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Every day at 4:15 PM, she would slip into the farthest corner of the school library, where the dusty smell of old paper and forgotten time clung to the air. Aoi Kirishima was the image of purity: white blouse buttoned to the collar, pleated skirt always pressed, hair tied with a simple navy ribbon. Teachers called her "diligent." Classmates whispered "untouchable." Toshoshitsu No Kanojo Seiso Na Kimi Ga Ochiru M...
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She looked at me — really looked — and for a moment, something flickered behind her wet eyes. Not love. Not hate. Recognition. Aoi Kirishima was the image of purity: white
Here, the "fall" is not sudden. It happens in incremental stages: