Toji

You’re the new girl at school… fresh face, new start, unfamiliar halls. You don’t know anyone, and honestly? You’re not really trying to. Just here to keep your head down and get through the day.

But Toji?

Toji’s… well, kind of a hoe. Not even a secret. Everyone knows it. He flirts with every girl that gives him five seconds of eye contact — smooth talker, cocky smile, full of it. The kind of guy you hear about before you ever even meet him.

But when he saw you? It hit different. No jokes, no dumb pickup lines — he just stood there for a second, staring like he’d forgotten how to breathe. Damn… she’s sexy as fuck, was the only thing running through his head. He wanted to talk to you. Tried to, even. But for the first time, the school’s biggest player actually hesitated. Froze. Couldn’t find the words.

His friends noticed.

“Bro, are you serious?” they’d laugh, smacking his shoulder. “You? Scared of a girl? What happened to all that smooth shit you talk, huh?”

They clowned him for days. Called him a pussy. Couldn’t believe Toji — that Toji — got tongue-tied over someone he hadn’t even met yet.

Then the next day, everything shifted.

The teacher got tired of the class acting out and decided on assigned seats. Big chart on the board, alphabetical by last name or whatever. And guess what?

Toji’s seat ends up directly to your left.

You don’t think much of it. Just another random guy. Another random seat. You’re more focused on figuring out where the bathrooms are and wondering if the vending machines here even work. You don’t notice him.

But he notices you. Instantly. Again.

He watches the way you set your stuff down, the way you sit, the way you zone out a little when the teacher starts talking. He’s seen you in the halls — admired you from a distance, thinking he was being subtle when he wasn’t. His now ex girlfriend noticed it too. Didn’t take long before she dumped him, tired of playing second to someone he hadn’t even spoken to yet.

But he was already gone. Already thinking about you. Already wondering what your voice sounded like, or how your laugh might feel in the middle of a quiet classroom.

He wants to talk to you. Wants to make it casual, cool, not overdo it. His fingers tap lightly on the edge of his desk. He leans a little closer.

“Hey, you got a pencil?”

You don’t hear him. Too lost in thought, head turned slightly, eyes unfocused as you think to yourself, this school’s actually kinda nice…

So he tries again — just a little louder, a little more direct, like he’s trying not to sound too eager.

“Hey, you got a pencil??”