LIGHTNOVELONLINE Chapter 5: The Return
~Yawn
It’s been a while. Hasn’t it?
I stood in front of the academy’s gate once again after four months.
Seiren Private Academy.
But this time, something was different. The last time I stood here, I felt a mixture of excitement and anticipation, the kind of feelings you have when you’re about to start something new, something that could shape your future. But today, there was none of that.
Today, I was feeling… disconnected.
It wasn’t fear or anxiety. No, it was something more complex, a hollow sense of detachment that lingered in the back of my mind. After everything that had happened in the past four months, the academy felt like a distant memory, a part of my life that didn’t seem to fit anymore. The place where I was once supposed to be present now seemed irrelevant, almost trivial compared to the weight of the reality I’d been living.
I was returning to a world that had moved on without me—and to be honest, I wasn’t sure I wanted to step back into it. It was as if a thin layer of apathy had wrapped itself around me, numbing any real desire to rejoin this place. The boy who had entered these gates months ago was not the same person standing here now.
I guess you could say I was feeling… estranged.
Well, in any case, I realized that I had to return sometime or another. There was no escaping it. My absence had already stretched on too long, and at some point, life demands you face what you’ve been avoiding.
I stepped into the campus, a slight hint of nervousness creeping up, though I buried it quickly beneath a mask of indifference. As I walked, my mind spiraled into various theories about how this return would play out.
It was hard to tell.
Part of me wondered if I had simply slipped out of existence in this place.
Still, the more logical part of me knew I had to think this through carefully. My next steps mattered. How do I reintegrate without drawing too much attention? If I made the wrong move, the consequences could ripple beyond just school life.
Enough of that, I mentally sighed, shaking off the endless stream of thoughts.
I was over-analysing again, but then again, that’s just how my mind worked—branching out into a thousand scenarios, each one more complex than the last.
I entered alongside a steady flow of students. It was still early, and the usual morning haze clung to the campus. A few of the students walked half-asleep, dragging their feet, while others buzzed with energy, ready for another day of lessons.
As prestigious as Seiren Private Academy was, there was a comforting rhythm to its daily routine. Another day, another lesson, another step toward their bright futures. The thought barely resonated with me.
It made sense—this place was built on the backs of exceptional students, the kind who had ambition to spare. But what did that mean for me now?
My time away had changed things. The weight of my circumstances had drained me, left me feeling like an outsider. I wasn’t the same person who had walked through these gates months ago, brimming with potential and promise.
As I continued through the courtyard, I noticed the difference between myself and the others.
In this place, everyone seemed so… purposeful, so sure of their path. I thought that I could have been that way once too. But now, I was sure that jumping back into that world felt like forcing myself into a role I no longer fit.
Yet, I had no choice but to play my part. For now, at least.
One step at a time, I told myself.
As I moved toward my class, I could feel the weight of several eyes on me—glances that were less out of curiosity and more like I was some strange spectacle. I guess, from their perspective, I was still an outsider. A student on paper, but absent in every other way that mattered.
Ahead of me, two girls caught my attention—one with silver hair, the other with light brown. They moved gracefully; their posture almost regal. I couldn’t see their faces from where I was, but judging by the way the boys around me were staring, they clearly had an impact. It wasn’t hard to guess why. They stood out, even among a crowd of top-tier students.
Whatever, I thought, shrugging off both the attention they drew and the glances being sent my way. I wasn’t here to make a scene. Blending in was more appealing, even if it wasn’t entirely possible.
I continued my path toward my class, 1-E. The familiar label on the door gave me a strange sense of déjà vu. It felt like I was returning to a place I no longer belonged to. Four months... In the span of an academy year, that was practically an eternity.
When I entered the classroom, the teacher was already present. She looked up, her expression shifting from professional detachment to confusion. I could see her processing my presence, likely wondering who I was.
“Sorry... Are you in this class? I haven’t seen you here before.”
“Yes,” I replied, keeping my voice steady and unemotional. A few students glanced in my direction, curious murmurs starting to rise.
“And... your name again?”
“Youseke Arima.”
Her reaction was immediate. Eyes wide, her posture stiffened, and for a second, it looked like she had seen a ghost. The irony wasn’t lost on me. Given that I’d been absent for four months, I might as well have been a ghost.
“Wait. You’re that... Youseke Arima?!”
The ripple of recognition spread throughout the room as the students murmured, the whispers escalating into a low hum of disbelief. I could feel the tension rising as they connected the dots.
“Yes. Is something the matter?” I asked, keeping my tone calm, though inwardly I couldn’t help but find the situation slightly amusing. Had I really become some kind of urban legend around here?
“N-No... You may take your seat, Arima-kun,” the teacher stammered, clearly unsettled. I noticed a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead.
I gave a small, polite nod and proceeded to my seat—near the window, in the corner. A classic choice, though I wasn’t about to complain. It gave me a vantage point, and most importantly, it kept me out of the center of attention.
The classes carried on as usual, the same routine I’d come to expect. But gradually, my focus began to drift. The lectures blurred into a steady, monotonous rhythm—predictable, straightforward, and lacking anything truly engaging. It wasn’t that the content was challenging; if anything, I had become accustomed to it long ago.
I had reached a point where the material felt more familiar than stimulating, a natural result of repetition rather than any sense of superiority.
A few times, the teachers caught on to my apparent lack of focus. They would call my name, perhaps thinking they had caught me off guard, but when they asked me, a question related to the lecture, I answered effortlessly, each response met with confused and disbelieving expressions. This wasn’t an unnatural occurrence for me—teachers unsure whether to reprimand or commend me for mastering the material without even trying.
It was almost amusing.
Eventually, lunchtime rolled around. The first half of the day had passed, and despite the initial tension of returning, I felt a subtle sense of refreshment, as though a burden had been slightly lifted. Perhaps it was the familiarity of the routine, or maybe it was simply the relief of knowing that nothing here had changed all that much.
I had been a student here for less than two months before my abrupt absence, but returning after four months wasn’t exactly overwhelming. In a way, it felt like slipping back into the background of a scene that had continued without me.
As far as friends go... well, I didn’t have any. Not here. Not anywhere, really. That, too, was nothing new. Since childhood, I had always kept my distance. It wasn’t out of fear or insecurity, but more out of practicality. Friendships, to me, were a delicate balance of give and take. Most people didn’t understand the intricacies of that balance—they either took too much or expected you to give more than you could afford.
I suppose some would call that cynicism, but to me, it’s just understanding how society works. People seek connections for a variety of reasons—companionship, validation, support. But those connections, at their core, are fragile.
They require maintenance, constant effort, and for what? The moment circumstances change, or one person’s needs shift, the balance is disrupted. Friendships break.
Expectations lead to disappointment. The closer you let someone in, the more vulnerable you become to their eventual departure.
It wasn’t that I was incapable of forming bonds; I just chose not to. There’s a freedom in detachment, in knowing that no one holds a claim over your time, your thoughts, or your emotions.
I had learned early on that relying too much on others led to disappointment. And being self-sufficient, well, it allowed me to focus on the things that truly mattered.
I watched the other students in the courtyard, mingling in groups, laughing, sharing their meals. They seemed content, wrapped in their social circles, unaware of the complexities that came with those relationships.
They were living in the present, and I couldn’t fault them for that. But for me? I had seen enough to know that solitude wasn’t loneliness.
It was clarity.