I'm Mentally a Masochist

Quick heads-up:
( ) = Kaze's inner monologues

The morning after everything happened arrived without warning, which somehow made it worse.

Takuya Kaze woke up, but he didn’t sit up.

The ceiling remained where it always was, pale and uninteresting, faint morning light slipping through the curtains without urgency. His body registered awareness, but not intention. An arm lay loosely across his chest, warm, familiar. His elder sister, Takuya Yua had sneaked in again during the night. Normally, he would have noticed — pushed her away, complained under his breath, told her to stop treating him like a child. This time, he didn’t. He didn’t resist. He didn’t even sigh. Moving felt like an unnecessary expense.

Yua shifted slightly, her forehead pressing into his shoulder, breathing slow and steady. Kaze stared upward, eyes half-open, letting the moment exist without interfering.

(I’m tired.)

Not emotionally. Just functionally. Tired of reacting, tired of correcting people’s assumptions, tired of deciding how much of himself he needed to show just to be acknowledged.

“…You’re heavy,” Kaze muttered.

“Mmm? That’s rude,” she replied sleepily, tightening her hold instead of loosening it. “Good morning to you too.”

He didn’t push her away this time. Usually he would’ve complained, wriggled free, or at least sighed loudly on purpose. Today, he just stared at the ceiling, eyes half-open, body too tired to argue with her.

She noticed the lack of resistance after a moment and lifted her head slightly. “Wow. No struggle?” Her lips curled into a grin. “Did you finally accept your fate?”

“Just… don’t feel like moving,” he said.

She hummed, then poked his cheek. “That’s new. You’re usually grumpier in the morning.”

She shifted, resting her chin on his chest now, clearly enjoying the situation. “You know, if you don’t complain, I might start thinking you like this.”

He glanced down at her. “…Don’t get weird ideas.”

“Too late.” She laughed softly, then ruffled his hair with unnecessary enthusiasm. She didn’t stop. Instead, she leaned closer, lowering her voice just enough to sound mock-serious. “You’re not skipping school, are you?”

“…No.”

“Too bad, I was thinking of having a lot of fun with you later, hehe...” She relaxed again, squeezing him once before finally rolling off — slowly, deliberately, like she was dragging it out on purpose. “Alright, alright. I’ll spare you. But don’t get used to it.”

He sat up only after she stood, rubbing his shoulder where her weight had been.

“…You always say that,” he muttered.

She paused at the door and glanced back with a smile that was half teasing, half oddly gentle. “Yeah. And you always let me.”

The door closed behind her.

He stayed seated on the bed a moment longer than necessary.

(…Annoying.)

But warm.

School unfolded without friction. He walked, sat, listened, responded when necessary. No one approached him. No one avoided him either. He existed in a space beyond attention. Even the whispers were gone.

(It’s quieter than I expected.)

Quiet, and efficient — like the world had finally decided he wasn’t worth commenting on.

In class, his name was absent. Teachers called on others. Groupings formed naturally without accounting for him. He wasn’t excluded; he simply wasn’t considered. The realization didn’t sting. Pain required energy. This was something else — dull, weighty, and persistent.

After class, Izumi-sen stopped him.

“Stay for a moment, Kaze.”

He paused by the window while she stacked her papers, sunlight cutting across the room at a forgiving angle. She didn’t look at him immediately.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” she said casually.

“I’m always quiet.”

She glanced at him then, unimpressed. “You’ve been quieter than your usual version of quiet.”

He shrugged. “Must be an upgrade.”

She laughed softly, then stepped closer and placed a hand on his head, patting it once — gentle, unhesitating.

“You don’t need to downgrade yourself to disappear,” she said. “You’re doing fine.”

“…That’s a bold assumption.”

“Is it?” she asked, smiling. “I still trust you.”

That stopped him. Not because of the words, but because of how easily she said them. No caution. No doubt. Just trust, handed over without requiring proof.

She reached out without warning and pressed two fingers lightly against his forehead.

“You’re warm. And spaced out.”

Kaze stiffened. “Sensei, personal space.”

“Oh? You suddenly care about that?” She smiled. “You didn’t even flinch.”

He frowned slightly. “…Didn’t feel like it.”

She studied him for another second, then — almost casually — rested her hand on his head again, this time ruffling his hair in a way that clearly ignored his dignity.

“Honestly,” she said, “you’re like a stray cat that forgot how to hiss.”

“Tch…” He looked away. “That’s a terrible metaphor.”

“And yet you didn’t swat my hand away.” She withdrew, amused. “Progress.”

He muttered something under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. Just thinking you’re enjoying this too much.”

“Maybe,” she replied lightly. “Someone has to remind you that you’re still here.”

Her tone softened at the end — not dramatic, not heavy. Just factual.

“Don’t disappear on me, Kaze.”

He didn’t answer right away.

“…I’ll try,” he said eventually.

She nodded, satisfied, then picked up her papers again as if nothing unusual had happened. “Good. Now go home before I start charging you for emotional labor.”

He stood, hesitated, then bowed slightly. “Thanks… Izumi-sensei.”

She waved him off. “Next time, bring less gloom and more effort.”

As he stepped into the hallway, his hand unconsciously brushed through his hair, still faintly disheveled.

(…Annoying.)

But not unpleasant.

By the time he stepped into the hallway, the warmth faded quickly. Students passed him without acknowledgment, conversations flowing around him like water around a stone. Whatever momentary presence he’d regained dissolved effortlessly.

After cleaning the rooftop...

On the way home, he walked slower than usual, not out of reluctance, but because there was no reason to hurry. Houses passed. Cars moved. The world operated smoothly without needing his participation.

(I wish I were hated.)

The thought came uninvited.

Hatred required awareness. Emotion. Direction. Indifference required nothing at all. Being disliked meant someone still cared enough to react.

(I wish I were hated like before.)

He exhaled slowly, hands buried in his pockets.

At least then, I mattered enough to be disliked.

And with that, he kept walking, though the thought just now is immaterial.

End of Chapter