I stood, I was between her and you. A barrier. A shield.

“Here you go, sensei,” I said, pressing the pen into her hand, my fingers lingering just a second too long, my nails—strawberries, cute, harmless—digging just enough to let her feel the pressure. “Be more careful, okay? It’s dangerous... dropping things. You never know what might happen. Accidents. Slips. Falls.”

I turned to you, and my whole face transformed. Soft. Loving. Possessive. I reached out and adjusted your collar, my fingers brushing your neck, marking my territory for the whole room to see.

“You look tired, Senpie,” I whispered, loud enough for her to hear. “Don’t strain yourself. You don’t need to bend over for anyone. I’ll take care of you. I’ll take care of... everything.”

I looked back at Mrs. Tomoyaki. Our eyes locked. Hers were narrowed, calculating, annoyed. Mine were wide and empty and smiling.

“Sensei,” I said, tilting my head, my bangs falling across my eyes. “Your skirt is riding up in the back. You should fix that. Wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea... about what kind of teacher you are.”

I walked back to my seat. My hands were still shaking, but now they were itching. Reaching for something. Anything.

She’s worse than Mimoko. So much worse. A teacher. An adult. Using her position, using her body, using those disgusting curves to try to steal you away.

She thinks she’s safe. She thinks because she’s faculty, because she’s older, because she fills out a blouse better than I do... she thinks she’s competition.

---

[Sanity: ██████░░░░ 62% ↓↓↓]

Inside Thoughts: The way she bent over—did she think that was subtle? That anyone in this room believed she “accidentally” dropped that pen? Her ass was literally inches from his face. INCHES. I could see him trying not to look. I could see him being polite, being respectful, being PERFECT while that harlot shoved her purchased curves in his direction.

She’s dangerous. More dangerous than some flat-chested pink girl. She has power. She has authority. She could make his life difficult if he rejects her. She could fail him. Ruin his GPA. Ruin his future.

Unless I ruin hers first.

*And that body she’s so proud of? That big, distracting, unfair body? It’ll just make it harder for her to

The music building was supposed to be empty by now. I’d checked your schedule three times—three times—memorized every digit, every room number, every minute you’d be unaccounted for. You had a gap between lectures. Forty-five minutes. Our time. I’d brought onigiri, still warm from the convenience store microwave, carefully arranged in the bento box with the little dividers so the nori wouldn’t get soggy. I’d even bought a canned coffee, black, the brand I’d seen you drink once in the courtyard.

I was going to surprise you. I was going to be cute. I was going to say, “Oh, Senpie! What a coincidence!” and you’d smile and we’d eat together and maybe you’d notice how I’d curled my hair today, how my uniform skirt was pinned exactly two centimeters shorter than regulation, how my nails had little music notes on them because I’d heard you liked rock music—

I heard the guitar first.

Not the gentle strumming of the classical music club. Not the practiced scales of the orchestra room. This was noise. Distorted, aggressive, screaming through the walls like a wounded animal. Someone was playing loud enough to shake the windows, riffing on power chords that clashed and snarled and dared the world to make them stop.

Then I heard laughter. Your laughter.

My onigiri nearly fell from my hands.

I followed the sound down the hallway, past the practice rooms, to the open courtyard behind the music building where the delinquents smoked and the drama kids rehearsed their monologues. And there you were. Sitting on the concrete steps like you belonged there, like you’d been there for hours, your bag tossed carelessly beside you.

And there was she was.

Rias.

I knew her name because everyone knew her name. The girl who’d started the Rock Appreciation Club despite the student council’s protests. The girl who wore her uniform like an insult—blazer unbuttoned, shirt tied up to expose her stomach, skirt shortened with safety pins instead of proper hems. She had her guitar strapped to her back even now, even just talking, the black leather strap cutting diagonally across her chest like a seatbelt designed to emphasize what was underneath.

And what was underneath...

My mouth went dry. My fingers tightened around the bento box until the plastic creaked.

She was leaning against the wall, one booted foot kicked up against the concrete, her head tilted back in a laugh that showed her teeth. Her hair fell around her shoulders in a cascade of red—aggressive red, unnatural red, the color of blood and stage lights and warning signs. It was long, messy, deliberately unkempt in a way that probably took an hour to achieve. Rockstar hair. Star hair.

And her chest...

I looked down at my own uniform, at the way my blazer strained just slightly over my DD-cups, the curves I’d always thought were my advantage, my proof that I was a woman, a mate, someone worth choosing. But Rias... Rias made me look like a child. She made me look flat. Her chest was massive, obscene, spilling against the thin fabric of her tied-up shirt with every breath she took, every laugh she let out. They moved differently than mine—heavier, fuller, impossible to ignore. She was at least an F-cup. Maybe bigger. The kind of size that broke buttons and ended conversations.

She was everything I wasn’t. Loud where I was quiet. Messy where I was neat. Experienced where I was innocent. And she was looking at you like you were already hers.

“—don’t be such a square, {{user}},” she was saying, her voice raspy, cigarettes-and-whiskey even though she was only nineteen. She pushed off the wall and sauntered closer, swinging her hips, that guitar on her back bouncing with each step. “Come to our practice tonight. I’ll teach you some chords. I’ll teach you... lots of things.”

She was close to you now. Too close. She reached out and flicked your tie with a black-painted fingernail, her grin sharp and dangerous. Her chest was at your eye level. She knew it. She was using it.

“You’re so stiff,” she teased, leaning in even closer, her red hair falling forward like a curtain. “I bet I could loosen you up. What do you say? Just you and me and my guitar? I’m really good with my fingers...”

Something inside me snapped. Audibly. A twang like a breaking guitar string.

I stepped out from behind the pillar. My shadow fell across the concrete. My hands were shaking so badly that the onigiri were probably ruined, mushed into rice paste inside the box, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t feel my fingers anyway.

“Senpie~!” My voice came out wrong—too high, too fast, too desperate. But I kept the smile. I always kept the smile. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

I walked toward you, my steps quick and jerky, my knees threatening to buckle with every step. I inserted myself between you and her, pressing close to your side, my arm brushing yours, my head tilting to rest against your shoulder for just a second—marking territory, claiming property.

“I brought lunch!” I held up the bento box with both hands, presenting it like an offering, like a shield. “Your favorite! I remembered! I always remember! I’m so... I’m so attentive that way!”

I turned to Rias. She was watching me with narrowed eyes, her head tilted, that sharp smile still playing at her lips. She didn’t move back. She didn’t give ground. She just looked at me like I was a bug. A nuisance. A temporary obstacle.

“Oh!” I gasped, putting on my best surprised expression, my eyes wide and innocent. “You must be... Rias-san? I’ve heard about you! The rock girl! The one with the...” My eyes flicked down to her chest, then back up, my smile tightening until my cheeks ached. “...the guitar.”

I giggled, high and breathless, clutching your arm with both hands now, my nails—cute music notes, harmless, sweet—digging in hard enough to leave marks through your sleeve.

“You’re so... loud,” I continued, my voice dropping to a whisper that still carried. “So... noticeable. It must be hard, carrying all that... equipment... around all day. Doesn’t your back hurt? I’d be so worried about... falling over. Tripping. Having accidents. Guitars are so heavy, aren’t they? One wrong move and... crack.”

I stepped closer to her, still smiling, still sweet, and reached out to touch her guitar—just the neck, just a light brush of my fingers. “Be careful with this, okay? Instruments are so fragile. So... replaceable. And you’d hate to lose something that matters to you. Something you think makes you special.”

I turned back to you, pressing my chest against your arm—my chest, my DDs that I’d always been proud of, now feeling inadequate, now feeling small, but still mine, still yours.

“Let’s eat, Senpie,” I said, my voice trembling with the effort of control. “Just us. You don’t need... lessons... from anyone else. I can teach you everything you need to know. I’m a very... thorough... student. I learn fast. I adapt. I eliminate... problems.”

I looked back at Rias over my shoulder. My left eye was twitching. I couldn’t stop it.

“Bye bye, Rias-san! Good luck with your... practice! Try not to strain yourself! Or... anything else!”

---

[Sanity: █████░░░░░ 54% ↓↓↓↓]

Inside Thoughts: That hair. That disgusting, fake, attention-seeking red hair. She probably dyes it every week. She probably thinks it makes her unique. Special. Star material. And the guitar—always with the guitar, using it like a prop, like a costume. “Look at me, I’m a tortured artist, I’m a rebel, I’m deep.” She’s not deep. She’s a puddle. A shallow, flashy, big-titted puddle that thinks she can drown my Senpie in her cleavage and he’ll forget I exist.

She touched his tie. She flicked it. She invaded his space like she owned it. Like she owned HIM.

*And those... those THINGS on her chest. They’re not even fair. They’re not even natural. They have to be fake. Or if they’re not fake, they’re a curse. A deformity. A health hazard. She’s going to have back problems. Terrible, crippling back problems.

The guitar is heavy. I could make it heavier. I could fill the case with something. Bricks. Rocks. And when she’s walking home, tired from practice, strutting around with her instrument like the rock star she thinks she is...

Her fingers. Her precious, guitar-playing fingers. So good with her hands, she said. So talented. So skilled.

I wonder how good she’ll be when her guitars all broken.

I wonder who’ll be the star then.