Chapter Text
Kokomi Teruhashi, the insanely gorgeous, infinitely selfless, and exceedingly perfect girl, has never been regarded any differently from the seemingly endless ‘Oh Wow’s when she strolled throughout the street, went down the PK Academy hallway, or simply existed as she was. Men were dogs, and it seemed her aura, angelically golden and symphonic, was a leash.
The day she and Kusuo first met each other properly was a surprise; not unwelcomed, but definitely shocking. Kusuo had completely resisted any of her charms that would normally have people down on all fours, and at that, it seemed like Kusuo relentlessly avoided her. Although she wasn’t aware it was because she appeared as a muscle diagram to him, it sparked an interest in her. She developed an admiration for him, yes… but, she made a recent discovery that it was nothing romantic.
There were two factors that played into this realization. One, she noticed that her obsession was not with Kusuo, but rather with the idea of making him fall for her; a conclusion she’d arrived to after she, albeit uncharacteristically, thought about what it would be like if she was not God’s favorite. That would mean being less attractive. She wouldn’t influence even mother nature herself. The pedestal she sat on wouldn’t have to be kept in its alarmingly high position. She’d be rid of the excessive male attention she received nearly secondly.
If she didn’t capture everyone’s attention all of the time, she wouldn’t have an urge to make Kusuo, who didn’t like her by any means, chant ‘Oh Wow’ to her like a morningbird that mindlessly tweeted songs to the windows of sleeping people. However, there was another reason why she stopped clinging onto the belief that she was in love with Kusuo; it was Imu.
At first, she saw her as competition and nothing more. Imu was the prime example of the average girl who took pride in her slightly cuter complexion but became forgettable in Kokomi’s presence.
Imu was most definitely entranced by Kokomi, not unlike everyone else. But she was more open about it. More touchy-feely. More genuine. And Kokomi hated and loved how it made her feel.
Everytime she made a note of how pretty Kokomi was or what her shampoo smelled like—lightly floral with a hint of coconut, she said—Kokomi nearly choked. Every hug from her was a stab, and the open wound spilled every time Imu pulled away.
The fluttery feeling within Kokomi only worsened over time. It didn’t help that the candle Imu held to her got bigger each day. For the first time in her life, Kokomi wasn’t the one leaving an impression—she was the one shaken by it.
Kokomi was aware that she was the object of attraction for every man she passed—it was just a fact—so she conceived the notion to see other girls as rivals. Hearing someone imply that she was more than her figure was unheard of, and knowing such words came from another girl made her spiral faster.
It was saying that she was more than all the competitions she entered on the accord of the men around her; more than what she fought over on grounds elevated by boys who had nothing better to do than to gawk at ladies. And Kokomi found herself wanting more where that came from.
Maybe that would be the perfect life, being treated humanely without having to play pretend. The question is, would asking Imu out truly mean being able to keep it?
“...Miss Teruhashi, are you alright? You’ve been staring at the wall fo-for a while now… are you feeling tired? O-or sick? I can get you something! Anything! Just tell me!”
Leave it to any of the boys in her classroom to ogle her and bend over backwards if it meant having Kokomi look their way.
Flowery yet fake, Kokomi smiled, shook her head, and sat upright. After all, perfect, pretty girls shouldn’t dare to act in any way that hinted they were people outside of their commended facades, especially in the presence of their admirers. Even if said admirers were annoying, unwarranted, and barely worth their trouble.
“You're so kind, but I'm fine, so please don’t worry about me.”
What she didn’t notice was the color rising in her cheeks, soft at first, then unmistakable. Each thought of Imu deepened it. By the time a teacher suggested she go home, it was impossible to ignore.
When she peered into the mirror for the first time that day, she froze. Her reflection stared back, flushed and unfamiliar. Then, she realized it was, in fact, not a rash that took her cheeks by storm.
“Oh…”
She let out a high-pitched scream of embarrassment, stopped, climbed onto her bed, and then started screaming again into her pillow. After stopping, starting, and then stopping again, she made a decision.
She would ask Imu out. And finally, she’d determine the answer to her question.