Chapter 1: The Quiet Disappointment

Hikaru Saito’s POV

The morning rush at Shirasagi High never changed-footsteps, chatter, lockers slamming in rhythm. Students streamed toward their destinations, caught in a current I chose not to join.

I drifted along the edges, unseen. It was not just a habit-it was survival. When you have spent years as a target, invisibility becomes a skill.

The usual insults had dulled over time: “Fatso.” “Waste of space.” “Pathetic.” Familiar words, worn smooth from repetition. Their sting faded, but loneliness didn’t. I adjusted my backpack, kept my head low. Seventeen years in this frame-round-faced, heavy, easy to ridicule. Staying out of sight hurts less.

Home offered no refuge. My father called me a disappointment more often than my name. My mother's silence said worse than words. Kenta, my older brother, an athlete, and academic star, barely acknowledged me unless it was to mock me. Aoi used to reach for me. Now she avoids me like the plague.

Every confrontation with them felt rehearsed. My father bragged about Kenta’s achievements while throwing side glances my way. “Why don’t you join a club?” he muttered once, already walking off. Aoi, once eager to share, now only spoke when she needed something, with hesitation, like I carried shame she didn’t want to catch.

This morning, while I forced down my rice, my mother said, “You're seventeen. Do you want to waste your whole life?”

I didn’t answer. I never do. The words weren’t concern-they were reminders. Our living room echoed their pride in others. Kenta’s medals glinted. Aoi’s awards lined the walls. My existence had no frame, no shelf, no reason to be noticed.

As hopeless as I am, I cannot shake off the feeling that something in my life is going to change. And my existence would be turned upside down. For now, I will wait for this confrontation, while the thought of ending my self grows by the second.

The classroom buzzed with the usual morning chair-scraping, laughter rising. And the hum of familiarity. I slipped through the doorway, keeping my head down, praying no one would notice me.

Too late.

“Well, look who finally decided to roll in,” Daichi muttered from the back row, loud enough for half the class to hear. Snickers followed like clockwork.

“Oh my god, we’re having an earthquake!” Reina shrieked with theatrical horror, clutching her desk like the room was shaking. The class burst into laughter.

I didn’t flinch. I didn’t cry. Not this time.

Once, this would’ve shattered me. Sent me running to the toilets just to breathe. But today? Today, the shame didn’t choke—it simmered.

I stood there, motionless, while they fed off my humiliation like parasites on a carcass. Their laughter filled the air, cruel and careless, and all I could do was clench my fists behind my bag and wait. Not for the storm to pass—but for something in me to finally break.

Not out of fear. Out of fury.

The door slid open with a clatter. Mr Sakagami strode in, late as usual, adjusting his crooked tie like he’d just rolled out of bed. His expression barely registered the laughter echoing through the classroom.

“Alright, alright, settle down,” he called, dropping his bag onto the podium. “Hikaru’s late again, I see. Just… find your seat.”

Just. Find your seat, like I hadn’t just been torn apart just for stepping into the room.

I clutched my bag tighter and moved toward the back, the eyes of the thirty students clinging to me like static. No words. Just watching. Like I was a walking joke they hadn’t finished laughing at.

My desk was only a few steps away. Closer to the back.

Then Daichi shifted his foot. A flick-quick, practised.

My toe caught. My balance vanished.

And I went down. Fast. Face-first.

A loud smack. My cheek hit the floor with enough force to kill. My papers are scattered. My elbow scraped raw.

The room exploded.

Laughter-high, sharp, merciless. A chorus of cruelty that bounced off the walls and buried me beneath it.

I didn’t move.

Not right away, at least.

I just lay there burning. This is how I spent most of my days at school. I wondered if my life was ever going to change.

Today was just one in many encounters that proved my point on school; it was a place where survival was not guaranteed.

I tried keeping my eyes down, tried keeping quiet, and tried staying invisible. These safety procedures usually worked.

But not today.

I left class without a word, clutching my bag like armour. The hallway pulsed with noise: footsteps, lockers, voices that never included mine.

That’s when I saw her.

Akane Fujiwara.

Even from halfway down the corridor, she stood out—poised, luminous, untouchable. Her jet-black hair caught the light, perfectly styled. Her uniform fit like it had been tailored for a photo shoot. She smiled at someone in passing, and the boy practically melted.

Akane wasn’t just pretty—she was beloved. Top grades, class rep, the kind of student teachers bragged about. She didn’t walk through the crowd. She parted it.

But what lingered was her kindness.

They said she could make anyone feel seen. I wouldn’t know. We’d never spoken. I was the kind of person she didn’t notice—shadowed, silent, easy to overlook.

Not everyone adored her.

Some of the tough guys hated that she wouldn’t entertain their egos. They whispered, joked, tried cornering her when teachers weren’t looking. She always slipped past with grace. But I noticed the tremble behind her lashes when they got too close. The flicker in her smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

She was perfect. But not invincible.

And I saw it—just for a second—as she glanced toward me and quickly looked away. Like she recognised me. Like she knew what it was to stand alone in a hallway full of noise.

She was cornered by the stairwell.

No crowd this time—just four boys and one girl pressed against the wall like a glitch in the school’s routine. Her books were clutched to her chest, and that usual Fujiwara glow. Dimmed.

I knew those guys. The kind who laughed too loudly and stared too long. The kind who didn’t take no for an answer.

“Too good to talk to us, Fujiwara?” one sneered. He smirked as he slapped one of her books out of her arms. It hit the tile with a dull thud.

She didn’t flinch. Just pressed herself tighter against the wall, eyes frozen, lips drawn thin.

I didn’t move. Not yet.

But something shifted.

For as long as I could remember, survival had meant silence. Shrinking. Making myself small. I was good at it. Invisible, forgettable—safe.

So why did my feet feel heavier than usual? Why did her fear feel familiar?

Akane wasn’t supposed to be vulnerable. She wasn’t supposed to look like me.

And that was it. That flicker in her eyes—that quiet desperation she couldn’t hide.

It wasn’t that I wanted to be brave.

I just couldn’t bear being a spectator anymore.

If I walked away now, what would it say about me? That I was just a shadow—forever drifting along walls, letting cruelty write the rules?

Maybe stepping forward wouldn’t change my world overnight. It would make everything worse.

But it would be mine. My choice. My moment.

And, just maybe, it would mean I wasn’t completely invisible.

I took a breath. Then I stepped forward.

The hallway stilled. Their laughter paused. Four heads turned. One girl locked eyes with me.

“What’s this?” another said, stepping forward. “The fat loser wants to play hero now?”

I didn’t look away. Didn’t move. Just kept standing there, fists clenched, knees ready to buckle.

“Just… leave her alone.”

The hallway hung in silence. No teachers. No exits. Just the echo of my words lingering in the air.

The lead boy stepped forward, eyes narrowing as he towered over me.

“You’ve got a big mouth for someone who doesn’t even fit in their own skin,” he sneered. “Who told you were allowed to speak?”

I held my ground, even as my breath caught. The hallway around us had stopped moving—just footsteps in the distance, hushed gasps, the brittle silence of waiting to see something break.

Then he moved.

No hesitation.

His leg shot forward in a sharp arc, and his foot slammed into my stomach with full force.

Pain detonated through my body. The air tore out of my lungs. I doubled over, collapsing onto the cold tile with a wet smack, my backpack skidding beside me.

The impact was unforgiving—my cheek scraped raw against the floor, my ribs flared white-hot.

A few students flinched. Most just watched.

The boy hovered above me, breathing hard, eyes burning.

“You want to be a hero?” he said, his voice low and cruel. “Then bleed like one.”

I curled inward, trying to breathe, trying not to cry out.

“Come on,” one of the others said, glancing toward the stairwell. “You’ve made your point.”

“He’s not worth it,” said another, tugging his sleeve. “Someone’s gonna hear this.”

The leader’s lip curled like he might kick me again—just for the satisfaction—but after a moment, he spat on the tile beside my face and turned away.

“Next time,” he muttered, casually. “Next time, you’ll learn to shut your mouth.”

They stalked off, laughter trailing behind them like smoke.

I stayed down.

Not because I couldn’t get up.

But because everything felt… cracked. Slower. Sharper.

My breathing was shallow, my chest was burning, and my ears were buzzing. The tile was cool beneath my skin, and the hallway smelled of dust, floor polish, and lingering cruelty.

She hadn’t moved.

Her back is still against the wall.

Her eyes were fixed on me.

She didn’t look scared anymore.

She looked sorry.

Not just for herself.

For me.

I lay there longer than I should have. Not because the pain was unbearable—though it was—but because I wasn’t ready to face what came next. The hallway had gone quiet, save for a few snickers and the echo of my fall still bouncing off the walls. I felt dust under my palm, the cold sting of tile against my cheek, and heat blooming across my ribs like a wound being traced in slow motion.

Everything hurt.

But not enough to justify staying down.

And yet... I didn’t move.

I knew what they saw. I knew what they’d say. My existence had interrupted their day, and that alone was unforgivable.

Then, she stepped forward.

White shoes. Precise steps. She cut through the crowd like they weren’t even there.

Akane Fujiwara.

Her movements were quiet, unhurried. She stopped just beside me, her gaze sweeping over the damage. There was no drama in her face—only focus. Her hands tightened briefly around the books she’d clutched to her chest. Then she shifted them under one arm and knelt beside me.

“Let me help you,” she said, reaching out.

Her fingers wrapped around my wrist. Firm but gentle. There was no trembling in her grip, no hesitation in her voice.

I stared at her hand for a second too long.

Why?

Why was she here?

Her touch felt foreign. Not just because people didn’t touch me—but because no one, ever, had knelt beside me like this.

Still, I didn’t resist.

Her arm slid beneath mine, and with slow, careful guidance, she helped me to my feet. I winced as pressure flared across my ribs, but her grip never wavered. We stood together, silent in a corridor still buzzing with disbelief.

Then she reached into her blazer pocket and pulled out a folded handkerchief. White silk. Plum blossom embroidery. Something delicate, too soft for this moment.

Without speaking, she lifted it and dabbed at the blood on my chin. Her touch was light—clinical—but she handled it with care. And something else I couldn’t name.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “This is my fault.”

I shook my head, trying to swallow the knot in my throat.

“It’s fine,” I said, voice rasping. “I’m used to it. Doesn’t affect me anymore.”

Her hand froze mid-motion. For a second, she didn’t look at the wound—she looked at me.

“You shouldn’t be,” she whispered.

She folded the handkerchief slowly, deliberately, and placed it in my hand. No words. No instructions.

Just a gift.

I adjusted my backpack and turned to leave. I couldn’t stay—not with everyone watching. I didn’t thank her, didn’t say goodbye. I just walked.

And that’s when the noise started.

Snickers turning into whispers. Whispers are climbing into disgust.

“The nerve of him…”

“Did he just walk away like nothing happened?”

“She wiped his blood. That’s revolting.”

“He’s not even worth being in her line of sight. She should be ashamed.”

“I’m surprised she didn’t choke just breathing the same air as that fat lump.”

I felt each word like static against my skin. Like bugs crawling under clothes. But I didn’t stop. Every step forward felt heavier, slower—less from pain, more from the weight of what I’d broken.

Because I had broken something.

Not bones.

Not rules.

Just... the natural order.

Her touching me. Helping me. Seeing me. That wasn’t supposed to happen. And now, they didn’t know what to do with themselves.

She stayed where she’d knelt, watching me walk away. Her expression didn’t change, but something in her posture had softened. The books she’d held were still tucked under her arm, but her shoulders weren’t rigid anymore.

She didn’t chase me.

She didn’t need to.

She’d already said more than anyone else had in my entire life.

And every student in that hallway saw it. Every stare burned against my back. Every whispered insult couldn’t erase what she’d done. What we both did.

We’d torn a hole in their perfect social equation.

I wasn’t supposed to be noticed.

She wasn’t supposed to notice.

And yet.

I gripped the handkerchief in my fist; blood smudged faintly across its embroidered petals and kept walking.

Not proud.

Not triumphant.

But not small, either.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel invisible.

I felt irreversible.

By the time lunch arrived, I felt like the school itself had turned on its axis. The cafeteria was louder than usual—too loud. Voices ricocheted across tables, laughter rose and fell in waves, and yet all of it felt sharp-edged. Too pointed. Too directed.

I sat alone, as I always did. Back table, seat facing the wall. Safety in the margin. The tray in front of me held a bowl of miso soup and a pile of rice I hadn’t touched. My appetite was gone. Not stolen—just eroded.

A boy from the next table leaned close to his friend.

“He didn’t even flinch when Renji kicked him. Did you see that?”

“I know. Did you see Fujiwara?” another added. “She helped him up. Like, with her actual hands.”

The word “helped” hit differently. It wasn’t the insult they were tossing around. It was the disbelief. The scandal. Like I’d broken some unwritten law of hierarchy—someone like me had crossed into someone else’s territory. And that alone was offensive.

Across the cafeteria, Daichi was mid-performance. His arms flew up with exaggerated drama.

“‘Leave her alone!’” he mimicked, mocking the exact cadence of my voice. “‘I’m used to it now!’—I mean, come on. You can’t script that kind of loser dialogue.”

Laughter burst around him, loud enough to drown everything else out for a moment. I forced my eyes downward, focusing on the chipped edge of the tray. Trying to become smaller. Trying not to listen.

But it was impossible not to.

“He thinks he’s in a romance manga,” Daichi continued. “One punch from Renji and he levelled up emotionally.”

More laughter. This time, even someone from the teacher’s table smiled.

That’s when I started counting.

Five minutes. Just five minutes more.

I waited for the bell like it was a lifeline—an excuse to escape. When it finally rang, I slipped out before anyone could look twice. The hallway outside was thinner now, half the students absorbed into classrooms or crowding near vending machines. I walked slowly, each step stiff from the impact earlier. My ribs throbbed in rhythm with the soles of my shoes against the tile.

I passed the stairwell where it had all happened. The memory rushed back uninvited: the laughter, the kick, the blood. And her.

Her voice. Her hand was under my arm.

No one had ever helped me stand before.

I turned toward my locker, heart pulsing fast now—not because I was afraid, but because I wasn’t sure what I'd find. A new insult shot through the vents. A wad of chewing gum pressed against my textbooks.

Daichi had done worse before.

When I reached the locker, the metal door looked perfectly ordinary. Scratched, slightly dented from years of slammed fists. I hesitated before spinning the lock. The numbers blurred for a second.

Left at seventeen.

Right twelve.

Back to nine.

Click.

I opened the door.

That’s when I saw it.

Something drifted out—slowly, as if it had waited all day to be discovered. A piece of paper. Unfolded, no tape, no decoration. I stared at it for a second before leaning down to pick it up.

No glitter.

No perfume.

Just handwriting.

Elegant. Clean. Tilted slightly right.

I read the words once, then again. My chest tightened with each line.

Thank you for what you did today.
It meant more to me than you know.
Can we meet on the rooftop tomorrow?
—Fujiwara.

I blinked, heart hammering now—not from fear, but something else. Disbelief. Something tender, volatile, and unfamiliar.

She had written it. Not a joke. Not a dare. Just—words. Honest ones. There were no witnesses, no audience, no flair. Just three sentences. And they felt heavier than everything that had happened this morning.

I folded the note carefully and slid it into my pocket. My hands shook. I scanned the hallway, but no one was watching me now. The world continued, blind to the fact that something had shifted beneath my feet.

“Why are you smiling?” a voice called.

I froze.

Daichi again. Coming down the hallway, flanked by two boys from earlier.

“Did someone finally ask you to leave the school?”

I didn’t answer.

“Look at him,” he said, laughing to his friend. “All wide-eyed and hopeful. Probably thinking Fujiwara’s his guardian angel now.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned in. “You think what happened meant something?”

I looked at him—not with anger, but clarity. The kind that comes after you read something you weren’t meant to receive.

“She saw me,” I said.

Daichi rolled his eyes. “Everyone saw you. Crumpled on the ground like a sack of potatoes.”

“But she didn’t laugh,” I added quietly. “She didn’t turn away.”

Daichi opened his mouth to retort, but his friend tugged him back.

“Forget it. He’s not worth it,” the boy said. “Don’t give him another show to cling to.”

They turned and walked off. Their laughter grew distant, like a storm drifting into another town.

I leaned against the locker for a moment, eyes closed, hard pressed to the paper in my pocket.

She had seen me.

And in this school, that meant everything.

The Following Evening:

I sat at the edge of my bed; the note unfolded in my hands for the fiftieth time.

The words hadn’t changed.

Thank you for what you did today.
It meant more to me than you know.
Can we meet on the rooftop tomorrow?
—Fujiwara.

They looked innocent. Sincere. But my head refused to settle.

What if it wasn’t?

The light from my desk lamp cast soft shadows on the crumpled homework beside me. I should've been working—finals were coming—but I couldn’t think about algebra when this letter burned holes in my thoughts.

Was this real?

I stared at the plum-blossom paper as if it might blink and laugh. As if it might suddenly flip and reveal Daichi’s handwriting underneath. It wouldn’t be the first time. Last year, he’d convinced half the class to write fake Valentine's notes and stuff them into my locker. I’d found them all at once—rosy, pink paper, glitter pens, too-perfect hearts. And when I read one aloud at my desk, the whole room cracked open with laughter.

But this note… it didn’t look like theirs. No flair. No sarcasm.

Still, it was Akane Fujiwara.

The girl teachers were praised in every assembly. The one who made top grades look effortless. The one who could calm a room with a smile.

Why would she want to meet me?

I let out a bitter breath and ran a thumb across the crease in the paper. My heart wanted to believe it—so badly it hurt. But my brain kept playing defence.

Could someone like her, even just for a moment, look past everything—past the silence and the stares—and see me?

Not the joke. Not the disappointment.

Just Hikaru.

I folded the letter slowly and tucked it into the drawer beside my bed. My room felt smaller now. But tomorrow if it was real... the rooftop would feel wider.

I wasn’t sure.

But I wanted to find out.

The Following Afternoon (The Next Day):

I could feel my heartbeat echoing in my ears as I climbed the final steps toward the rooftop.

Every footfall sounded too loud, like the school was amplifying my anxiety just to see if I’d back out. The stairwell was painted in soft twilight, faint rays slicing down from the small window near the landing. Dust drifted lazily in the light, suspended like tiny secrets waiting to be stirred.

Was this a mistake? Should I have stayed in class and pretended I never saw her note?

I hadn’t slept much the night before. My brain had been a storm—questioning, doubting, replaying every second of yesterday. The moment I stepped in to stop those guys. The moment she looked at me. The impossibility of everything that followed.

A rooftop invitation? From her?

It didn’t make sense.

The halls leading to the door were quiet—unnaturally so. Like the school was holding its breath. Fluorescent lights overhead buzzed in irregular rhythm, their hum pulsing just under my skin. Somewhere behind closed doors, I heard the distant chatter of students, but it felt muted, far away. Every surface around me—the polished tiles, the pale walls—reflected a weird stillness.

I reached the rooftop door. The handle was cold beneath my fingers, a chill that bit through my skin and curled along my wrist. I hesitated.

For all you know, this could be a trap.

My hand lingered, the weight of that thought pressing against my chest.

Then I pushed the door open.

The wind greeted me with a rush—cool and sharp, curling around my jacket and tugging at the collar. It smelled faintly of early rain and sun-warmed concrete. The rooftop stretched out before me, washed in the soft glow of twilight. The city unfolded in layers beyond the railing: clusters of rooftops, speckled windows catching fading light, telephone wires etched against a melting sky.

But I didn’t look at the skyline for long.

My gaze was drawn to her.

Akane stood by the railing, her back to me, looking out at the view. She was still, perfectly balanced, like the wind didn’t dare push her. Her long hair streamed behind her, lifted and swept by invisible currents. Her blazer flared softly at the hem, and the pleats of her skirt shifted in slow rhythm with the breeze.

She looked composed. Poised. As perfect as always.

And impossibly distant.

For a second, I stood there frozen. My heart was in my throat, my stomach a tangled knot. I knew what I was supposed to do, what I was supposed to say, but the words wouldn’t come. How do you speak to someone like her without sounding like a mistake?

Before I could turn around, she glanced over her shoulder.

And then, she turned to face me.

That same warm smile that always seemed effortless appeared on her lips—but something about it tugged at me. There was a pause behind it, a crack in the glass. In her eyes, I saw something else. Tension. Weight.

It wasn’t a smile like everyone else's.

It felt too practised. Too perfect.

“Hey,” she said. Her voice was soft, calm—velvet threading through the air. “I’m glad you came.”

I opened my mouth, unsure what would come out. My voice wavered.

“I wasn’t sure,” I said. “Didn’t know what this was.”

She studied me quietly, her gaze steady.

“I understand,” she replied. “Honestly… I wasn’t sure I’d send that note.”

“Why did you?”

She exhaled. It sounded like relief.

“Because it’s different with you.”

I blinked. “Different?”

Akane nodded slightly, turning her face back toward the sky for a moment.

“I don’t usually reach out to people,” she said. “It’s easier not to. Easier to keep space between myself and… everything else.”

She paused.

“But with you… It didn’t feel like distance was needed.”

Her words hung there, like they weren’t sure if they belonged in the air.

I stepped closer until the space between us felt something like intention.

“You didn’t have to thank me,” I said. “I wasn’t trying to be—”

“Brave?” she finished. “Heroic?”

“I don’t know. I just couldn’t walk away.”

Her smile softened, less practised now. Just lips and breath.

“I’ve always been good at keeping people out,” she said. “I know what people think. That I’ve got everything figured out. That I’m above it all.”

She stared at her hands.

“But being perfect… It’s a mask. A loud one. No one ever looks past it.”

I hesitated. “It must be lonely.”

“It is.”

She looked up again, her eyes meeting mine. And there, just for a second, I saw it.

Red.

Not glowing. But unmistakably crimson.

Unnatural.

A shade that didn’t belong in the human spectrum.

I blinked hard.

It could have been the sunset. It could have been a trick of light.

Just a rare genetic trait.

She didn’t blink. Didn’t look away.

And I chose not to ask.

“It’s different with you,” she said again, voice a whisper now. “I don’t feel like I have to hide.”

I stood still, unsure if this was the part where something broke or something began.

She stepped closer.

No rush. No performance.

Her fingers reached out, grazing my jaw.

Then—without hesitation—her lips brushed my cheek.

Cool.

Soft.

Brief.

But the warmth it left behind surged through me like fire in snow.

I didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Her touch lingered like starlight on skin.

She stepped back slowly, her eyes softer than they’d ever been.

“We’ll see each other soon,” she said, quiet and certain.

Then she turned and walked away, vanishing through the door like the moment hadn’t just rewritten everything inside me.

I didn’t chase her.

I didn’t speak.

I simply stood there, surrounded by wind and melting light.

Her crimson eyes burned faintly in memory.

But I told myself it was nothing.

Just a rare genetic thing.

Right?