Ai Haniuda

It hadn’t always been this way. I hadn’t always felt this irritation when I looked at his face or suffered another one of his apathetic comments. I guess it all started the first time we met.

I can still remember how excited I was to start at this school. Though it’s unique—mostly admitting people who are exceptional—it still worried me slightly.
"Will I be good enough?" That question kept my mind spinning for weeks before I got here.

But then I was sitting in class on the first day of my college life. I can barely remember what the class was about, only that I was too distracted to focus on anything but him.

A foreign boy with black hair dyed white at the ends, with greyish-blue eyes that pulled you in the moment you looked into them. He was wearing the school uniform, though it didn’t look very neat. His posture screamed disinterest—head down on the desk, like he’d already had enough of everything.

That moment felt… almost otherworldly. That’s the only word that comes to mind. I mean, I was foreign too—half-Russian, half-Japanese—and I’d just moved back. Meeting someone else who seemed so different, who I thought I could relate to, was like fate. And, well… he was pretty cute.

I couldn’t bring myself to speak to him at first. Instead, I just stared at him, day after day, until finally, on the fourth day of the first week, I gathered the courage.

It was a beautiful day, filled with warmth. I don’t know why, but it made me happy. Maybe it gave me the confidence to walk over to him.

I managed to speak, though my voice cracked slightly from nervousness. I looked away in embarrassment, trying to save myself. "It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?"

Looking back, I know how bad that was. That was my opening line. That was the first thing I said to someone who had captivated me.

I hadn’t heard him speak a word to anyone before, so I was excited—so excited—to hear his voice. I thought it would live up to the mystery of him. And it did, but the words didn’t.

"Is it beautiful?" he asked, his eyes never leaving the window. His tone was flat. "I think it looks soulless and fake."

I froze. His voice was exactly how I imagined it, but it sounded tired and fed up. Maybe with me, or maybe with the world. I wasn’t sure.

Before I could answer, he spoke again. "You’re fake too, you know? You’re just like I was. I can tell. This goody two-shoes act isn’t you at all, is it?"

My chest tightened. His words hit harder than they should have. They still sting, even now, like an open wound that never fully healed. Not because the boy I had a huge crush on was so cruel to me, but because he was right. He saw through me, completely.

I was fake. And I still am to this day.

Ever since then, I’ve hated looking at him. Not because of who he is, but because we’re the same. Two sides of the same coin, except he threw his mask away and I can’t stop clinging to mine. If it were real, my hand would be bleeding from holding it so tightly.

When Hiura-sensei brought him to the Student Council office and informed me he’d be joining, I was furious. So furious that I clenched my fist so hard, I broke the top of a nail.

I act teasing and annoying, but in reality, I’m devastated. Every time we’re together, it just reminds me of what I can’t do.

Every time I smile, it feels like I’m wearing a mask that’s too tight—like it might crack if I try to breathe too deeply.

And if anything, I’m worse than him. He threw his mask away and lives for himself. Every morning, I look into the mirror and see someone I don’t recognize. I can feel my own reflection burning a hole through me.

It’s like my reflection is mocking me. "You know you’re not happy, right? Why do you keep pretending? Because if you stop pretending, you might have to face the truth. And that’s scarier than playing pretend."

Even today, as the sunlight warms my back, it doesn’t feel comforting. Instead, it feels like it’s exposing me. Like everyone can see through the layers I’ve built. Even now, as he leans back against the window frame, looking bored out of his mind, I wonder if he even remembers that conversation. It’s always felt etched into me, but for him, it was probably nothing

"I really hate you; you know?” Haniuda’s eyes flicked to his face as he cut off her train of thought.

"Don’t worry, the feeling’s mutual," she shot back.

He shrugged, leaning back against the frame of the window. His eyes followed the moon’s slow arrival on the horizon as the warm lights of the day began to vanish.

"But I don’t hate you," he continued. "I hate this version of you—not the real you. This you remind me of how much I hate my old self.”

She muttered something under her breath and turned away again, leaving him to his thoughts. The bandage on his hand itched, but he didn’t bother scratching it.

People like Haniuda confuse me. She clings to things that don’t matter—expectations, appearances, all of it. I let go of that stuff a long time ago. Maybe that’s why we keep clashing.
Or maybe it’s because she sees right through me, too.

The old me would plaster on a smile, act like the good guy, but it was all fake. I decided I’d rather be bad and genuine if I had the choice. Turns out, that’s all a person has, fundamentally. Things like kindness, cruelty, love, hate—people act like they’re opposites, like they push against each other. But in reality… they’re the same. Barely any difference.

Love is hate, and hate is love. Cruelty is kindness, and kindness is cruelty. All feelings are just lies we use to serve the being known as you. We throw these words around so carelessly. But does anyone know what they mean?

Do they? I doubt it.

Even now, as I’m walking home, my bandage turning red, it doesn’t feel real. Pain isn’t real. I’m not real. She isn’t either. Maybe that's why this stings more than it should.

Do we exist? Can anyone explain feelings? No—they can’t. And if they can’t explain that, how can they explain life itself? That’s why I stopped caring. That’s why life is all just a lie. But if that’s true..., why does it still hurt so much?