It was his life, always the same way. Falling hopelessly into devotion to some girl, only to be hurt by the truth. The feeling that no matter what he did he wouldn't be good enough for his muse haunted him, that he loved her dearly but couldn't let himself think she'd be happy with him. He knew what was coming. He would get up courage to pledge to her his service and she wouldn't respond, and later she would grow even more distant. He knew all this, as well as he knew he'd be hurt, as he knew he'd welcome and embrace the pain in spite of himself because the pain was his.

The boy snaps out of his thoughts to realize he's still in class. A tear runs down his cheek which he tries to convince himself is really just sweat from his last period gym class. The bell rings but, lost in himself, the boy barely hears it. Everyone stands up to leave and soon the room is empty except for the teacher. And the boy, who sits, still, looking sullenly at his hands.