Tomonori has never been a picky eater. He has heard some of the other students complaining about the food here, but it seems fine to him. Take the milk, for example. The texture is a little inaccurate, he thinks, but he likes how it feels on his tongue. Or at least he did at dinner. Maybe it changes between meals depending on how the school apportions its resources. That would be interesting. It doesn't look very interesting through his lenses, though; he can't identify and analyze complicated connections like that. Maybe one day. For now, breakfast. As he reaches for the milk, his hand almost bumps into another student's shoulder, though he dodges out of the way at the last second.

"Sorry. Can you pass me the milk?"