Chapter Three: Smile Alert and Emotional Crisis Protocol
The next morning, all of Seigaku was in a state of emergency.
Not because of a storm.
Not because of a broken racket.
Not even because Kaidoh accidentally drank Inui Juice again (though that did happen).
No, no. The chaos today stemmed from a single, chilling observation.
Ryoma Echizen had smiled. In public.
Scene: Tennis Courts — 7:32 AM
Momo dropped his breakfast on the floor. Eiji nearly choked on his Ponta. Kaidoh made a weird strangled noise and sprinted in the opposite direction.
“You guys,” Oishi said, pale and sweating. “He’s reading something. And smiling.”
Tezuka blinked.
Fuji sipped tea like he had foreseen this in a dream.
“Let me see,” Fuji whispered, eyes opening just slightly.
They huddled behind the bushes (a sacred Seigaku tradition) and peeked through the leaves.
There he was. Ryoma. Sitting under a tree. Backpack beside him. Journal in lap.
He was turning the pages with tender fingers. FINGERS! TENDER!
And every once in a while, his lips would curl upward in an expression that could only be described as… fond amusement.
“That is definitely not his math notebook,” Momo whispered.
“It’s pink,” Eiji whispered.
“AND HAS GLITTER STICKERS,” Kaidoh choked out.
Panic. Absolute panic.
Meanwhile, in a parallel dimension of embarrassment, Sakuno Ryuzaki was having a mental breakdown in the second-floor girls’ bathroom.
“He has Joy,” she whispered to her reflection. “He has JOY. MY GIRLFRIEND. MY EMOTIONAL WIFE.”
She leaned her forehead against the mirror, tears prickling her eyes as she remembered the things she had written.
“Dearest Joy, today he walked past me and I swear his eyes have ruined every shade of gold forever.”
“I want to hold his hand but also maybe his face but also possibly throw myself in the river.”
“His butt is so ROUND, Joy. Like a perfectly crafted rice ball. I feel weird. But in a holy way.”
“Joy, if he ever finds out I wrote about his wrists, elbows, and ankles with poetic metaphors, promise me you’ll spontaneously combust in my hands.”
Well. Joy did not combust. Instead, she ended up in the hands of the very wristed, elbowed, ankleed subject of her obsession.
AND NOW HE KNEW.
He. KNEW.
He knew everything. Her feelings. Her freaky little thoughts. Her butt comments. HER PET NAME FOR HER DIARY.
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She stared at the floor, debating whether to fake her death and move to Canada.
Meanwhile: Ryoma
Ryoma had just read the entry titled, “The Anatomy of a Boy I Swear I Don’t Like But Totally Do.”
And he was grinning. GRINNING.
“She really named her diary Joy?” he muttered to himself.
“Why does she write letters like she’s in a Victorian-era romance novel?”
He flipped another page and found a doodle. A doodle. Of him. With a cat ear headband.
He blinked. Then…
“…Not bad.”
He shut the journal, leaned back against the tree, and looked at the sky.
“She’s weird,” he mumbled.
“Kinda cool though.”
AND THAT’S WHEN SAKUNO APPEARED.
Flushed. Panting. Holding her bag like it was her will to live.
She marched up to him — yes, marched — and blurted:
“G-GIVE HER BACK!”
Ryoma tilted his head.
“Joy?”
“YES, JOY!”
“She’s kinda dramatic,” he said, standing up. “And she talks about my butt a lot.”
“I — I CAN EXPLAIN — ”
“You think it’s cute.”
Sakuno let out a full-on scream. Like, an actual girlish squeal of mortification.
“I WAS IN A FRAGILE EMOTIONAL PLACE — ”
He handed her the diary. Calm. Chill. Like he hadn’t just read an emotional novella about himself.
“I liked the poem about elbows,” he said, walking past her.
“Might wanna edit the haiku about my collarbone though. ‘Radiant’ doesn’t really rhyme with ‘dangerous.’”
And he LEFT HER THERE.
STANDING. SHAKING. SPIRALING.
As he turned the corner — smirking — he muttered under his breath:
“Joy, huh? She really is something.”
