Hana Hyuga had always lived life with a quiet undercurrent of worry. It wasn't the kind of fear that paralyzes you or keeps you in bed. No, it was subtler than that—like a gentle static buzzing in the back of her mind, an omnipresent reminder that something, somewhere, was bound to go wrong. She moved through her days like someone constantly holding their breath, never quite able to exhale completely.
Her routine had settled into a reliable monotony since starting college. Mornings were spent shuffling to lectures with heavy eyelids and a heavier bag, afternoons devoured by quick, awkward lunches in the overpopulated cafeteria—always eaten alone, always at the edge of a group she never quite belonged to. Evenings saw her walking home along quiet streets, her small apartment waiting like an old friend who never asked questions. And once the door clicked shut behind her, Hana would finally escape—into the only place she felt truly seen: the world of manga.
That night, like most others, she curled into her usual spot on the futon mattress, manga spread across her lap, bathed in the soft glow of a desk lamp. This week's obsession was yet another Omegaverse story. She had devoured the entire series in a matter of days, drawn in by its drama, its intensity, and—though she never said it out loud—its promises. Promises of destined bonds. Of passion. Of not having to wander through life alone, unsure if you would ever really be chosen.
She wasn't sure when her fascination had become a frustration. Maybe it was tonight, maybe it had been building for weeks. But somewhere in the middle of Chapter 42, it all boiled over.
"Satan Shinji!" Hana exploded, flinging the book down with uncharacteristic force. It skidded across her desk and bumped harmlessly into a pencil case. "How many times do I have to hear about your boyfriend? Even in class today! You wouldn't shut up for five minutes!" Her voice cracked, torn between exasperation and some deeper, less nameable ache. "I hate you, Shinji!"
The words hung in the air like smoke. Regret bloomed immediately.
With a groan, Hana collapsed forward, burying her face in her palms. "Aaaaaaaaah," she moaned, the cry muffled and pathetic. Her shoulders slumped as the weight of everything—the loneliness, the envy, the constant reminders of what she didn't have—pressed down like gravity itself.
She peeked up, catching sight of the manga she'd discarded. On the page, two impossibly handsome characters, their expressions tender and intense, held each other as if the world might end at any moment. Alpha and Omega. Meant to be. Always paired.
A sharp pang shot through her.
"Oh God," she breathed, grabbing the book and turning it upside down, as if that would erase what she'd just seen. Her eyes flicked upward toward the ceiling, where the pale light fixture glowed like a distant, indifferent deity. "Do you see me? Do you even care?" Her voice wavered. "Everywhere I go, it's couples, couples, couples! Even in this dumb manga!"
Her tone turned accusatory, almost defiant. "Why can't I just have someone? Why isn't there a mark on my forehead saying 'Forever Alone'? Or maybe there is. Maybe I'm cursed. If I was in the Omegaverse at least there'd be a reason. Roles. Bonds. Fate." Her voice cracked with desperation. "Why can't someone see me?"
The night was still when she finally fell asleep, face damp with frustrated tears, her manga lying forgotten on the floor like a broken promise.
Morning came too gently.
No blaring alarm. No rumbling traffic or construction noise outside her window. Just the sound of birdsong, foreign and delicate, and a beam of sunlight warm on her eyelids.
Hana stirred, groggy and disoriented. At first, she thought she'd overslept. Maybe it was Sunday? Maybe her phone had died again? But something was wrong. The light wasn't quite right. It wasn't filtering through her cheap beige curtains—it was softer, golden, as if painted by hand.
Her eyes fluttered open.
She froze.
Above her, there was no familiar ceiling with water stains and faint cracks. Instead, she saw wooden beams, dark with age, running across the room like the ribs of an ancient creature. She sat up slowly, heart beginning to pound. Her mattress was gone. In its place, a low futon, nestled directly on a tatami-covered floor.
Confusion gripped her.
The walls were made of wood and paper. Shoji screens, not drywall. The air smelled faintly of rice straw and smoke, not the usual faint scent of her shampoo. The corner of the room held a small hearth with an iron kettle resting above glowing embers. The atmosphere was calm—but deeply, unmistakably wrong.
"This…" Hana's voice cracked. "This isn't my room."
Her breath quickened. Her hands flew instinctively to her chest, seeking reassurance in something familiar. But—
Her fingers landed on flatness.
Not the gentle curve of her modest bust. Just skin. Flat. Smooth. Wrong.
Panic ignited in her chest like a wildfire.
Yanking up the robe she wore—unfamiliar cotton fabric, plain and coarse—she stared down in horror. No curves. No familiar shape. Just—
A boy's body.
A strangled sound escaped her lips, part scream, part sob. "No no no no no…"
Heart racing, she stumbled to her feet and rushed to the small mirror standing near the window, its frame worn with age. She looked into it, bracing herself.
And what she saw made her stomach drop.
The face was hers—but not hers.
The same dark eyes, maybe. But sharper. Narrower. The jawline was stronger, the cheeks less soft. The eyebrows were angled, not rounded. The lips were thinner. Her long hair was gone, replaced by a tousled black crop that fell into her eyes.
"This…" she whispered, reaching out to touch the mirror. The glass was cool beneath her fingertips. "This isn't me. This isn't my face!"
The boy in the mirror mimicked her every move.
And then it hit her—not like a thought, but like a truth that had always been there, waiting in the dark.
She wasn't Hana anymore.
At least… not the Hana she had always known.