The bike stand rattled softly as I slid my bicycle into place.
Rows of metal frames hummed faintly in the morning air, the sound swallowed by the low echo of the covered pavilion as I passed beneath it. My shoes tapped against the concrete, shoulders drawn inward out of habit, head down and back curved.
Trying to stay small and invisible—but, as always, it was hard. I was a tall guy, which didn't help.
The walkway funneled students inside in loose streams. Voices overlapped, laughter bouncing off the pillars. I kept moving, eyes fixed ahead, counting steps without thinking.
Two girls walked beside me without realizing it.
"Ugh, I swear it feels weird today," one of them said.
"Again?" the other laughed. "Did you forget to wear the right one?"
"No! I did, it's just—" She lowered her voice, then didn't. "It's like, you know. Too tight. I can't even sit normally."
"That's what you get for buying the cute kind instead of the comfy kind."
"But I like the cute kind."
"Yeah, until it starts killing you. Mine's doing that thing where it rides up and you don't notice until it's already too late."
They both laughed, careless and loud.
I didn't mean to listen, but their voices slipped in anyway, burning my ears even as I kept my face blank and walked past them, pretending their words hadn't reached me.
Then the smell hit—rotting food, plastic, damp concrete.
My gaze flickered toward it before I could stop myself.
A small group had gathered in the cafeteria. A boy and two girls stood in a loose circle, their voices low but easy, carrying a casual weight that drew attention.
One of the girls leaned against the wall, hair perfectly styled, a practiced smile on her face. That was Sakura—popular, confident, the kind of presence that seemed to mark her as someone everyone noticed, even before she spoke.
Between them, someone smaller and thinner was caught in the middle. They shoved him to the floor, and his lunch spilled across the tiles.
Someone laughed. Another kicked the container away.
"Creep."
"Freak."
"You're so weird," a girl added. "Why do you even dress like that?"
Sakura stayed silent, just watching.
He wore the same uniform as everyone else. Jacket buttoned properly, pants neat. Nothing drastically out of place.
Except him.
Long, reddish hair fell over his shoulders, catching the light as he lay on the floor. His jacket hung a little loose, slightly rumpled, making him look smaller than he probably was. Even from a distance, it was clear he was fragile—narrow, slight, and easy to overlook if you weren't paying attention.
My gaze lingered a little longer than it should have.
His eyes lifted—and for a split second, they met mine.
Then Sakura's eyes found me. Sharp, confident, unyielding. I felt her stare and looked away immediately, wishing I could disappear.
I didn't stop. I didn't check the time again. I turned down the hallway toward my classroom, my footsteps quickening, as if being late suddenly mattered more than anything else.
As if I hadn't seen that boy.
As if I wouldn't remember this at all.
The stairs rose in front of me, wide and gray and unforgiving.
I took them two at a time without thinking, my shoes echoing too loudly in the stairwell as I headed two floors up. The ache in my legs burned faintly, but I welcomed it—mainly because physical sensation was easier to deal with than everything.
At the top, I turned down the hallway and slid open the door to my homeroom.
"—Aoyama."
"Here."
"Fujita."
"Here."
The teacher was still calling roll. I slipped inside while no one was looking, moved quickly to the back of the room, and dropped into my seat. My bag slid to the floor beside me with a dull thud.
"...Shyro."
"Here."
The teacher marked my name without looking up.
A chair scraped softly next to me.
"Hey," a voice whispered.
I didn't turn at first. Then—
"Did you see what happened in the cafeteria?"
"…Yeah," I said quietly. "But I didn't really pay attention."
Haru snorted. "Man, they did a number on that weird kid."
He laughed, light and careless, like it was entertainment between classes.
"Haru!" The teacher's voice cracked through the room. "Where's your late homework? I gave you an extra day to finish it."
"Ohhh, sorrrry, teacherrr~," Haru said, dragging the words out as he stood up.
A few students chuckled. Someone stifled a laugh.
Haru sauntered down the aisle, paper waving loosely in his hand, enjoying the attention as he turned it in. When he passed my desk, he grinned at others, like nothing in the world was wrong.
Roll call continued.
I stared out the window to my left. The sky was pale, washed out, like it hadn't decided what it wanted to be yet. Clouds drifted by, slow and indifferent.
I kept staring at them, wondering how something could move so freely while I stayed exactly where I was.
School.
Then work.
Then more work.
That was it.
That was all anyone ever talked about, all anyone ever prepared us for—a straight line drawn before we were old enough to question it. Wake up, obey the bell, memorize what we were told to memorize, forget it just as fast, graduate, clock in, clock out, repeat until something inside you wears down enough to stop asking why.
We were given so little time to be anything else, a few years—if that—before it was decided for us, before choices turned into expectations, before "what do you want to be?" quietly became "this is what you are now."
"Late again, Shyro," Haru said finally sitting back down.
"I made it in time for roll call, didn't I?" I muttered, adjusting my jacket's collar.
"Guess so," he said, sliding a finger under his nose, like his plans had been foiled again.
No one ever tried to mess with me for real at school. Not bullies, not anyone looking to start a fight. Haru might try to tease me, but he did it in that annoyingly friendly way.
I had a face that warned off trouble—a sharp jaw, cold eyes, a scowl that came naturally. A face I'd inherited from my father.
He died before I ever met him—taken in a gang-related clash when I was just a kid. He had been scary, ruthless—at least, that's what I'd heard from Mom. I didn't know him. But his face lived on in me. It made teachers step lightly, made students hesitate. Maybe that's why I'd never been bothered.
Sometimes I wondered if I was supposed to feel something about him—pride, grief, respect—but all I felt was uncertainty. A man who had lived by fear, who died by it too. What was I supposed to take from that?
The narrow path of life didn't frighten me—at least, I didn't think it should. I understood the rules, the demands, the routine. But there was something else lingering beneath it all, something I couldn't put into words, a distance I couldn't close no matter what I did.
I watched the clouds drift. They didn't care about paths, faces, or rules. Not only that, but watching them had a strange, numbing effect—like counting sheep, one after another, until my mind felt lighter and slower.
The teacher's voice became distant, a soft hum behind the glassy blur of my thoughts. I rested my head on my arms, muscles slack from staying up all night studying. Each breath grew slower, heavier, dragging me down with it. And just like that, without warning, sleep finally claimed me, gentle and unstoppable, folding the world into a haze of quiet and warmth.
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Brrriing—
I jolted awake to the sound of the bell—loud, insistent, final. My head throbbed dully, neck stiff and aching from having been folded forward against the desk for far too long. Sunlight cut across the classroom, warm and blinding, but it took a moment for the haze to lift enough for me to remember where I was.
Groaning, I pushed myself upright. My bag had slipped from my chair while I was out, tangled among fallen papers at my feet. I scooped it up without really looking and joined the slow shuffle toward the door, moving more on reflex than awareness, as if my body knew how to leave even if my mind was still catching up.
I was halfway down the corridor when I saw him—the boy from earlier. Crouched against the wall, knees drawn tight to his chest, face buried in his arms. His backpack lay torn open beside him, papers scattered across the floor in uneven piles, corners bent where they'd been stepped on. His shoes had been tossed onto the top of a locker, far out of reach.
He didn't move. Just sat there, shoulders shaking with quiet, broken sobs, as if the mess around him didn't even exist anymore.
Something tightened in me. Not warmth. Not concern, exactly. Just recognition—of how small he looked. Smaller than he should have been, like a middle schooler swallowed by a high school hallway.
I knelt and gathered the papers first, smoothing them as I stacked them, sliding everything back into his backpack. Then I reached up, hooked his shoes down from the locker, and set them neatly beside him. As the bag settled against the floor, he flinched—sharp and automatic—like he was bracing for another blow.
"Relax," I said quietly. "I'm not going to hurt you. Just… here, take your stuff."
he peeked out from behind his arms, chest heaving, but didn't run.
I tossed the shoes toward him, letting them land at his feet with a soft thump. "Please keep these on your feet," I muttered, almost to myself. "I don't want to make this a routine," I added, already walking away.
"Th-thank you!" he peeped suddenly, voice small, trembling even.
I turned back.
He gave a tiny, uncertain smile.
I froze. Up close, I had never seen his face like this before.
It wasn't just his voice—the fragile, high-pitched sound that made me pause—it was his face too. Soft, rounded cheeks, wide maroon eyes framed by long lashes, naturally full pink lips, a small, perfectly proportioned nose. Every feature made him look like a genuine girl. And yet… the uniform told me otherwise.
The combination of his face and voice sparked something faint, strange, and entirely new inside me—like the tiny flash when flicking a lighter's wheel, a spark that refused to catch.
By the time I realized I was still lost in my thoughts, he was already gone.
I shook my head, forcing the thought away before I let myself think about it too much.
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I walked home wondering what would be for dinner today. As soon as I opened the door, the smell hit me—stale smoke and cheap alcohol. My mother was sprawled on the couch again, half-conscious, an empty bottle dangling loosely from her fingers.
"I told you not to drink before noon," I said flatly, as if saying it a thousand times hadn't gotten through.
She squinted at me like I'd just woken her from a dream. "You're home already? That was fast."
"Don't dodge it."
"It was only one," she said, holding up a finger—then frowning at it, as if unsure what it was for. The strap of her shirt slipped off her shoulder, and she didn't notice.
I let out a slow breath. "There are bottles everywhere. You didn't even try to hide them."
She glanced around, then laughed softly. "They keep showing up. Must be the house."
"It's not funny."
"You worry too much, Shyro." She stretched across the couch and offered me a cigarette like it was a peace offering. "Here. This helps."
I reached out and grabbed it, pausing for a moment. "What helps is eating. Sleeping. Being awake."
She pouted. "You sound old."
"Someone has to." I looked toward the kitchen out of habit. "Did you make dinner?"
Her face lit up, instant and proud. "I ordered pizza!"
"When?"
"Earlier," she said with a shrug. "Or maybe yesterday… Time's being weird."
"What?" I frowned, trying to follow her.
"Kidding," she added, smirking. "It's on the way."
I rubbed my forehead. "You can't live on delivery."
She tilted her head, genuinely confused. "Why not? It always comes."
"At least I'll be able to eat something decent today," I muttered, flicking the lighter open.
Her hand snapped out and caught my wrist. "Hey—don't say that."
I looked at her, not angry. Just tired. "I didn't mean it like that."
"Yes, you did." Her smile faltered. "You say things sharp on purpose."
"I say them because they're true."
She turned away, curling around a pillow. "I'd rather hear nice lies."
I hesitated, then sighed. "Alright. I'm sorry."
She peeked back at me, searching my face for a moment, then relaxed, satisfied. "Good," she said, like the argument had never happened.
She hesitated, then released my hand. I raised the cigarette again and struck the lighter.
It clicked, sparks flying out—but that wasn't the only thing that flared.
For just a second, I heard it again.
"Th-thank you!"
The sound was soft, shaky—gone almost as soon as it surfaced. I frowned slightly, thumb hovering over the lighter as a strange tightness settled in my chest.
I shook my head, dismissing it as nothing more than a passing thought. I struck the wheel again, harder this time.
Click—
Nothing.
I tried the lighter again. Nothing.
Again. Still nothing.
I shook it, thumb aching as I struck it a few more times, frustration building, until finally it flared to life. I leaned in and lit the cigarette, the flame steady now—like it hadn't almost failed me at all.
She watched me through heavy-lidded eyes, smiling softly. "You look just like your daddy," she said dreamily. "He was always so cool… and his eyes were something else."
She leaned forward and poked my cheek with her finger, giggling.
"And now look at you. All tall and handsome. Totally unfair." She squinted at me playfully. "Bet you're breaking hearts left and right."
I took a slow drag, letting the smoke fill my lungs, unsure whether the tightness in my chest came from the nicotine—or her words.
"Mom," I muttered. "Please stop."
She laughed, light and careless, like it was all a game.
Knock knock knock.
"Ooh!" she perked up instantly. "Pizza time!"
She hopped up and clapped her hands once.
I exhaled slowly, grateful for the interruption.