Attention seeker

He navigated the empty, cool hallways of the school building, the fluorescent lights humming softly overhead. He reached the door to the infirmary and reached for the sliding handle.

Before his fingers could touch the metal, the door abruptly slid open from the other side.

Standing in the doorway, a stack of health forms in her hand, was Yuri Mirakawa.

She froze. Her sharp grey eyes widened slightly as they took in his disheveled hair, the dirt on his uniform, and the heavily blood-soaked wad of tissues pressed to the center of his face.

The surprise lasted for exactly one second. Then, her eyes narrowed, her posture hardening into immediate, instinctual defense.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice dropping into a flat, icy tone.

Hugo looked at her.

Then at the infirmary sign beside the door.

Then back at her.

He didn't say a word. He didn't sigh. He slowly raised his free hand and pointed a single index finger directly at the massive, blooming red stain on his face. He held his finger there, making intense, unblinking eye contact with her, letting the sheer, suffocating stupidity of her question hang in the silence between them.

Yuri’s jaw tightened. A faint flush of embarrassment crept up her neck, which immediately morphed into anger. She crossed her arms, her knuckles white.

"Trying to get everyone’s attention again?" she snapped, stepping closer, her voice laced with practiced cruelty. "Like, 'Look at me. I’m so tragic. Please notice me.' Same as the desk yesterday. You just want people to look at you."

Hugo dropped his hand. His gaze remained deadpan.

She was completely wrong, of course. She was projecting a narrative onto him that didn't exist. He didn't want attention. He wanted an ice pack and a stain remover pen.

But explaining that would require effort. It would require opening a dialogue, defending his character, and engaging in a social transaction.

Hugo stepped sideways, bypassing her entirely. "Excuse me," he mumbled through the tissue, his tone utterly devoid of interest.

He walked past her without waiting for a reaction. Yuri let out an audible, frustrated scoff, her shoes clicking sharply against the linoleum as she stormed off down the hallway without looking back.

Hugo stepped into the infirmary. It was a quiet white box, smelling faintly of antiseptic and old paper. A ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, the gentle whirring masking the faint throbbing in his skull.

The nurse took one look at him, sighed, and motioned to the nearest examination bed.

Ten minutes later, Hugo was lying flat on his back, a heavy chemical ice pack resting across his nose. The bleeding had stopped. There was a faint, dried blotch of blood on the collar of his gym shirt. He noted it with a deep sense of resignation.

"Any dizziness? Nausea?" the nurse asked from her desk, the scratching of her pen filling the silence.

"No," Hugo replied, his voice echoing slightly in the empty room.

"Rest there for the remainder of the period. I'll write you a pass."

Hugo closed his eyes. The cold from the ice pack seeped into his skin, dulling the ache. In the darkness behind his eyelids, Yuri’s angry, frustrated face flickered in his mind. You just want people to look at you.

He didn't feel self-doubt. He didn't wonder if she was right.

Hugo exhaled slowly through his mouth.

The ice pack shifted slightly against his nose.

He didn’t adjust it.

People were so determined to drag him into their drama. They couldn't accept that someone might just want to exist quietly. They had to assign a motive to his silence. They had to make him a villain, or a tragic figure, or a problem to be solved.

Hugo adjusted the ice pack, settling deeper into the uncomfortable mattress.

The room was quiet. The fan turned steadily overhead. Hugo kept his eyes closed.

He just wanted to be left alone. And based on how the last forty-eight hours had gone, being left alone was going to be an exhausting amount of work.

Statistically speaking, if a mass occupies space on an active soccer pitch while refusing to move, a high-velocity projectile will eventually strike it. It was basic physics.

Hugo stared at the ceiling tiles of the infirmary, letting this logic wash over him. The chemical ice pack resting across the bridge of his nose had transitioned from numbingly cold to a depressing, lukewarm mush.

He didn’t blame the kid who cleared the ball. If anyone was to blame, it was him. A lapse in concentration. A failure to accurately calculate the trajectory of the ball. A mistake.

"Alright, Narakami," the nurse said, the wheels of her chair squeaking against the linoleum as she stood. "The bleeding has stopped. Swelling is minimal. You can head back to class for the final period."

Hugo sat up, tossed the warm plastic pack into the medical waste bin, and accepted the hall pass she handed him without a word.

The hallways were a different world during class hours. They were completely empty, filled only with the faint, fluorescent hum of the ceiling lights and the muffled sounds of lectures bleeding through closed doors. Passing the central stairwell, a burst of loud laughter echoed from a group of students loitering near the vending machines. One guy was leaning against the wall, clutching his stomach, while the others grinned and shoved his shoulder.

Hugo didn't look their way. He didn't feel a pang of jealousy or a desperate yearning to join them. He just adjusted his stride, keeping his footsteps perfectly silent.

He had spent years perfecting the art of fading away. It started small—sitting a little further back, speaking a little softer, letting conversations wash over his head without offering a response. When society realized he wouldn't fight for space, they happily closed the gap and erased him.

He wasn't angry about it. Anger required calories. Anger required investment. He was simply exhausted by the sheer, overwhelming effort it took for normal people to exist. Laughing, arguing, crying, demanding attention—it all looked like a massive, high-risk liability. One wrong word, one misplaced joke, and you were a target.

Silence, he had concluded, was the ultimate armor. If you offered them absolutely nothing, they couldn't take anything away.