The sky didn't cry with him. It was calm—perhaps too calm—as though it had no interest in his emotions. Above the school rooftop, the sun had already begun its descent, painting the clouds with a gentle orange hue. But there was no warmth in that glow, at least not for Ikaru Shinji.
He stood there motionless, fingers still clutching a crushed letter, his heart slower than usual but somehow heavier than ever. Tachibana Rei had left without so much as a backward glance. Her words—sharp, decisive—still echoed in his ears.
"I can't. Sorry, I mistook you for someone else," she had said with a small smile, her voice polite yet distant. Her final sentence had cut deeper than she probably realized: "Because you're not my type, Ikaru-kun."
There had been no room for hope. No soft letdown. No space for him to squeeze in even a sentence to save face. Rei had spoken as if she were brushing off a stranger asking for directions, not a boy who had clung to her smile for years. And then she walked away—gracefully, effortlessly—leaving behind the scent of her perfume and a boy whose entire high school fantasy shattered in one interaction.
"I guess… that's that," Ikaru muttered to himself. His voice didn't sound like his. It came out hoarse, distant, like a thought spoken aloud by mistake. He didn't even know what expression was on his face. Numb, probably. Blank, definitely.
But as he turned to leave, something… shifted.
The air around him flickered for a fraction of a second. His vision twisted, colors bending, like a warped television screen struggling to load. He staggered, thinking maybe it was the blood rushing from his head or the shock catching up to him. But then it appeared—floating in midair, glowing softly—a translucent panel with clean lines and text he couldn't ignore.
He froze.
"What… the hell?" he whispered.
His surroundings returned to normal, but the screen didn't vanish. In fact, it sharpened in focus. The panel looked like something from a video game. Smooth interface. Loading bars. System messages. His name, Ikaru Shinji, was displayed right at the top. And beneath it, words he didn't understand.
"System of Rejection activated."
He blinked.
Surely this was a hallucination. A coping mechanism. A trauma response, right?
But as he tried to brush it away with his hand, the screen didn't move. It just stayed there, floating in front of him, calmly pulsing. And then, just as suddenly, it vanished—replaced by a cold breeze brushing against his cheek.
Ikaru clutched his chest. His heartbeat was normal again. The world was back to being ordinary. But he couldn't shake the feeling that something had awakened inside him.
The rest of the day felt like walking underwater. The confession. The rejection. The hallucination—or whatever that system thing was—it all spiraled inside his mind like a storm he couldn't run from. He passed through the halls like a ghost, too dazed to notice the other students. Their laughter sounded distant. Their conversations, meaningless. He wasn't angry. Not yet. Just… detached.
Back in the classroom, even the teacher's voice felt hollow. When he was called to answer a simple math problem, he stood up, opened his mouth—and completely blanked out. A small wave of laughter rolled across the class, not cruel but indifferent. He sat back down, numb again.
By lunchtime, Ikaru found himself sitting alone in a corner near the vending machines. His appetite was gone. Even the taste of water felt bitter. He stared blankly ahead, feeling nothing and everything at once.
He took out his phone—not to check messages, because there were none—but just to pretend he wasn't completely alone. Then, without warning, that strange screen appeared again. This time, not in the world around him but on his phone. A new message blinked across the display:
"You've taken your first rejection. Emotional Damage +87. Trait unlocked: Emotional Suppression Lv1."
He nearly dropped the phone.
"No… no, this can't be real," he muttered. "What even is this?"
A second message appeared. "Welcome, Ikaru Shinji. You are now the Player of Rejection. Survive. Level up. Win the Romance Game."
He stared at the text. His mouth was dry. He wanted to laugh—maybe scream—but all that escaped his lips was a quiet, bitter chuckle.
If this was insanity, then maybe it was the good kind.
By the end of the day, the system had faded again, but its impact lingered. Everything felt surreal. A rejection wasn't supposed to trigger some fantasy game mechanic. It was supposed to hurt, then pass. But here he was—still aching, still bleeding internally—and now with some kind of… system? Interface? Game?
Back at home, Ikaru laid on his bed, eyes tracing the cracks on the ceiling. The room was quiet except for the occasional honk from the street below and the distant ticking of a wall clock. He didn't move. Just breathed.
Minutes passed. Then the system blinked into his vision again.
"Daily Summary:Emotional Damage: -14Interaction Attempts: 1Hope Acquired: 1 (rare)New Route Unlocked: UnknownNew Character Encounter Registered: ???"
He frowned. That last part…
He remembered it now. A girl—quiet, sharp-eyed—had passed him in the school garden. She had said something.
"You look like you just lost everything," she told him. Not mockingly. Not out of pity. Just… a simple observation.
And then she left.
She didn't know about the confession. She didn't know about the system. But her voice had reached him, even when he felt unreachable.
Maybe… maybe that's how healing starts. Not with a grand gesture. But with a small moment that breaks the pattern of silence.
He turned over, burying half his face into the pillow.
He should've cried. But the tears didn't come.
Maybe the system really did suppress his emotions.
Maybe that was a good thing.
Or maybe… he was already becoming something else entirely.
Someone who didn't need love to feel complete.
Someone who saw rejection not as an ending—but a beginning.