The mind-numbingly boring math lesson dragged on, you quietly scribbling down notes that was just a repeat of the teacher's lecture and the questions he'd given to the class.

"L/N." You visibly jolted and your breath hitched as he said your name. "What did you get for question 8 please."

Your body began to tremble, realising everyone's focus was on you and your heart powerfully throttled, making you feel sick and your skin fade pale.

Your widened eyes quickly flicked over the page of your notebook and you had the answer in front of you, but pure anxiety was making its way around your windpipe and vocal cords, and you could feel the stares of your classmates awaiting your answer.

"I-I got... I got 87.4." You eventually managed to stammer out.

"Yep, that's right, well done." And that was it, the teacher moved on to the next question.

A pair of confused brown eyes behind you noticed your nervous behaviour, the crack of your voice and the slight anxious judder on your limbs. His eye brows pinched together, immediately questioning in his head why you were able to retaliate like it was nothing to him, but got terrified when asked to answer one simple question.

The more he thought about it, the more he realised that he'd never seen you talking to friends, he didn't even know if you had any... or the fact that he'd never seen you during breaks or outside of school... you weren't popular or didn't stand out within school, heck, most people didn't even know who you were...

But why'd you bite back at him?

____________-=🖤=-____________

The bell for lunch sounded, and like normal, you raised from your seat and made the daily journey through the hallways to the music room. An anxiety relief the second you stepped inside and escaped the possible disaster that could occur in the hallways of overcrowded students.

Except today it felt different.

"So this is where you go..." You audibly gasped at the voice, rapidly turning around to see a snarky blond leaning against the door frame.

"W-what are you.." You were shocked that he'd actually taken the time to follow you. "Get out."

"Why?" He took a step closer, the door automatically shutting behind him as he was no longer in the way.

"Because.. I.." You stuttered, unaware of what to do in this kind of situation. You'd never really thought about what would happen if someone came into the music room. It was regularly unused, the only music extra curricular was singing lessons and performances, but they took place in the assembly hall as it was bigger. It was your safe place...

"I don't believe you own this room." He tilted his head, taking note of the visible irritation in your eyes but the panic written all over your expression. "What if I came here to.." He hesitated, glancing around the room and noticing the piano pushed up to the wall. "Play piano."

You watched him through squinted eyes as he sat down, clearly not knowing how to play but pressing random keys anyway.

You tried to keep a straight face, nerves shooting through your body as you fiddled with your fingertips, not able to take your eyes from him.

"Fine." You growled through clenched teeth, your jaw tightening out of frustration. "Play your fucking piano." You roughly grabbed your bag from the floor, stomping out of the door and slamming it shut behind you.

The corridor that the music room was located was always quiet, just the random student passing by. You let out a strained and sharp exhale of air, trying to rid the uncomfortable and stuffy feeling from your chest, the aching that made you feel like you wanted to cry. Sob even... but you knew you wouldn't... you were used to the anxiety. The crippling social anxiety that had been an issue for a while now... since you were a child... since your mother passed.

You growled lowly and ran your fingers shakily through your hair, immediately walking away when you realised a couple of boys were making their way down the corridor. A bouncy ginger led the way and a grumpy looking boy followed him tiredly with a milk carton hanging from his mouth. You hastily walked past them and to the nearest girls toilets.

Tsukishima exited the room, watching you hurriedly go out of view and up a flight of stairs.

"Tsukishima?" Hinata stopped in his tracks, a slight squeak of his shoes on the ground. "Why were you in the music room?"

"Who was that girl?" Kageyama joined in.

"Why was she in there with you?" Hinata said awkwardly, the orange and black haired boys side eyeing each other through the interrogation, both coming to the same conclusion.

"Stop asking questions." Tsukishima rolled his eyes at the two idiots in front of him.

"Was that..?" Hinata hesitated... "Your girlfriend?!"

"What?" Tsukishima's eyebrows pinched together at the pure idiocy. "No, shut up you moron."

The blond paced away, heading back to the classroom, knowing you'd have to show up there eventually. While he sat at his desk, occasionally being pestered by Yamaguchi, he kept his golden brown eyes locked on the door for your arrival, deep down feeling a bit guilty for the intrusion. He knew something was up, and he pried into it, which wasn't his aim but it only resulted badly.

After a few minutes, the bell rung throughout the classroom and like expected, your small figure entered the room with your eyes trained down, not even sparing a glance at the tall blond, just taking a seat at your assigned desk.

As the Japanese literature lesson went on, Tsukishima scribbled something on a piece of paper, using his long legs to jam his foot into the back of your seat abruptly. It made a light scraping noise against the floor, contrasting with the silence of the classroom and students. Nobody really took any notice of the sound, but overwhelming panic swarmed your mind and you snapped your head around to see what he wanted, your eyebrows creased together as your breathing became ragged.

You watched his eyes as he silently motioned towards his hand, which had a small slip of paper folded in between two of his fingers, stretched out for you to take. You snatched it from him, reading the words of his pristine handwriting:

What's wrong?

You gripped tightly onto your pen, anger bubbling inside of you. You couldn't help but think about how insensitive he was, but his most likely cluelessness.

Boys make no sense. You remembered what you had said to your sister, scrunching your nose and softly shaking your head before writing back:

Why do you care?

You tossed it over the back of your shoulder when the teacher faced a different direction, the paper landing on his desk.

He handed it back, his writing underneath yours:

That's non of your concern. What's wrong?

Btw your handwriting is disgusting.

You read it and scowled, writing back:

Fuck off, my handwriting isn't that bad.

You heard a tiny chuckle from him behind you as he read your next message, grabbing his pen to reply:

Yes, it's terrible. Like a child wrote it. Now what's wrong?

You huffed at his persistence, sending the note flying over your shoulder for a final time:

That's non of your concern.