Hugo Narakami

A chair leg shrieked across the floor. Someone whooped loud enough to rattle the windowpane. Hugo’s pen paused mid-air as laughter burst behind him, sharp and sudden, like a balloon popping too close to his ear.

Through the open classroom window, the spring breeze carried the scent of cherry blossoms, but inside, the air was thick with the jittery tension of a new semester. Desks scraped against the floorboards. Convenience store snack wrappers crinkled. Across the room, a group of guys aggressively debated the merits of different beach trips, their laughter overlapping and echoing off the chalkboard.

Hugo Narakami sat in the middle row, his back perfectly straight, staring at a blank page in his new notebook.

He uncapped his pen. Carefully, he pressed the tip to the top line to write the date. His finger twitched. The ink skipped, leaving a microscopic, jagged gap in the number '4'.

He stared at the broken number. It was a tiny thing, barely noticeable, but it gnawed at him. A mistake. His thumb hovered over the edge of the paper. It would be so easy to tear it out. To start fresh. To ensure the notebook remained flawless.

Instead, he quietly closed the cover, hiding the imperfection, and slid the notebook into his desk. Out of sight, out of mind. If I don't do anything, he reminded himself, I can't do anything wrong.

Around him, everyone seemed to be stitching themselves into something. The boy in front of him spun around, arm outstretched for a high-five, not to Hugo but to the boy behind him.

So, Hugo leaned back a fraction of an inch. Not enough to be noticed. Just enough that no one brushed his sleeve.

He adjusted the crease of his trousers and reopened his notebook to the same blank page.

Youth was supposed to be a time for mistakes and firsts. For crushes, heartbreaks, and discovering who you wanted to become. But what if you never stepped up to the plate to swing?

The homeroom teacher walked in, his worn leather shoes clicking against the linoleum. He launched into the standard, well-rehearsed greeting about a fresh start and working hard. The syllables blurred together. Hugo kept his eyes fixed on a scuff mark near the edge of his desk. He didn't raise his hand. He didn't nod. He stayed perfectly still, as if participation required movement he wasn’t willing to make.

When the final bell rang, the gentle chaos of belonging consumed the room. Backpacks were slung over shoulders. Groups migrated toward the door, finalizing plans for karaoke or club meetings.

Hugo waited exactly forty-five seconds for the bottleneck at the door to clear. He packed his bag with practiced efficiency, stood up, and slipped out the back door. No one called his name. No heads turned. 

By the time he stood to leave, the classroom had already rearranged itself without him.

The walk home was unhurried. The afternoon streets were quiet, the air cooling as the sun began its descent. A few yards ahead, an old, jagged crack ran violently through the concrete sidewalk—a deep, permanent scar in the pavement.

Hugo slowed his pace. Maybe things were meant to crack, a stray thought whispered in his mind. Perhaps they had to, or nothing would ever change. He stared at the broken concrete for a long moment. Then, he deliberately lengthened his stride and stepped entirely over it, his shoe landing safely on the smooth, unbroken pavement on the other side.

At home, the familiar click of his bedroom door shutting felt like a heavy sigh. He dropped his bag on the floor, kicked off his loafers, and let gravity pull him face-first onto his bed. The springs gave a tired, metallic creak beneath him.

He rolled over and pulled his phone from his pocket. The screen flared to life, illuminating the dim room.

No Notification.

Hugo refreshed once. Then again.

The silence of the room pressed in, thick and complete.

His thumb moved in a rhythmic, mindless swipe, scrolling through posts of people he barely knew.

Eventually, he opened a streaming app. The last episode he’d watched resumed. On the screen, a character sobbed openly, fists clenched, shouting that they’d rather fail than never try.

Hugo turned the volume down another notch.

The dialogue became muffled. Almost safe.

Hugo watched them with blank, half-lidded eyes, the volume turned down so low it was practically a whisper.

"Hugo! Dinner!" his mother's voice drifted up from the kitchen. 

"Coming..." 

Hugo stood up slowly. Looking back at his dark room, he shut the door and left.

When Hugo entered the kitchen and sat at the dining table, his mother looked up from the stove.

"How was the first day?" His mother asked.

"Fine," he replied in a flat voice.

As long as no one asked for more, he didn’t have to give more.

The hum of the refrigerator filled the kitchen.
His mother’s chopsticks tapped lightly against porcelain.
Hugo closed his eyes and counted the taps—one, two, three—until the rhythm steadied.

He didn’t open them again.