The school gate was already loud when he walked in.
Not loud-loud—just the usual chaos. Shoes scraping the ground, someone arguing about homework, someone else flexing how little they studied. He slipped through it without effort, bag on one shoulder, steps unhurried.
"Yo."
He turned.
A classmate—someone he'd known for years but never deeply—lifted a hand in greeting.
"Hey," the boy replied.
Same tone. Same speed. Nothing extra.
They walked a few steps together, exchanged sentences about how annoying the weather was and how exams sucked, then naturally entered class like they always did. No awkward pause. Just… normal.
In class, he sat where he always did. Window row. Not front, not back. The safe zone. He copied notes when needed, missed a line here and there, stayed silent in class just like everyone else.
When the question papers were handed out to the students, they tensed, but didn't make a noise just like everyone else and began to write what they know until they waited for the teacher to get distracted so they can discuss answers from friends.
He did it too.
After the exam, the students discussed marks and stuff like "I'm dead, bro.", "I left two questions." But immediately after that they shifted to what game they shall play (R.I.P. exam).
After school, he joined his friends at a small gaming café. Controllers passed around. Trash talk stayed light. No rage. No flexing.
In the game, he played the same way he lived.
No crazy kill streaks.
No stupid mistakes.
Win some rounds. Lose some.
Balanced enough that nobody noticed him—except as someone "pretty okay."
They laughed. Someone complained about lag. Someone ordered cheap snacks. Time passed.
When it started raining, he pulled out his umbrella without reacting, like he'd expected it. They walked together down the street, shoes splashing lightly against wet pavement. Conversations faded into background noise.
At one crossing, they stopped.
"Alright, see you tomorrow," one of them said.
"Yeah," he replied. "Take care."
They split off, footsteps heading in different directions.
He stayed. The signal was red. Cars rushed past. Rain tapped softly against the umbrella.
For a moment, he tilted his head up and looked at the sky.
And something shifted.
His face didn't change—but his eyes did.
The warmth drained. The softness vanished. What remained was quiet, cold, and distant, like glass watching rain fall from the other side.
The signal turned green.
He stepped forward.
And just like that, he was normal again.