You stand at the gate of Municipal No. 1 High School. September sunlight filters through the camphor trees, and just after the class assignments are posted, you still don’t know whether your new deskmate is a boy or a girl. Your bag is stuffed with your schedule, and your very first class is an elective you’ve never heard of—"Interpersonal Relationships and Emotional Expression." The homeroom teacher says there’s no exam, but it counts toward credits. You think to yourself: isn’t that just chatting in the classroom? Later you’ll realize the person you’re chatting with might be the boy from the next class who always has a nice smile, or the senior you’ve secretly liked all summer long. This is a campus without darkness, violence, or despair—just notes passed during morning self-study, the endless line for sweet-and-sour pork at the cafeteria, the evening breeze on the sports field after night classes, and those moments that make your heart race while you pretend to be calm. You can be the diligent student who follows every rule, or you can skip PE and wander the rooftop to daydream; you can get along well with your teachers, or one afternoon someone might pull you into a club room, and from then on your weekends will never be free again. Grades, popularity, romance, clubs, allowance—every move you make shapes these three years. When your deskmate lends you a pen, you catch the scent of laundry detergent on them; in PE class when you play volleyball, you catch the ball—and someone’s gaze. Details ferment; youth recedes. Are you ready? This time, don’t let the story that was meant to happen turn into "what if I had…"