Chapter 2, Part 2 - An Anxious Race In An Empty School

School

I'm running. Why?

I don't want to suffer something that only I can understand right now. It doesn't matter how or how fast—what matters is fighting to avoid something I never want to feel again. And yet, it's already too late.

The bell rang a few minutes ago, which means that the moment I step into the classroom, an army of eyes will land on me, examining me as if tomorrow didn't exist. Or at least, that's what my mind imagines with its surreal scenarios.

My only hope is that the teacher hasn't arrived yet. Usually, before an authoritative figure enters, the classroom is complete chaos: students mind their own business, doing whatever they want. If things are like that this time too, maybe I'll be able to slip in without drawing too much attention.

I'm out of breath.

My body keeps demanding air—inhale, exhale, again and again. Is all this effort normal? I mean, everyone ends up like this after physical activity... but this much?

I know I'm not athletic. I know it all too well. But maybe if I exercised once in a while, things would be easier. Maybe I'd manage these daily runs without feeling like I'm being dragged through hell.

It also feels like my heart wants to burst out of my chest. I can feel it pounding as it keeps pace with my ragged breathing. At times I can even hear it in my ears—an unpleasant, unsettling sensation.

The heart is the center of the living body, the core of life itself. Its function, its pumping of blood, is vital for us humans. And yet, in the grand scheme of things, it's just a part. Only one of many.

Because every single action originates somewhere else: every task our organs perform is dictated by the brain and its many regions.

Not that it matters right now. Still, there's a lot to think about when it comes to how we work—emotionally and physically.

And then... could the supposedly most useless part really stand up to the most important one?

The school corridors feel cold—both in temperature and appearance.

The first is easy to explain: the radiators are off. All of them. Every single device capable of producing heat is shut down. Why? Well... they don't work. The school has had some issues lately, especially financial ones, so...

Technically, we students would have the right not to come to school. But nobody really follows the rules. No one cares, as long as conditions inside the building remain tolerable.

What matters is studying. Nothing else.

As for the second meaning of "cold," I'm referring to the colors, the decorations, anything that could suggest style. The longer I stay here, the more my mind drifts toward negative thoughts—and that's something I have to avoid at all costs.

The farther I look ahead, the emptier everything seems. Just like the bathroom at home, which looks like an endless stretch of white. The difference is that here everything is a faded green.

And the windows, which should help you breathe, give your eyes some relief from these awful walls... do nothing. Literally nothing.

They're supposed to let in light, and something does come in, sure, but it's so dim it's useless. It makes no sense at all.

Wait. I think I know how to describe this feeling.

This hallway is long, and on the right side there's a sea of classrooms stretching endlessly forward.

The farther you go, the more it feels like you're standing in the exact same spot, as if you were trapped in a loop.

Put that way, there's no better word for this experience than disgusting. On top of that comes a constant feeling of suffocation, as if the space around me were slowly closing in—even though the hallway isn't even that narrow.

Its monotony and bare appearance make it easy to believe you're in a claustrophobic place.

My soul is the only thing present in this atmosphere; no one can reach me without suffering its effects.

Thankfully, this space can't truly trap me. It can't convince me of its illusion, nor make me a victim of a system it created itself.

Why?

Because the voices coming from the classrooms anchor me to reality—or rather, to logic. Along with them come familiar sounds from my backpack: small, insignificant noises like the clinking of a zipper, but enough to remind me that I'm still here, that I haven't completely lost myself in my thoughts.

I'm afraid of being stuck in a room with no exit.

I'm afraid of being trapped in a small space, completely alone.

I'm afraid of these things even though they've never actually happened to me.

My run ends.

My body stops, turns. I've arrived.

In front of me stands the door to my dreadful classroom: 1F.

One of those classes the entire school will never forget because of the chaos it's caused in just two months.

I take a breath to calm myself—it's become a habit. Without it, I can't reach anything close to a stable state.

You can do this, Kaede. Even if they look at you, keep your head down and don't do anything strange. Don't trip, don't walk weirdly—if you move differently from usual, they'll notice immediately.

Please, let the teacher not be here.

I reach out to grab the handle.

No! Stop! a part of me insists.

My hand...

...is trembling like a leaf and refuses to stop.

How am I supposed to do this if my body won't cooperate? I know this is happening because my mind isn't convinced, but right now I need all the calm I can get.

But I have to go in. If I don't, the teacher might arrive and see me, and I really don't want to have an awkward conversation with that adult. It would be embarrassing and hard to deal with—especially if she's in a bad mood.

She could ask me anything, starting with whether I studied. And yes, I did, but I don't want to be questioned. A conversation like that could make her pick me instead of someone else.

My situation is already fragile. I don't want it to get worse. I don't want to fail—not again. My parents would be crushed if I got another bad grade, and I can't let that happen. I can't disappoint the only people who believe in me.

I studied, yet I feel like someone who didn't open a book all weekend but still cares about school. Because there are those who sometimes get lazy, and then there are those who hate school entirely and refuse to participate in anything.

It's not fair. I shouldn't feel like this.

I should be confident, happy, aware that if I put myself out there I could get good grades—grades that might actually lead somewhere.

Instead, here I am, the stupidest of the stupid.

What if someone's watching me?

What if someone sees me standing here, frozen in front of the door, unable to move?

Or what if someone inside is watching the door closely enough to notice my shadow?

If that's the case, I should prepare myself for more days of being the class joke.

I slap myself. I don't know how I managed to control it, but I made sure it wasn't too hard—just enough to snap myself out of my thoughts.

Come on. I need courage. A lot of it.

I can do this. I'll win this battle, and no one will defeat me.

I'll take down every fighter in this coliseum, whether they're wild beasts or cruel humans. I'd prefer to have proper equipment, but I have none.

Still, I'm going.

The trembling remains, though weaker now.

I reach the handle, and at the first touch I hear a faint creak. Someone attentive might already realize someone's about to come in.

I open it.

I step inside.

I close it.

My ears are immediately flooded with noise. The combined sounds of about twenty bodies surround me, leaving me with a strange sense of relief. If this is how things are, then I'm sure the teacher isn't here.

That's my proof—but I shouldn't assume. I lift my gaze slightly to scan the room.

The teacher's desk is empty. The desks are full. The symbol of authority isn't anywhere near the board or the cabinet at the back.

It seems luck is on my side—though I know that the moment I opened the door, everyone looked my way. A student entering always draws attention. It could be someone coming to talk to the teacher, or someone bringing good news, like school being closed for a few days.

There's just one problem: right now, everyone is extra alert. The teacher isn't here, so the door opening could mean she's about to arrive—which means everyone needs to act normal again.

In short, every single eye is on me. Maybe only a few have already looked away.

I start walking with my head down. I'm here now, and I have to endure this day. No one ever really notices me this much, except in rare cases—and that's exactly why I need to watch my step.

Someone could trip me. And that would be terrifying—not just physically, but mentally too, considering what people might say.

Slowly, I reach my desk. I hang my backpack on the chair and sit down as if I hadn't just made a scene getting in.

I'm safe. Or at least, I think I am.

Any interaction is a danger. Any contact is a threat.

I'm a strange human being, considering that one of the main purposes of humanity is to form connections with others.

Though not all bonds are healthy—some are forced, trapping you in situations you secretly hate.

"Oh, look who's here."

That voice...

"I was getting worried. I thought you weren't coming, squirrel."