He watched her from the edge of the crowd, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded in that way he did when he was trying not to look like he cared. He saw the way they clung to her, leaned on her, pulled from her like she had more to give than anyone else.
But he'd seen her when her hair was tangled and damp, when the sharp edges of exhaustion clung under her eyes. He'd seen the way her hands trembled when no one was looking. The way she flinched when her bandage tugged before it left a white scar.
He knew this girl—the one standing at the center of the hallway like a storybook heroine. She wore a costume. A uniform stitched together from praise and pressure and the desperate need to keep it together.
And it pissed him off.
Because no one else seemed to notice. Because she wouldn't let them.
Because even now, even after everything, she still thought she had to do it all on her own.
So he leaned back against the wall, watching her laugh politely at something a junior said, watching her carry the weight like it was light.
And he muttered under his breath, "Idiot."
Not because she wasn't perfect.
But because she still thought she had to be.
Kai, Riko didn't just run—
She moved like she was born for it.
Even from where he stood, arms folded at the edge of the court, Hoshina could feel the energy ripple through the gym as she dashed across the floor. Clean pivot. Precise shot. The ball snapped through the net like it knew better than to miss.
The crowd of students clustered along the bleachers and the gym's edge roared to life. People whistled. Teachers clapped. Her coach with a prideful smile. And Riko, face flushed with the kind of glow that only effort could bring, simply smiled that calm, composed smile she always wore. Like she hadn't even broken a sweat.
Of course she hadn't.
Because she's Kai, Riko he thought bitterly, chewing on the inside of his cheek.
She always made it look like the world bent toward her in approval. Like she was made of all the right pieces—grace and control and poise—and nothing ever cracked beneath the surface.
By the time class rolled into the next period, he found himself trailing the edge of the science lab, pretending to look at something on his phone while walking to the bathroom. Riko sat at the front, hand raised just a second before the teacher even finished the question. Her voice, confident and clear, offered the right answer without a hint of smugness. No one even bothered to double-check her anymore.
She didn't just get everything right.
She did it with that same polished calm that made people think she'd never known failure.
And it annoyed the hell out of him.
But not because she was perfect.
Because she wasn't—not really.
And no one else seemed to see that.
Not until later, after the bells had long since rung and the sun was beginning to dip behind the rooftops. He was headed toward the back of the school, where the club rooms emptied out and the wind carried the last sounds of the day. He didn't mean to see her. Not this time.
But there she was.
Alone in the quiet, sitting on the edge of the stairwell behind the old music room.
Her shoes off, legs pulled up to her chest. Her forehead rested against her knees. Her white hair, usually so neat, had come loose in soft tangles that brushed against her arms.
And her shoulders—
They shook.
Just once.
Just enough.
She didn't sob. Didn't cry out. No drama. No theatrics. Just a single, fragile sound that left her lips, barely audible over the wind.
He froze.
It was like watching a statue shatter in slow motion.
But then—she inhaled. Long. Deep. Controlled. She wiped her eyes, pulled her hair back, stood up. By the time she turned, her face was calm again. Composed. That same expression everyone always saw.
And she walked off.
Didn't notice him.
Didn't know he'd seen.
But Hoshina stood there for a long time after. Jaw clenched. Something heavy settling behind his ribs.
Not admiration.
Not even pity.
Just—
Understanding.
And the sinking knowledge that maybe, just maybe...
He was the only one who saw the difference between Kai, Riko and the girl trying so hard to be her.
From the window of his bedroom, Hoshina could see into the Riko's house.
Not clearly. Not enough to make out anything specific. Just silhouettes, movement behind the thin curtains lit by the soft yellow of their living room lamp. Her shadow moved across the glass sometimes—fluid, unguarded, unaware.
He told himself it wasn't spying.
It wasn't.
They were neighbors.
That was all.
But there was something about the way her shoulders dropped when she stepped into her home. The way she'd tug the ribbon out of her hair almost immediately, letting that snow-colored wave fall in messy sheets over her face. How she'd lean into the couch, legs folded under her, a blanket thrown haphazardly over one side. The girl everyone admired at school—the living portrait of control and polish—was nowhere to be found here.
Here, she was just Riko.
Sometimes she talked out loud when no one was there. He'd see her pacing while she spoke to herself—rehearsing, maybe? A speech? A line? A confession? He'd never know.
Once, she dropped a glass in the kitchen. He saw the brief flurry of panic as she rushed to clean it up, how her hands shook as she crouched barefoot to gather the shards. She paused, pressing her palm to her forehead for a long moment. Her whole body slumped.
No one's watching now, he thought.
And she looked like someone who didn't know how to stop performing... even when the stage lights had gone out.
He sat back from his window, fingers laced behind his head, staring at the ceiling like it had answers.
She was perfect.
Too perfect.
So perfect it made his teeth grit.
But he was beginning to understand that being perfect—at school, on the field, in everyone's eyes came at a cost. A price she paid when no one was looking. And the more he saw the cracks in her armor, the more he hated that no one else seemed to care enough to notice.
Or maybe... she just didn't let them.
Hoshina wasn't sure which possibility bothered him more.
He also thought about how she acted at home with her dad and how it looked just like the girl everyone knows at school.
It was subtle, the way she changed when her dad walked through the door.
She'd lift her head from the couch, straighten up just a little. Smile bright, sweet, a little tired around the edges. She always made sure dinner was ready, even on the nights she looked like she hadn't sat down all day. She acted like it was nothing, like it was normal. And maybe to her, it was.
She'd talk to him over rice bowls and soup, always asking about his day, nodding like she was really listening. She laughed sometimes, soft and polite. And her dad smiled back, grateful and a little hollow behind the eyes, rubbing at the lines on his face.
But Hoshina noticed something else.
That smile—the one she gave so freely—flickered out the second her father stood up and said, "Good night, BearRi."
He'd retreat down the hall, the door clicking shut behind him. And then she'd just... sit there. Still. Like someone had hit pause.
Her fingers would play with the hem of her sweatshirt, or the edge of the cushion, her eyes stuck on nothing. The silence didn't feel peaceful. It felt like a weight sitting on her chest. Like she was trying hard not to notice how alone she was again.
And it wasn't new.
He realized, with a sort of quiet dread, that he'd been watching these scenes play out for years.
The food. The effort. The way she tried so hard to make home feel like home for someone else.
When had it started going wrong?
He could still remember her as a kid—loud, beaming, always dragging people into weird adventures during neighborhood get-togethers. Her laugh back then was wild and unfiltered, like sunshine cracked wide open. They were friends, once. Real ones. They'd play tag down the halls of their homes, share snacks during TV time, fall asleep curled up under a shared blanket during movie nights while their moms chatted late into the evening.
Her mom.
He hadn't thought about her in a while. Not really.
But now that he did, the memory came sharp and whole.
Bright smiles. Bright eyes. The same golden eyes as Riko's, always watching her with so much love. She was the kind of mom who knew how to braid hair and bake cookies and kiss scraped knees with the confidence of someone born to care for others.
Until she got sick.
And then... she never got better.
It was a long time before the truth hit them all. She'd gone to the hospital, in and out for months, and one day—quietly, without warning—she just didn't come back. No goodbyes. No more dinners or movie nights.
Just absence.
After that, Riko smiled even harder. She studied harder. Worked harder. As if all the pieces of her mother she missed had to be rebuilt from the ground up, and she was the only one who could do it.
And now... now he was the one watching from behind glass. Seeing that little girl vanish further behind a mask of perfection every single day.
And maybe what scared him most...
...was how good she'd gotten at wearing it.