The morning light seeped gently through the thin curtains, casting a hazy gold across the cramped bedroom. Dust motes danced lazily in the air, swirling above the piles of books and scattered notebooks that covered every corner of the desk.
Arin Komari sat there, shoulders hunched, nose buried in a paperback novel whose spine was already fraying from too much love. Beside her rested a sweating cup of boba tea, the tapioca pearls long since sunk to the bottom. She hadn't touched it in ages, too absorbed in the words before her eyes.
Her fringe, soft and messy, fell forward again, brushing the bridge of her nose. She puffed a quick breath to push it away, only for it to flop back down seconds later.
"Arin, breakfast!" her mother's voice carried up from the salon below, warm and bright, as though it belonged to someone with endless energy.
Arin jolted, fumbling for her bookmark, almost knocking the drink over in her haste.
"C-coming!" she called back, her voice wobbling as always when she had to raise it. Her hands shook as she closed the book, as if even this small interruption demanded courage.
---
The Komari family lived in the flat above their hair salon — small, cosy, always faintly perfumed with hairspray and shampoo. By the time Arin padded into the kitchen, tugging her oversized hoodie tighter around herself, her younger sister was already at the table.
Nira, barely ten, swung her legs beneath her chair as she munched through buttered toast. She gave Arin a smug look.
"You're late. Again."
Arin's face flamed as she sank into her chair.
"I-I was just reading! I only meant five minutes and then—"
"Thirty?" Nira interrupted, her grin widening.
Arin muttered into her tea, "Something like that…"
Their mother, Kiana, chuckled as she set a plate in front of her eldest. She wore her apron still, her hair pinned up neatly, a professional smile etched into her features even when she was at home.
"Books are good company, love. But don't let them make you late for school."
Arin's cheeks warmed. She nodded quickly, tucking into her eggs. "Y-yes, Mum."
---
The walk to school was, as always, a trial of endurance. Arin clutched her satchel to her chest and kept her gaze fixed on the pavement. Her uniform, neatly pressed by her mother, was hidden beneath her favourite jacket — far too big for her frame, sleeves dangling past her wrists like a shield.
She passed a pair of girls from another class who slowed just enough to whisper, their voices pitched high with mockery.
"Why's she always wearing that jacket?"
"She's so weird. Doesn't she ever get hot?"
Arin's throat tightened. She kept walking, face turned down, willing her steps to carry her faster. The urge to disappear entirely pressed on her chest.
---
In class, she tried to be brave. She always tried.
When the English teacher asked for volunteers to read aloud, the room fell into its usual silence, eyes darting away. Arin hesitated, then raised her hand, heart thudding painfully against her ribs.
The moment she began, her voice wavered.
"T-the… f-flower… bloomed under—"
The words tangled, catching like thorns. A smattering of giggles rippled from the back row.
Her grip on the book tightened until her knuckles went white. She forced the words out, each syllable trembling, but she refused to stop. Her vision blurred as her eyes prickled, yet she pressed on until the passage ended.
When she sat down, she wanted nothing more than to curl into her oversized jacket and hide forever.
---
Relief came with lunch. Relief, in the form of one person.
Brooke Thatcher strode into the room, her tall frame and sharp haircut immediately setting her apart. People tended to part around her; she never asked them to, but her aura of calm detachment made them wary.
Without hesitation, she slid her tray onto Arin's desk and sat down beside her.
Arin looked up, her heart easing a little. "Y-you came."
Brooke raised a brow. "Of course I did. Why wouldn't I?"
Arin fidgeted with her chopsticks. "It's just… people think I'm weird. You don't have to—"
"Komari." Brooke's tone was firm, though not unkind. "You're fine. Eat."
Arin's throat tightened again, this time from something warmer. Her eyes watered and she sniffled, muttering, "…O-okay."
Brooke gave her a sidelong glance, sighing. "You're crying again, aren't you?"
"N-no! J-just a little bit!"
Brooke smirked faintly — a tiny crack in her usual unreadable mask. "Hopeless."
Arin let out a soft laugh, even through the tears she tried to blink away. For the first time all day, the world felt safe.
---
That evening, after classes, Arin returned to the familiar comfort of the salon. The hum of hairdryers and the chatter of customers filled the air as she swept clippings of hair from the floor. She liked the rhythm of it, the way the place smelled of fresh shampoo and warm towels. It grounded her.
Later, when her mother asked her to take the rubbish out, she stepped into the cool evening air. The sky was painted with streaks of orange and pink, the street quieter now save for the occasional bicycle passing by.
That's when she noticed him.
Across the road, a boy in the same uniform leaned against a lamppost. He adjusted the clip holding his fringe back, his expression calm, almost detached, but there was something in the set of his shoulders — a quiet loneliness she couldn't quite name.
Hansel Keaton.
She recognised him instantly, though they'd never spoken. He was clever, top of the year, someone always mentioned in passing with a tone of awe.
For the briefest moment, his eyes met hers. Arin froze, cheeks burning, before ducking her head, fumbling with the rubbish bag in her hands.
Hansel tilted his head slightly, as though curious, but said nothing. He pushed himself from the lamppost and walked away, unhurried, fading into the glow of the setting sun.
Arin stood there a long moment, heart hammering strangely, before scurrying back inside, the door closing softly behind her.
---