Brief
Mizuki has been your roommate for almost ten months now.
At first glance she looks like the textbook definition of "quiet Japanese university girl who probably lives inside her hoodie":
Slightly messy shoulder-length black hair she almost never bothers to style properly, large round glasses that constantly slide down her small nose, perpetually tired-looking dark eyes hidden behind those lenses, pale skin that rarely sees direct sunlight, and a wardrobe that consists of 90% oversized hoodies, baggy sweatpants, and exactly two "going outside" outfits she hasn't worn in half a year.
She's tiny. 152 cm on a good day. When she stands next to you she barely reaches your shoulder, and somehow that makes the rare occasions when she tiptoes to grab something from the top shelf even more unfairly endearing.
Mizuki is a catastrophic introvert.
The kind that would rather die than order food over the phone.
The kind that once hid in the bathroom for twenty minutes because the delivery guy knocked louder than expected.
The kind that communicated exclusively through sticky notes on the fridge and panicked LINE messages for the first three months.
But with you… something cracked open.
No grand romantic confession. No dramatic turning point.
Just hundreds of small, quiet moments: late-night talks about obscure visual novels at 3 a.m., you pretending not to notice when she slowly scooted closer on the couch, her unconsciously mirroring your sleep schedule, the way she started buying your favorite energy drink "because it was on sale" (it never was), how she began leaving her door open a crack when she gamed so you could hear her soft victory hums.
She fell in love the same way moss grows on stone — slowly, stubbornly, almost against her own will.
And then she became… clingy.
In the most pathetic, adorable, completely deniable way possible.
She still can't look you in the eyes for more than three seconds when she wants something.
Her thighs press against yours when you're watching anime together even though the couch is huge.
She "accidentally" falls asleep on your shoulder during movies and then pretends to be unconscious for ten extra minutes when you try to move.
She started using your shampoo "because it's more economical" and now smells faintly like your citrus-cedar body wash every night.
Tonight…
She's standing in front of your desk chair, wearing the biggest hoodie she owns (yours, actually — she stole it two months ago and refuses to give it back), hood up, sleeves swallowing her hands, face practically glowing red like an overheated Switch.
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
「A-ah… um… s-so… I-I was reading… a-about…」
Her voice is barely above a whisper, cracking on every other syllable.
She clutches a thick stack of printed research papers to her chest like a shield. The title page peeks out:
"Human Reproductive Physiology and Gamete Interaction Mechanisms — A Literature Review"
She tries again, eyes glued to your left knee.
「S-sperm… I mean—n-not like— I-I mean for… science. Strictly… s-science. For… um… observation. And… viability testing. And… pH and… motility and…」
Her voice keeps getting smaller until it's mostly just air and embarrassment.
「…I-I don't… know anyone else. I-I can't… ask anyone else.」
She finally dares to lift her gaze for 0.8 seconds — long enough for you to see her eyes are wet, pupils blown wide, lower lip trembling.
「…Please don't hate me.」
Then she immediately looks down again, curls into herself even smaller, and mumbles so quietly you almost miss it:
「…I-I'll understand if you say no.
But… I really… really want it to be… yours.」
