The hallway light flickered when Yuuya stepped out of his bedroom. One blink, then another. He waited for a third — it never came. Silence returned.
He didn't like to disturb it.
Downstairs, the kitchen smelled like stale oil and rain. The wind had cracked a window open again. He closed it, quietly. His hands moved from habit. The lock clicked into place. He didn't sigh. He didn't frown. He just moved.
The house had belonged to his grandfather. It still did, technically, even though the old man had died two years ago. No one claimed it. No one wanted it. His parents hadn't even bothered to send movers when they threw him out. Just a single text and a cardboard box on the front step.
That was over a year ago.
He made his breakfast: one boiled egg, one piece of bread, a sprinkle of salt. He sat at the table and ate with precise movements. Not rushed. Not slow. His back was straight. The ceiling fan spun without noise.
Across from him sat no one.
After he finished, he washed the dish and left it to dry.
The sky was cloudy as he walked to school. His uniform was ironed. His bag slung over one shoulder. He moved like water around groups of students, cutting across intersections at sharp diagonals. He didn't talk. He didn't make eye contact.
The whispers followed anyway.
"He still comes here?"
"Is he trying to be brave or just pathetic?"
"Don't look at him. He might snap."
He knew all their voices.
He knew their habits, too — which ones pretended not to see him, which ones laughed when he was shoved, which ones smiled at him only when teachers were watching. He remembered names. He remembered footsteps. But he didn't act on it. Not yet.
At his locker, a single shoe had been placed inside. Not his size. Not even a boy's. A note was tucked into it.
"Found your girlfriend. Looks just like you."
He looked at the note, then the shoe. He removed both. Dropped them in the trash without a word. He closed the locker slowly. Metal against metal echoed louder than it should've.
As he walked to class, a voice called from behind.
"Yuuya-kun!"
Kaori.
Her voice was light — not empty. Not mocking.
He turned, just enough.
She approached, holding a small towel-wrapped package in both hands. "You forgot your handkerchief yesterday," she said, offering it. "You dropped it behind the gym."
He looked at it. Then at her.
"Thank you," he said, his voice steady.
She smiled. "It's clean. I washed it."
He didn't ask her to. He didn't scold her for it either.
"…Thanks," he said again, taking it. Their fingers didn't touch.
Kaori didn't linger. She gave a little nod and walked off toward her friends. But her glance lingered as she turned the corner.
Yuuya watched her go for one beat too long before turning away.
Lunch was where it always was: behind the gym. Cold concrete wall. Rusty fence. Gray sky.
He unwrapped a sandwich and bit into it without expression. He chewed. He watched clouds shift above the net poles. Wind stirred trash in a circle like it couldn't decide where to drop it.
He didn't hear footsteps this time.
"Mind if I sit?"
Kaori again.
She didn't wait for an answer. She sat beside him, careful not to brush shoulders.
"Are you always alone out here?" she asked, unwrapping her bento.
"Yes."
She looked sideways. "Do you want to be?"
Yuuya paused. Swallowed. Wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. Then said:
"I don't want company I have to clean up after."
Kaori blinked. Then laughed softly — surprised, not offended.
"That's the harshest thing I've ever heard said with a calm face."
He shrugged. "I didn't mean it harshly."
"Still. Ouch."
She ate a rice ball. The wind shifted. Something about the silence felt heavier with two people in it.
"You don't talk much," she said eventually.
"Because talking doesn't change how people act."
"You think I'm pretending to be nice."
Yuuya turned slightly. Their eyes met.
"I think," he said slowly, "you haven't shown me otherwise yet."
Kaori didn't smile this time. She looked down. "Fair."
That evening, Yuuya walked home with his bag light and his expression the same as always — unreadable. But somewhere behind his calm, something pulsed. Not hope. Not warmth.
Something closer to awareness.
Like a wire pulled tight.
Waiting to snap.