Chapter Text
Satoru woke up with a sticky cheek pressed to open pages.
Something about a new theory on Digivolution, something convoluted and wrong, had kept him up arguing with a forum thread no one would read. His neck hurt now. And his brain was fogged over, warm and humming and stubbornly slow.
Sunlight was the second thing he notices.
It poured through the slats in his curtain like golden needles, sharp and hot across his face. Even with his eyes shut, he could feel it, too bright, too loud. His lids fluttered, squeezed shut again, then cracked open reluctantly.
Big mistake. The light stung, and he hissed softly, rolling away from the window and into the cluttered mess of his desk.
The morning air in his room was thick, hot, too quiet. His blanket lay twisted around his ankles like it had tried to strangle him in his sleep and given up halfway through.
He blinked one eye open, then the other, and finally peeled himself off the desk. His neck hurt, his eyes felt like bruises, and his skin prickled with sweat. It was already too hot. Satoru groaned as he pushed himself upright. The blanket around his legs slipped to the floor with a faint whump. He yawned, long and theatrical, arms arching up toward the ceiling. His spine popped.
Padded barefoot noises over the wooden floorboards, each step a soft thup. From downstairs, the familiar scent of his mother’s cooking was wafting upward, soy sauce, garlic, something frying. It curled into the room like an invitation. His stomach grumbled, as if suddenly remembering it existed.
He shuffled to the bathroom and flicked the light on. Too bright. Again. His face scrunched, eyes narrowing to slits as he blinked against the assault. The bathroom was empty and cold against the rest of the house, tile biting at his soles. He peed, scratched the itch under his shirt, and stared at himself in the mirror with one eye still mostly shut. The mirror was smudged with dried toothpaste splatters and faded streaks from half-hearted wipe-downs.
“Mmgh,” he said to no one.
His hair was a mess. A truly heroic mess. He pushed it down half-heartedly before giving up with a sigh.
He really hated summer.
Everything stuck. The heat clung to his skin like static. The sunlight made his eyes ache. Even brushing his teeth felt like a battle against humidity and gravity. He rinsed and spat, dragging a hand through his hair that did nothing. A toothpaste blotch on the mirror starring back at him, just beside his reflection, the one shaped vaguely like a snowflake.
It made him think of winter. Of breath clouds and frozen windows. Of how things used to be quiet in December, still and sharp, like the world had taken a breath and held it. He missed that. Desperately.
Back in his room, he tugged on his uniform shirt, wrinkled, as always, and adjusted the collar. His blazer hung off his chair, but it was way too hot for that. He grabbed a baseball cap off a hook and pulled it low over his eyes. The hair wasn’t getting any better.
Still groggy, still half-dreaming about last nights arguments and evolutions, he slung his bag over one shoulder and headed downstairs. Time to survive another day. The kitchen smelled like garlic and burnt soy sauce.
“Honey!” his mother sang the second he rounded the corner. “There’s my sleepy boy. My moonbeam. My sugar-dumpling noodle-head.”
Satoru groaned. Loudly.
“Mom-”
That earned him three kisses, forehead, cheek, nose, before he could even make it to the table. She was still wearing her pajama pants, her hair up in a lopsided clip and her apron dusted with flour from something she probably started at midnight and forgot about.
“Sit, sit,” she said, waving a ladle like a sword. “You’ll be late again and your teacher will blame me. Do you want me to be hated, Satoru? Do you?”
He dropped into his chair with a sigh and a mumbled, “You’re so dramatic,” but let her lift his cap to ruffle his hair anyway. The table was a mess. Half-folded napkins, spilled miso, one sock of his that had somehow migrated here yesterday. A plate clattered in front of him. Steaming rice, a slightly overcooked fried egg, miso soup with green onions, grilled fish that was definitely too dark around the edges.
It smelled like heaven.
Satoru didn’t even pretend to hesitate. He dug in, chewing fast, the warmth flooding his chest and stomach like a reset button. His mom sat across from him with her own plate and a mug of something aggressively herbal.
She watched him eat like she was memorizing it.
“I made the soup a little salty today,” she said, voice too casual. “Tell me if it’s too much. I can add water. Or miso. Or make a new one. Or-”
“It’s perfect,” Satoru said, mouth full.
She beamed, then reached over to pinch his cheek.
“Mom,” he grumbled, but didn’t flinch.
He cleared one plate and was halfway through the second before she started clapping. “Alright! Enough! Go go go, time to be smart and brilliant and mildly annoying in class!”
Satoru groaned again, louder this time, but stood. She adjusted his collar, kissed his temple, tucked a slice of something sweet into his bag even though he said he didn’t want it.
Then she opened the door and shoved him gently out.
“Don’t melt in the sun,” she called. “And don’t fight with any teachers!”
Satoru blinked. “When did I ever-”
“Just saying! Have fun!”
The door shut behind him.
Outside, the sun was already high.
Satoru pulled his cap lower over his face and plugged in his earphones. No music. Just the soft nothing that filled the space between him and the rest of the world.
The walk to school was peaceful and short. Too short for Satoru’s liking. He passed the train tracks first, still quiet, the crossing lights asleep. The rails shimmered faintly in the morning haze, heat already rising in slow, lazy waves. Across the street, an old woman was watering her garden, humming something tuneless. Her dog yawned at him.
The cicadas hadn’t started yet, but he could feel them thinking about it. Everything felt soft and far away.
He passed three other students in different uniforms, headed toward other schools. They talked easily, bags swinging at their sides, their laughter carrying on the warm breeze. Satoru didn’t want to look at them.
He turned a corner past the bakery with the always-crooked sign, the scent of sweet bread and red bean drifting after him. His stomach was full, but he still breathed it in like a comfort.
The houses blurred into fences. The fences into hedges. Then the slow sprawl of apartment blocks that always made him feel like he was shrinking. He walked past the shuttered candy store with the fading Pokémon stickers still clinging to the glass, and the vending machine that never worked right, and the phone booth no one ever used.
Everything looked like it was painted in soft watercolors this morning. Pale blue sky. Dusty yellow walls. Pink splotches from early-blooming flowers leaning over balconies.
It was beautiful, kind of.
He couldn’t bring himself to care much about it anyway.
By the time the school gates came into view, the weight in his stomach had nothing to do with breakfast. He slipped into the building with his head down, cap pulled low, and merged into the stream of students moving through the front hall.
Shoes off. House shoes on.
Don’t make much noise. Don’t even breathe too loud. Just disappear.
The stairs were crowded with the usual buzz, footsteps, laughter, bags thumping against legs. Everyone seemed to be talking. Waving. Greeting each other like it was automatic.
Satoru kept to the edge, one hand on the railing, his gaze fixed on the floor tiles. His shoulder brushed a wall. Then a backpack. Then another. But no one looked at him for too long. Good. His school wasn’t very big. That made it worse. Most of them had known each other since kindergarten years of shared field trips and group photos and birthday parties. They had inside-jokes and favorite teachers and belonging tucked under their skin like second nature.
But not Satoru.
He had moved here a few weeks ago, just when the new school year started. A clean break, his mother had called it. A new start. He wasn’t sure for who. He stuck out like a sore thumb. His appearance and messy nature just underlining what’s obvious to begin with.
He ate alone. Always. Studied wedged under the hallway stairs, back curled to the wall. Teachers liked him, but that didn’t count.
At first, people just ignored him. Let him be. That was fine. He liked being invisible. But then curiosity won and with it the attention came next. And not the kind you wanted.
His classroom was on the second floor.
His seat was tucked into the far back corner by the window, half-shielded by the girl in front of him whose name he’d never fully caught. She wore her hair in braids most days, decorated with clips shaped like strawberries or rabbits. He’d been staring at the back of her head for days to come and go, shifting his attention between her and the clock. She never noticed.
He didn’t know anybody else’s name either.
But the window made up for it. He liked the way the wind moved through the trees in the courtyard below. How the light shifted across the floor tiles when clouds passed overhead. Sometimes, birds flitted past, fast and chaotic, chasing things Satoru couldn’t see.
Even with the drone of traffic and the high-rise buildings in the distance, it felt peaceful here.
Greener than other schools. That was something. And class- class was nice. He liked the rhythm of it. The quiet structure. The soft scratch of chalk, the predictable rise and fall of the teacher’s voice.
Math, especially.
Most of the material was child’s play to him. He’d been in the math club at his last school, back when he still talked to people, but he didn’t let it show. The last thing he needed was more attention. Or worse, being asked to join a club.
So he kept his head down, solved problems fast and quiet, handed in clean sheets and mumbled “thank you” when praised. He watched the board. He watched the window. He watched the strawberry rabbit girl’s braids sway every time she turned a page.
The when Lunchtime arrived the cafeteria was loud and buzzing with students of all years, making it impossible to hear you own thoughts.
Not that Satoru had planned to stay inside anyway. He made his way through the cafeteria line with practiced ease, picking out the easiest options, steamed rice, some kind of fried chicken, pickled radish in a too-bright plastic cup. It looked edible.
He grabbed a peach juice box on the way out and slipped through the side doors, heading for the schoolyard.
The sun was brutal, but the shade near the trees at the edge of the building always stayed cool enough. He was halfway to his usual bench when he saw her.
A girl, sitting cross-legged at the base of the biggest tree, a book balanced in one hand, and a cigarette pinched loosely in the other.
Satoru blinked. She didn’t look like she cared that anyone might see her. Just flipped a page lazily, took a drag, and exhaled toward the sky like she was the only person left on earth.
Didn’t she worry about her lungs? About getting caught? Or dying at twenty-five?
It was kind of impressive. And a little intimidating. He veered wide, choosing a bench a solid five meters away, and sat down quietly, tray balanced on his lap. He poked at the chicken. The breading looked soggy.
He sipped his juice box first. The straw made a loud slurp sound he immediately regretted.Satoru tugged his cap down as far as it would go, shielding his eyes from the sun, and more importantly, from other people.
He’d gotten permission to wear it again after class ended. Technically, it broke uniform rules. But technically, he’d worn them down with enough polite requests that the vice principal had caved.
It was always worse when people could see his eyes. They looked too freakish, he’d been told once. Too pale. Too blue. He didn’t need any more reasons to be stared at. So he kept his head down, ate mechanically, tried not to chew too loud. The rice was fine. The chicken wasn’t. But it would do.
He could hear the birds he usually watched from the window chirp down here, keeping him and cigarette girl company.
He was so close.
The school gates were just ahead, maybe twenty steps away. Sunlight hit the pavement in long golden strips, and for the first time all day, Satoru felt his shoulders start to drop. No one had said anything to him. No whispers. No looks. No notes stuck to the back of his chair.
Almost out. Almost safe.
He popped the straw into a new juice box, strawberry this time, and took a long sip as he walked. Sweet. Cold. Artificial in a way that made him kind of happy.
He passed the girl with the strawberry bunny braids on the way out. She was laughing with someone near the shoe lockers, head tilted, the clips in her hair catching the sun. Satoru almost smiled. Not at her, just at the coincidence. Just ten steps left now until he was released, allowed back into his own safe bubble.
A hand landed on his shoulder.
Firm. Warm. A bit too harshly. It stopped him dead in his tracks. Hes been so close.
“Oi.”
The voice was near his right ear, the breath fanning along it, making his breath hitch and the straw in his mouth went slack.
Of course. Of course he couldn’t just leave.
Relief had barely begun to settle in his chest, just a flicker of warmth behind his ribs, when it was snatched away like it was never his to begin with. The hand on his shoulder felt heavier than it should’ve. Not rough, but solid. Uninvited.
Satoru’s first instinct was to run. Shake it off, keep walking and just disappear.
But that attempt usually made it worse.
So he didn’t.
Instead he stayed still, frozen in the school gate’s fading sunlight. Strawberry juice sat thick on his tongue, too sweet now. He turned slowly, carefully, keeping his head low. Trying to let the cap hide him and the silence stretch.
His eyes dropped first, not to the face of the person who’d touched him, but to their shoes. Sneakers. Scuffed. Untied on one side. A group of voices buzzed somewhere behind them, close but not close enough. The fingers on his shoulder didn’t tighten. But they didn’t let go either.
Satoru swallowed hard.
He hated this part. The waiting, the assessing. The knowing it could go one of a dozen different ways depending on what he said, how he moved, where his eyes landed.
All he’d wanted was to leave. Slip through the gates. Go home. But now he was here. Noticed. Again.
With a flick of light his cap was gone before he could react, falling into the dusty ground next to his feet. A sharp flick, too close to his face, close enough that it almost smacked his nose on its way up.
Satoru flinched hard, eyes squeezing shut. A startled gasp slipped out, soft and unguarded. He clapped his mouth shut instantly, breath caught somewhere between throat and chest. Maybe no one heard. Maybe-
He ducked his head, trying to hide behind the messy fringe of his hair now that his last shield was gone. Fingers, sticky and too warm, reached up and grabbed Satoru’s chin, rough and fast, thumb pressing just beneath his lip.
Look at me the gesture said, even if no words followed. Satoru’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t fight it. He knew better than that.
His face was tilted upward, forced into the sunlight. One eye cracked open on instinct, then blinked rapidly against the glare. The brightness burned right into his skull.
He couldn’t see. Not clearly. The boy’s face was a blur, framed by sun flares and shadows. But the way he stood was dangerously confident. The tilt of his head, mocking. The fingers on his skin, pressing just hard enough to leave a mark if he wanted to.
He didn’t need to see the full picture. Satoru knew that face. He didn’t remember names well. But the taunting faces? The ones that hovered too long, that grinned too wide when he flinched? He never forgot those.
Satoru jerked his head back, just a quick snap, more reflex than courage. For a second, the fingers slipped but his stance was too close for Satoru to escape.
“Woa-”
A voice behind him. A girl. Laughing.
“Damn,” she said, loud and clearly amused. “It’s true what they say about his eyes. That’s actually freaky.”
A fresh flush crept up Satoru’s neck. He hated that word. Freaky. Like he wasn’t real. Like he wasn’t just a regular person. The boy chuckled, low and smug. His grip found Satoru’s chin again, this time tighter.
“What’s wrong?” he said, leaning in. The breath from his words ghosted across Satoru’s cheek. “Cat got your tongue?”
He pushed Satoru’s chin up, higher and higher, until it strained his neck.
“You blind and mute? Not even gonna greet me?”
Satoru’s eyes were slits now, watery from the sunlight, from the pressure, from holding everything in. He didn’t know what he was supposed to say. What would make it stop.
There was no right answer, so he said nothing. Just stood there, head tilted back, jaw aching, fingers curled tight around the strap of his bag. The boy’s fingers finally released him, but only to deliver the final blow.
“Rude little piece of shit,” he muttered.
Satoru barely had time to process it before a sharp knee drove into his stomach. Precise and too fast for Satoru to defend.
All the air rushed out of him.
He folded forward with a choked sound, arms clutching around his middle as the world blurred into shapes and heat. He felt his knees hit the ground, the gravel scraping them. His bag slid off his shoulder with a soft thud.
“Shit,” the girl muttered behind him, her voice thin. Surprised but no trace of concern.
The boy just chuckled again. A bored sound. Like he’d just lost interest. Satoru didn’t lift his head. He stayed curled around himself as the footsteps retreated.
Only when the sounds of the school path returned, shoes, laughter, voices not meant for him, did he realize they were gone. He kept his arms wrapped tight around his belly, each breath shallow and careful. The nausea rose and ebbed, threatened and withdrew like a tide.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Don’t cry. Don’t puke. Don’t look up yet. He could feel people passing. Not many, but just enough. Just enough to feel like they saw him, then looked away.
Somehow it was almost worse than if they’d laughed. He shut his eyes and tried again.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
By the time he reached home, the sky had turned the soft color of warm milk.The front door swung open before he could even reach for the handle.
“There you are!” his mom beamed at him like he hadn’t just tried to vanish in the crowd for eight hours straight. How does she always hear him coming?
“Dinner’s almost ready, I made the pork the way you like, with extra garlic and not too much sauce. And I bought your favorite pickles- The weird spicy ones? Wash your hands, come on hurry!”
Satoru bent down to untie his shoes, fingers trembling just a little.
“I’ll shower first,” he mumbled, standing slowly.
“Oh, okay. But don’t take forever, okay?” she called after him as he climbed the stairs. “It’s best when it’s hot!”
The bathroom door closed with a quiet click. And it hit him all at once. The weight, the ache, the sick, dull buzz in his ears.
He exhaled shakily and lifted his T-shirt, fingers curled beneath the hem. At least he couldn’t see a bruise forming yet. That’s good. He leaned closer to the mirror, breath fogging the glass for a moment.
His face looked tired. Damp from the heat, while sweat clung to his upper lip, where the faintest stubble had started to grow back, white and prickly. His skin was still flushed. Heat? Shame? Hard to tell.
He didn’t spend much time looking at himself.
People had always had a lot to commented on. His hair, his lashes, his skin. They all were too pale or too bright or generally just too much. But it hadn’t felt like a bad thing. Not before. Not until he moved here.
Now, every glance felt like a weight. Every whisper like static in his skull. What did they see that he didn’t? He looked into his own eyes.
Blue, yes. Everyone said that. But they reminded him of something else. Of the winter he so dearly missed. Of the sharp sky on freezing mornings, the frozen lakes that cracked but held strong. The icicles that clung to rooftops like glass teeth.
He used to like his eyes. People used to say nice things sometimes too.
But now? He wasn’t sure.
He stared for a few seconds longer, then let his shirt fall back into place. The uniform felt too heavy. He shrugged it off slowly, let it slide from his shoulders and crumple to the floor.
The steam was already curling up from the showerhead, inviting him to step inside and let the heat wash over him. Satoru tilts his face toward the spray, feeling the knots in his shoulders melt just enough to breathe again.
The next morning dragged.
Satoru sat in his usual seat, cap low, arms folded across his desk. The teacher’s voice floated somewhere above his head, formulas and numbers and keywords meant to stick.
But his focus had drifted long ago. Instead, his eyes found the window. Outside, the breeze stirred the leaves gently, flicking sunlight through the trees like falling coins. Birds zipped across the sky, chasing something invisible to him.
He was almost gone, almost let himself drift, when a flicker of movement caught the corner of his vision. Three figures walking along the edge of the school grounds. He recognized their uniforms right away. Probably third-years. Too tall to be the same year as Satoru.
The girl out front walked like she never had a care in her life. Short hair, roughly cut. A dark mole beneath her left eye. And if that wasn’t enough, the cigarette hanging boldly from her lips on school grounds was a dead giveaway for Satoru to remember her by.
She was laughing now, tossing her head back, walking a few steps ahead of the two boys trailing after her. One of them had long blond hair swept low over half his face, like he was hiding behind it. He looked tall. And his expression was unreadable, serious in a way that felt out of sync with the girl’s loud energy. The second boy walked just slightly behind, his face angled down. Broad shoulders. Long dark hair tied in a knot at the base of his neck. Skin tanned golden in the morning light.
Satoru couldn’t see his face.
Something tightened in his chest. Subtle. Barely there. Like a string being pulled. He blinked, and they were gone, vanishing around the side of the building.
Lunch came, thick with heat.
Satoru slipped outside with his tray and a grape juice box, making his way to the same bench in the shade. Hidden. No sign of the cigarette girl today. No smoke curling through the air.
He slumped onto the bench, legs drawn up, cap low, food mostly ignored. His thoughts drifted.
To his old home. To Utahime. Somehow, today, he missed her more than usual.
The two of them had been practically glued together since kindergarten, one long, ridiculous, inseparable blur. Their parents used to joke that they were secretly dating. That Satoru had stolen her first kiss during nap time or something equally embarrassing.
Joke’s on them, he thought, almost smiling.
Her first kiss had been a tall, blonde girl with a cocky grin and perky boobs. She’d told him about it just hours later, red-faced and laughing, hiding under the covers of a sleepover they were definitely too old for. He remembered how her cheeks had burned, how she kept fidgeting with her sleeves, mumbling about how weird it felt to kiss someone who actually knew what they were doing.
Satoru had teased her for weeks. But he’d also never felt more honored to be the first person she told. Now, he stared down at his juice box, thumb running absentmindedly over the crease in the cardboard. He missed her. Her noise. Her grounding presence. The way she shoved him when he spiraled and told him to get over himself. The way she let him spiral anyway, and sat with him after.
The bench felt quieter without her. He reached for his phone.
The screen lit up with their last conversation from two days ago. A blurry photo of her lunch. Some half-joke about how her new math teacher had it out for her.
It blinked back at him like it was waiting.
(12:27) Satoru: miss you today. feels lonelier than usual.
He stared at it for a second. Then locked the phone, unlocked it again, thumb hovering.
(12:27) Utahime: you miss me EVERY day
(12:27) Utahime: i miss you too dumbass. nobody here is even half as fun as you
Satoru let out a quiet breath, shoulders loosening just a little.
(12:28) Satoru: you’re just saying that because no one else gets your jokes
(12:28) Utahime: you’re just mad you can’t steal them anymore
(12:29) Satoru: i never stole them i elevated them
(12:29) Utahime: whatever
(12:29) Utahime: i’m visiting soon. promise. have you made any friends yet?
tell me all about the hot students. i know they exist. don’t lie.
Satoru smiled. Actual smiled.
He looked out across the empty school yard, sunlight blurring at the edges of his vision, and let the warmth in her words sink deep.
(12:30) Satoru: maybe i’ve seen one or two suspiciously hot people. no friends tho. you’re still my one and only.
(12:30) Utahime: good. i’m irreplaceable.
He could still hear her voice in his head, smug and laughing.
He locked the screen, and slipped the phone back in his pocket.
The front door clicked shut behind him.
“I’m home,” Satoru called out, his voice barely lifting past the hallway.
From the kitchen came the familiar sound of pans clinking and something bubbling too hard on the stove. A second later, his mom poked her head out, wild-haired and apron-smudged with flour and something vaguely red.
“Welcome back, honey!” she said with a grin. “I made your favorite. Sweet potato tempura and rice with the sesame eel you like. Come eat!”
He offered a tired half-smile. “Not hungry.”
“Not even a little bite?”
“I think I’ll just shower and go to bed. Sorry, mom.”
She gave him a long, thoughtful look but didn’t argue. “Alright then. I’ll keep it warm for you. Your belly will catch up with your growing body’s needs eventually.”
He nodded, kicked off his shoes, and shuffled upstairs.
His room was dim, still holding onto the leftover heat from the day. The curtains were drawn, but thin, sunlight leaked in around the edges in dull golden streaks. The air smelled faintly like laundry detergent and dust. His pants from yesterday still hung off the back of his chair.
His laptop blinked sleepily from his desk, an old model with cracked plastic near the hinges and a fan that whined like it was begging for retirement.
Satoru dropped his bag to the floor with a thud and collapsed onto his bed without even changing. The sheets were a little tangled, the pillow warm from the sun. He lay there face-down, letting the quiet settle in around him like a second blanket.
Eventually, he rolled over and stared at the ceiling. The same ceiling he stared at every night. Same little water stain in the corner. Same tiny crack above the window he kept forgetting to mention.
The same feeling that pressed into his chest, heavier than usual. He reached for his phone and opened Google, typing slowly.
how to stand up to bullies without getting beat up
Pressed search. Scrolled.
Click. Click. Click.
Bullies often target those who seem isolated. Building a support network can help…
The best defense is social backup—friends who can speak up for you…
If you don’t have any close peers yet, consider joining a club…
Satoru’s lips pressed into a thin line. He rolled over again, phone held above his head now, thumb tapping out a new query.
how to make friends in high school when you’re weird and socially challenged and everyone already thinks you’re cursed
He deleted “cursed.” Then typed “intimidating.” Then deleted that too.
how to make friends in high school
Ignoring the cringe climbing up like a shiver from his spine he starts to read through article after article. List after list.
He didn’t have a support system. He didn’t even have a lunch table.
But he had Utahime. Had.
She’d always been there. As far back as he could remember, she’d been his one-person army, his translator, his filter, his blunt-force emotional weapon. He remembered how people used to crowd her on the playground. How they’d pull at her sleeves, call her name, invite her to games.
And then he’d walk over and they’d leave.
Not all at once, but enough that it always felt colder the second he joined her. She never cared. Never flinched. Just threw an arm around his shoulder and told him he was more fun anyway.
And he never questioned it. Because she was all he needed. Until now. Until the silence started to eat at him.
Until Google told him he needed backup.
He sighed and rolled over again, this time reaching for the old laptop. He nudged the lid open, waited for the fan to wheeze itself to life, and opened a blank document. He started at it for a few moments before his thoughts started to form.
Operation social Integration
Befriend Cigarette Girl
He hesitated. Then continued typing.
- Compliment her book
- Ask about the book (even if I don’t know it)
- Sit closer (not too close)
- Don’t flinch when she smokes
- Don’t say anything weird
- Bring extra juice box? (maybe)
He stared at it.
7. Smile (but not too much)
He looked at the flickering cursor for a long time, then closed the lid with a soft click and crawled back under the covers, dragging the laptop with him and tucking it by the pillow like a secret.
“This is going to be a disaster,” he muttered to the ceiling.
But he didn’t delete the file. He didn’t fall asleep right away. The laptop was shut and resting beside him under the covers, still faintly warm. His room had gone quiet again, just the distant clatter of dishes downstairs, then silence.
He lay on his side, staring at the wall, fingers curled beneath his chin.
The list ran laps through his head.
Compliment her book. Ask about the book. Don’t flinch. Sit nearby, but not too close. Juice box? maybe. Smile, but not too much.
Was it stupid? Somehow he doubts that’s how people his age usually retort to making friends.
Cigarette girl has been alone during lunch. That’s what first made her seem approachable. Or at least not too scary. But he’d seen her yesterday, laughing with those two guys.
So maybe she wasn’t friendless. Maybe she just liked being alone sometimes. Sagoru understood that. He liked his space too.
He could just- be nearby. Be quiet. Let her be. He didn’t need a real friendship. Just proximity. Enough to be seen as less of a loner. Enough that maybe others would think twice before grabbing his face or knocking him down the stairs or calling him a freak.
She didn’t look like someone who cared about being liked. She looked like someone who wouldn’t bother with bullying a guy like him, either. Like the whole concept of teasing was beneath her.
Intimidating, sure. But maybe that was good.
Well either way, he had no choice, really. One and a half years was still a long time. Too long to just survive it alone. Especially with how things had been escalating lately.
If nothing changed, he’d crack. He knew it. So, he’d make it change. He just had to get her to like him first. How hard could that be?
He rolled his eyes at himself. Probably very hard.
His stomach growled. Satoru groaned and pushed back the blanket. The air in his room was cooler now. His feet slapped softly against the floorboards as he padded downstairs.
In the kitchen, the lights were dimmed, but his dinner was waiting on the counter, neatly wrapped with plastic, a sticky note on top.
For my hungry little mochi. Love you.
He warmed it up in the microwave, listening to the low hum and watching the plate rotate in soft orange light. The food was a little soggy, a little too sweet. It tasted like comfort.
He ate in silence, watching the shadows stretch across the kitchen tiles.
The school looked peaceful that morning, almost deceptively so.
Morning light filtered down through the trees lining the courtyard, dappling the pavement with warm patches that shimmered slightly in the breeze. The cicadas hadn’t reached their full volume yet, but their distant, rhythmic buzz hummed in the background like static against the soft clatter of shoes and murmured conversation. A gentle breeze moved through the open windows of the building, carrying the faintest scent of early autumn, dried leaves and dust and freshly printed worksheets.
It should have been calming.
But Satoru’s chest felt tight from the second he stepped through the school gate, his heartbeat quickening with every step as he made his way toward the entrance, trying not to look like he was looking for someone.
He lingered longer than necessary at the shoe lockers, head down, fingers methodically adjusting the tongue of his indoor shoes as if it required real concentration, but his eyes kept flicking sideways, quick, instinctive, searching.
Short brown hair, mole under the eye, that ever-present cigarette. Tracking Shoko down felt a bit like hunting a rare Digimon in tall grass. Random chance, 5% encounter rate, and he wasn’t even sure if he had the right bait equipped. But he’d studied the spawn points (cafeteria exit, tree in the courtyard) and had his dialogue options rehearsed. Now all he needed was a little luck and maybe a save point in case he blew it.
There were a few second-years chatting by the vending machines, a couple of third-years lounging under the tree that always dropped leaves too early, but none of them were her.
He forced himself to stop looking, mouth pulling tight as he adjusted the brim of his cap lower over his eyes and headed for class. It wasn’t even time yet, he still had a few hours to get through until his plan could take fruits. The second floor was warm despite the early hour, the sun baking the hallway tiles in long, soft beams.
Inside the classroom, the windows were propped open with old textbooks to keep the panes from slamming in the wind, but the air that came in felt lazy and stale, thick with leftover heat from yesterday.
Students were already milling around, swapping gossip, copying homework, arguing over something dumb near the whiteboard. Satoru slipped into his corner seat without saying a word, letting his bag fall to the floor beside his desk with a muted thump. He took out his notebook and placed it neatly in front of him, his fingers jittery, restless, unsure what to do next.
He started tapping the end of his pencil against the lid of his bento box, barely audible to him, just enough to keep his hands busy, just enough to keep his thoughts from spiraling.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
"Can you not?"
The voice came from directly in front of him, flat and annoyed.
He froze.
The girl with the bunny clips didn’t even bother turning fully in her seat, just angled her head slightly, gave him a quick glance over her shoulder, and rolled her eyes.
“It’s distracting,” she added, like it should’ve been obvious.
Satoru didn’t answer. Didn’t apologize. His hand lowered slowly, like it wasn’t his anymore, and he placed the pencil down with careful precision on the edge of his desk, then folded his hands together in his lap as if holding still could make him invisible.
"Freakin’ weirdo," someone muttered a few desks away, and even though they didn’t say it to him, even though they didn’t say it loud, the words sliced through the air like a blade.
Laughter followed, a couple of quick snorts. One desk squeaked as someone shifted too eagerly.
Satoru flinched like he’d been struck, shrinking into himself as his gaze dropped to the grain of the desk, tracing the faint scratches worn in over time.
His chest tightened even further, jaw clenched. His shoulders curled slightly, not enough to be obvious, but enough to make him feel small. A flush bloomed low in his throat, crawling up his neck and into his ears, hot and prickling.
That familiar, bitter sting of shame welled up before he could stop it, the kind that came fast and silent, folding him inward like paper. He’d just wanted something to do. Just a rhythm to keep the panic away. And now everyone was looking. He wanted to disappear, to fold in half, to vanish into the sunlight spilling through the window, into the dust motes floating lazily in the still air.
Not a single part of him moved again.
Not until lunch came like a sigh through the building, the distant chime over the PA system too cheerful for how heavy the morning had felt. Chairs scraped, conversations picked up, laughter bloomed in groups and corners. Students pushed desks together. Some headed to the courtyard or tucked into stairwells or hovered near vending machines, hunting down anything with sugar or caffeine.
Satoru didn’t join them.
He stood slowly, careful not to make his chair screech against the floor, and grabbed only one thing from his bag: an onigiri wrapped in wax paper. Tuna mayo. His favorite. But even the thought of eating felt like too much.
His stomach was too tight. Nerves. Excitement. Dread. The courtyard was bright again, the shade patch beneath his usual bench already claimed by a small group of first-years noisily sharing snacks and trying to one-up each other with card tricks. He lingered by the doorway for a moment, then veered off toward the fence behind the gym instead, where the air felt quieter and the grass was longer.
He sat on the edge of a planter, unwrapped his onigiri, and stared at it for a long moment before taking a bite. It tasted like nothing.
His mind was too full. He was rehearsing again.
What would he even say?
Hey, I see you around a lot. Wanna be friends?
No. Too weird. Too direct.
Hi. I like to sit alone too sometimes.
Too pathetic.
Do you like Digimon?
Immediate social death.
He took another bite without chewing, his foot bouncing softly against the planter’s edge.
What if she didn’t remember seeing him around at all? What if she did? What if she told him to get lost, or laughed?
She hadn’t seemed cruel. Just intimidating. The kind of person who didn’t care enough to lie to your face. Or protect your feelings. But she’d also been alone. Maybe she had too many friends already. Or maybe those two guys from yesterday were her boyfriends. Was that allowed? Probably.
Satoru pressed a hand to his forehead and groaned softly. This was hopeless. He took out his phone, opened the notepad app, and scrolled through his plan again. The bullet points looked ridiculous now. He had written smile :) three times in a row under all of that.
He hadn’t smiled all day.
His fingers curled tighter around the rice ball in his hand. He was trying so hard, probably way too hard. He knew that. But what else was he supposed to do?
Utahime had always just been there. At every stage of his life. From sandbox fights to middle school cram sessions, she was the one person who never made him feel like he was too much. And he’d never needed anyone else.
But now he did.
Because one and a half years was a long time to spend invisible. And the teasing wasn’t funny anymore. And it felt like the walls were closing in more with every passing week.
He wasn’t asking for much. Just someone to stand near. If cigarette girl stood beside him, maybe they’d leave him alone too.
Satoru sighed and took one last, reluctant bite of his onigiri, swallowing it dry, the bite almost getting stuck in his throat. Satoru sat there, waiting, letting the wind shift his bangs slightly under the brim of his cap, while he whispered potential openings under his breath like someone cramming lines before a play.
Just when the lunchbreak was almost over and he was about to get up, when he’d quietly crumpled his juice box, shoved it back in his bag, and pushed himself to his feet- the cafeteria door creaked open behind him.
Satoru paused, his eyes flicking toward the sound.
Cigarette girl.
Same short, blunt-cut brown hair. Same lazy gait, like she was walking through her own private universe. The mole under her eye caught the sunlight just enough to make him certain.
And beside her the tall blond guy. The one with the outdated curtain of hair almost covering his face. The one who walked like he’d been dragged into the conversation, not invited. They stepped outside together, mid-laugh, the girl saying something that made the guy roll his eyes in mock despair. Satoru didn’t catch the words, he wasn’t sure he would’ve even if he’d been closer.
His brain had stopped working. His feet froze in place. His heart did this weird flop in his chest, and for a second, he actually forgot how to breathe.
Fuck. This wasn’t part of the plan.
There were no bullet points for what to do if she shows up with someone. He hadn’t rehearsed this one.
All his carefully mapped scenarios, every fake conversation he’d muttered into dense air, every potential greeting he’d typed and deleted, crumbled instantly. He should go. Walk off like he hadn’t been waiting all lunch break for her to appear. Like he hadn’t searched for her the second the bell rang.
But the guy waved. A lazy, two-fingered motion. “See you,” he said casually, then turned left around the corner and toward the school.
She didn’t follow. Instead, she sauntered over to the tree. She sank down into the grass,pulled a crumpled pack from her skirt pocket, lit a cigarette, and blew the first drag upward toward the sun.
Alone.
Exactly like the first time he saw her. Exactly like he’d hoped. Jackpot. Satoru's fingers twitched at his sides. His mouth felt dry. His knees were inexplicably weak.
Last chance to back out.
He could turn away right now and no one would ever know. She hadn’t seen him yet. He could go home, revise his script, wait for a better day.
He shook his head hard.
No.
He’d promised himself. He’d written it down. He’d spent all morning whispering lines to himself, stomach twisting with the weight of wanting something so small and still feeling like it was too much to ask.
He’d come this far. He had to try. So he breathed in, clenched the strap of his bag like it could hold him together, and took one step forward.
His shoes crunched quietly on the dry grass, each step somehow louder than the last. Satoru moved toward the tree like someone approaching a wild animal- slow, deliberate, trying not to spook himself into turning back. His fingers fidgeted with the strap of his bag. His heart hammered like it was trying to escape through his throat.
She didn’t look up right away. Just sat there with one knee pulled up, flicking ash to the side with practiced ease, her book open lazily across her lap. Smoke curled around her in soft, silvery ribbons, catching the sun like spiderwebs.
He was nearly within talking range- two steps, one step. Her eyes lifted seemingly in slow motion to land on him, and for a second, Satoru thought his heart stopped completely.
One eyebrow arched. Then the other.
“Damn,” she said, staring directly at his face, “are those real?”
Satoru blinked. Froze. “What?”
She made a vague motion with two fingers pointing to her own eyes.
“Your eyes,” she clarified, head tilted. “Those are real?”
“Uh…” His mouth opened and closed uselessly. “Yeah?”
“No way. That’s crazy.”
Crazy? Satoru’s brain repeated, panicking. Crazy-good? Crazy-bad? Crazy-mutant-alien?
She was still watching him, waiting, her cigarette dangling between two fingers now, a trail of smoke drifting sideways in the breeze. The air smelled sharp and bitter and unfamiliar.
Satoru floundered. Compliment. Compliment her. Say something-
“Did you come here to hit on me?” she asked, her tone so flat and casual it hit like a slap. “If so, don’t bother. I’m really not interested.”
That knocked all the breath out of his lungs.
“OH. Uh, no! No, not at all! I mean-” He waved his hands in front of him as if to ward off the implication. “Not that you’re not pretty or anything, but-”
His mouth snapped shut. There was a pause. A long, awkward one.
Smoke drifted between them, curling in the air as if trying to cut through the awkward tension.
The girls’s eyebrows remained raised. She tilted her head slightly, eyes unreadable now.
Satoru let out a long breath. “Sorry,” he mumbled, cheeks warming. “That came out wrong.”
She shrugged, flicking ash off to the side again.
“Don’t worry about it.” She chuckled gently, catching Satoru of guard, when her eyes stayed steady trained on his own.
“So what is it with your eyes?” she asked after a beat, leaning back against the trunk of the tree, cigarette balanced loosely between her fingers. “Is it genetic or something?”
Satoru blinked. His brain was still buffering.
“I, uh. Yeah. I guess. From my dad.”
“You guess?” Her tone wasn’t skeptical, more like gently puzzled.
He shrugged one shoulder, eyes flicking down to his shoes. “Never met him.”
That earned a pause, which lingered just a second longer than the others. Shoko still looked at again, smoke curling lazily between them as she seemed to weigh the silence.
Then she nodded slowly, eyes narrowing in thought.
“You want a smoke?”
Satoru shook his head quickly, a wrinkled nose and small wave of the hand. “God, no.”
And then, because standing there like a weirdo was worse than sitting there like a weirdo, he dropped down into the grass, crossing his legs and keeping his eyes fixed on a patch of clover just past her knee.
The blades of grass were warm against his thighs, bent from the sun and a little dry at the tips. His cap shaded his eyes enough to keep the sun from making them sting, but not enough to hide the flush spreading across his cheeks.
He didn’t say anything else. Just sat there, quiet, a few feet in front of her.
The girl exhaled a slow stream of smoke, watching it twist and vanish into the breeze. Then she looked at him again, one brow still slightly raised.
“So,” she asked, voice light, “if you didn’t come over here to hit on me, or to munch off a cigarette… what did you want?”
Satoru stared at the grass for a second, considering that. His fingers tugged at a blade near his knee. He didn’t want to lie. Didn’t really know how to lie when he was this nervous.
“I dunno,” he said quietly. “You just looked kinda- cool.”
Another blade of grass came loose between his fingers.
“I thought maybe you’d want to eat lunch together. Out here. Or something.”
He winced inwardly at how awkward it sounded, how vague and flimsy it was. His throat tightened, and he braced for her to laugh or scoff or give him that same look most people gave him when he said too much without being asked.
She just blinked at him like he’d surprised her.
A second passed.
“Sure,” the girl said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “We can do that. I’m usually out here anyway. So if you see me- feel free to join.”
Satoru blinked up at her, stunned.
“Seriously?”
She gave a half-smile, slow and lazy. “I mean, unless you’re planning on being annoying.”
“No! I mean, no, I’ll be normal. Totally normal.”
“Normal, huh?” She took another drag from her cigarette. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
But there was no malice in her voice. Just a little spark of dry humor, easy and effortless.
The girl tapped the ash from her cigarette and tilted her head at him. “I’m Shoko, by the way. Ieiri Shoko.”
“Oh- uh, Satoru,” he said quickly, like the name had just fallen out of his mouth. “Satoru Gojo.”
She nodded like she already figured it was something like that. “Cool.”
Another beat passed. The breeze tugged gently at the edge of her skirt, rustled the pages of the book in her lap. She didn’t move to stand, but Satoru didn’t want to sit any longer. His legs felt jittery now, like his body was only just catching up to the unwanted adrenaline.
“I should probably, uh, go back inside,” he mumbled, pushing himself up from the grass and brushing at his pants. “Lunch is almost over and I still wanna stop by the-” He didn’t even finish the sentence. He didn’t have somewhere to be. He just didn’t know what else to say.
Shoko glanced up at him with a wry smile, squinting against the sun. “I’ll stay out here a bit longer. I’m not usually on time for shit.”
Satoru nodded, way too fast.
“Right. Okay. See you. Later. Maybe.”
She raised two fingers in a lazy sort of peace sign. And just like that, he turned and walked away, lightheaded and jittery and absolutely buzzing with disbelief.
She said yes. He almost tripped on his way back into the building.