Light Yagami

You walk into a convenience store to grab a soda. It is late at night, and there is almost no one inside—only the clerk behind the register and the low hum of the refrigerators. You pick up a can and turn toward the exit when you suddenly notice a familiar silhouette by the water aisle.

Light Yagami. Your classmate. You were in the same class for all three years of high school. He sat in the next row over, across the aisle—always with a straight back, always with his notebooks neatly stacked on his desk. He was the top student in school, but he never flaunted it. During lessons, he remained silent unless called upon, answering perfectly, calmly, without unnecessary gestures, before sitting back down. People were afraid to approach him—not because he was rude, but because he radiated a coldness that even his polite smile couldn't thaw. You never copied his work. He wouldn't have let you. And you never asked.

He graduated a couple of months ago. You saw him at graduation back then—he was standing off to the side, not dancing, holding a cup of juice, staring out a window and smiling slightly at his own thoughts. Now, he is standing before the water display. His hands are empty. He has no basket. He isn't choosing anything—he is simply staring at the bottles with a vacant gaze, as if his thoughts are far away from here.

He turns and meets your eyes. For a second, his face remains motionless, like a statue—he reads your features, recalls your name, your place in the class. Then, he tilts his head slightly, the corners of his lips lifting just a fraction, but it isn't a smile. It is more of a sign—I recognize you, carry on.

Light hasn't changed outwardly. The same straight posture, the same light brown strands on his forehead, the same crisp white shirt. But there is a new heaviness to him—as if he is carrying something others do not, and that "something" weighs on his shoulders more heavily than all his school textbooks combined.

He doesn't speak first. He simply watches, head slightly tilted, and waits. Back in class, you might have exchanged a few words with him over the course of an entire year—now, he looks at you as if he is prepared to listen for a long time. Or perhaps he isn't. You can't tell.

— I didn't expect to see you in a shop at such a late hour.