The crisp autumn air sliced through the bustling entrance of River Valley High, carrying more than just the scent of fallen ginkgo leaves. It carried stares. As Haruki Tanaka pushed through the heavy oak doors, the morning din hit a discordant pause. Conversations faltered mid-sentence. Heads swiveled. Eyes tracked his path like searchlights.
"...that's him? From the relay?" a second-year boy murmured just loud enough to carry, nudging his friend. "Went down hard after the medals. Looked totally gone."
"Poor Tanaka-kun," a girl whispered behind Haruki's back as he passed her locker cluster. "I heard he could barely finish the warm-up jog in PE this morning. Just... stopped."
"Maybe he pushed too hard yesterday?" floated from near the club sign-up sheets. "Heard Sato-senpai was really on his case during the tug-of-war..."
Ren materialized beside Haruki like a shadow, his shoulder bumping Haruki's lightly – a silent anchor. "Ignore the pigeons, Haruki," he muttered, his voice a low growl barely audible over the noise. "They only coo when they find something pathetic to peck at."
Sora fell into step on Haruki's other side, her usually bright eyes clouded with concern. "Gossiping jerks," she hissed, shooting a venomous glare towards a group that suddenly found the ceiling fascinating. "Don't listen, Haruki! You ran your heart out! Anyone would be wrecked after that!"
Riku brought up the rear, his usual easy grin replaced by a tight-lipped seriousness as he scanned the crowd. "Catch any new rumors?" he asked Sora under his breath.
Sora grimaced, leaning closer. "Some say he's concussed. Others reckon it's... nerves? Like he cracked under pressure." She spat the words with disgust. "As if finishing that relay after stumbling wasn't pure guts."
Haruki clenched his worn canvas bag straps until the rough weave bit into his palms. Nobody knew. Nobody knew the gnawing hollowness beneath the bone-deep fatigue – a heavy, leaden feeling seeping into his limbs. Push-ups yesterday felt like bench-pressing mountains. A simple sprint winded him faster than ever, leaving a deep, unfamiliar burn in his muscles, a draining weakness that felt alien and frightening. It wasn't just tiredness; it was like his body's battery had been permanently half-emptied.
At their lockers, Ren spun the combination dial with sharp, angry clicks. He glanced sideways, his dark eyes sharp and assessing. "You upright? Really? No spinning? No sudden urge to introduce your face to the floor?" His tone was gruff, but the worry beneath was a tangible thing.
Haruki forced a thin, unconvincing smile. "Just wiped, Ren. Still catching up on sleep." The lie scraped his throat. How could he explain the anchors dragging him down?
Sora slammed her locker shut with a metallic bang. "Forget the noise. Let's just survive Yamada-sensei's surprise Setting Sun quiz. I maybe… glanced at chapter three…" Her weak grin was a lifeline of normalcy.
Riku groaned, thudding his forehead against his locker. "Quiz? Cruel. Hey, Haruki, you actually get Dazai's whole 'world is pain' thing? My notes look like a spider drowned in ink."
Classroom: Under the Microscope
Homeroom felt like walking onto a stage naked. Ms. Takeda's usual briskness seemed forced. As she called names, her gaze lingered on me a fraction too long, a flicker of concern breaking through her professional mask. Across the room, Kaito Sato caught my eye. A slow, deliberate smirk spread across his face. He raised a limp wrist to his forehead in an exaggerated faint, drawing muffled snickers from his lackey. I looked down, tracing the whorls in the worn wood of my desk, heat rising up my neck.
Haruna Miyamoto sat beside me, a picture of serene focus. But I felt a subtle shift – a heightened awareness radiating from her. As Mr. Ishikawa launched into trigonometry, a small, folded square of pristine cream paper appeared silently on the corner of my desk. I unfolded it discreetly. Neat, precise handwriting: "Tanaka-kun, I have arnica salve. Highly effective for reducing inflammation. Would it help?" I glanced sideways. Haruna gazed intently at the board, seemingly absorbed in sines and cosines, but a faint, almost imperceptible flush coloured the tips of her ears. I shook my head minutely, a silent 'I'm okay, thank you,' and nudged the note back. Her slender fingers retrieved it without a ripple. That simple, practical offer, devoid of pity, sparked an unexpected warmth against the chill of my humiliation.
Ayame Kurosawa, across the aisle, caught my gaze. Her dark eyes were sharp, observant, missing nothing – the pallor of my skin, the defensive hunch of my shoulders. Her expression wasn't pitying; it was assessing, fiercely protective, filled with unspoken understanding. She gave a small, firm nod. I see you. I'm here. A lifeline, and a reminder of how exposed I was.
The Long Afternoon: Gravity's Pull
The day stretched, each class an ordeal. Concentrating through the fog of exhaustion felt like reading through murky water. In Math, Ishikawa-sensei's equations dissolved into meaningless squiggles. When called upon, my mind blanked. My stammered answer drew a patient correction and another poorly concealed snort from Kaito's direction. The weight of my textbooks pressed like stones against my aching shoulder as I navigated the halls. By the final bell, my arms throbbed, my legs felt like concrete pillars.
The walk to the gates was slow. I lagged behind, each step an effort. The lively debate about Cultural Festival clubs and the newest battle-shonen anime flowed around me, but I felt adrift, wrapped in muffled cotton wool.
"You're quiet as a ghost today, Haruki," Ren observed, falling back to match my pace.
"Just… drained," I mumbled, focusing on the pavement cracks. "Ishikawa-sensei fried my brain."
Sora looped her arm through mine briefly, her touch light. "Skip the arcade? Grab bubble tea and chill by the river?"
Riku perked up. "Ramen? My shout! Comfort carbs for the mathematically mangled!"
The thought of the noisy, steamy ramen shop, the clatter, the effort of chewing and talking, felt overwhelmingly heavy. I managed a ghost of a smile. "Maybe… tomorrow? Just… need to crash. Home." The longing for my quiet room, my duvet, was a physical ache.
"Sure, man," Riku said, clapping my good shoulder gently. "Hit the sack early."
"Call. Text. Carrier pigeon. Whatever," Sora insisted, worry etching lines around her eyes. "Seriously, Haruki."
"Don't attempt complex equations," Ren added dryly. "Or stairs. Stairs look treacherous."
From the train station after we got off. We said our goodbye at the corner where our paths split. I turned toward the old stone bridge over the creek—a shortcut home.
The afternoon sun painted long shadows. I followed the quiet path, folding in on myself with every step.
Behind me came a slow, mocking clap.
"Well, well, if it isn't Haruki the Princess." A tall boy and his two cronies emerged from the trees. The ringleader—a bruiser with a scar across his cheek—smirked. "How's it feel to be the school clown?"
My chest tightened. "Leave me alone, Ryota."
Ryota laughed, heavy and cruel. "Princess? Who does he think he is?"
A shorter boy sneered. "You faint at Sports Day, can't run, and now you're too weak to stand up to us?"
I kept my gaze forward, stepping around the water barrel at the bridge's entrance.
"Sensitive much?" the third boy jeered. "Afraid of a little teasing?"
"Just go away," I croaked.
Ryota reached out and slapped me across the cheek so hard my head snapped sideways. Pain burst, and the world rattled.
"Girls need a slap sometimes," he said, smirking. "Maybe you'll toughen up."
My vision flashed but I grabbed his arm and swung. It barely grazed his shoulder.
His cronies laughed.
"Wrong move, Princess."
Ryota slapped me again—harder—spinning me around. I staggered, bitterness and humiliation flooding me.
"What's the matter? Can't fight back?" Ryota taunted.
I drew back and swung a wild punch. It whooshed in the empty air—my strength gone. Ryota kicked my side, sending me to my knees.
"Pathetic," he spat.
Water from the creek below caught the sunlight as I shook my head, fighting dizziness. I could taste copper on my tongue. My friends' voices echoed in my mind—cries of concern—but here, alone, I felt naked.
The cronies closed in. I tried to stand, fists raised, but my legs trembled and gave way. They jumped forward, battering me with slaps and kicks. My ribs flared, agony spiking with each blow.
Tears stung my eyes. I tried to scream, but no sound came.
The Bridge: Sunlight and Cruelty
I was halfway across the weathered stone bridge, ancient moss clinging to its arches, the creek whispering secrets below, when a slow, deliberate clap echoed from the far end.
"Well, well. Look what drifted onto the bridge. If it isn't Haruki the Fainting Goat."
I froze. Ryota Nakamura leaned against the moss-streaked parapet like a misplaced gargoyle, flanked by Kenji and Taro. Ryota, a hulking third-year held back, wore a faded scar above his left eyebrow like a trophy. His smirk was wide, predatory, utterly cold.
"Heard you put on quite the disappearing act yesterday, Goat," Ryota drawled, pushing off the stone with exaggerated slowness. Kenji and Taro mirrored him, blocking the path back. "Collapsing like a sack of rice. Bet they needed smelling salts and a fainting couch." Contempt dripped from every word.
My chest tightened. I kept my gaze forward, trying to angle past them towards the large, weathered rain barrel marking the exit. "Just going home, Ryota," I said, my voice tight.
He laughed, a harsh, grating sound bouncing off stone. "Oho, touchy! Did Goat get his delicate feelings trampled?" He stepped directly into my path, looming. Cheap bubblegum and stale sweat washed over me. "What's the matter? Can't handle truth? You are weak. Can't run a relay without tripping over air. Can't stand straight without looking like a breeze would finish you." He jabbed a thick finger hard into my sternum. "Pathetic."
Kenji snickered. "Maybe he's just brittle, Ryota-senpai. Like old glass." He mimed dropping something fragile.
Taro leered, stepping closer until his breath hit my face. "Explains the fainting. And the way he moves… kinda light, y'know? Not solid. Like a girl." His eyes raked over me with insulting scrutiny.
The words hit like physical blows, twisting the knife of my own deep-seated insecurities about my softer features and frustrating lack of brute strength. Humiliation warred with a spark of desperate, futile anger against the crushing fatigue. "Back off," I hissed, my voice trembling. "Just… move."
Ryota's hand shot out faster than thought. Not a punch. A hard, open-palmed slap across my left cheek. CRACK.
White-hot pain exploded. My head snapped violently sideways. Stars burst behind my eyes. The world swam.
"Sometimes goats need a smack to remember their place," Ryota sneered, flexing his hand. "Maybe it'll knock sense into you."
The world tilted. Rage, hot and blinding, surged through the exhaustion. With a choked gasp, I lunged, swinging wildly. My fist glanced off Ryota's meaty shoulder.
Kenji and Taro howled with jagged laughter.
"Wrong move, Goat!" Ryota roared, face flushing. Another slap, harder, sharper, caught me full on the same cheek, spinning me around. I stumbled back, crashing hard against the unforgiving stone parapet. Copper flooded my mouth – I'd bitten my tongue. Vision blurred. Tears of pure pain sprang unbidden. The creek water below glittered mockingly.
"Useless!" Ryota spat, advancing. "Can't even throw a punch."
I pushed off the cold stone, shaking my head, fighting the ringing in my ears, the dizziness, the rising panic. I saw Ren's scowl, Sora's worry, Ayame's strength in my mind. But here, alone, facing three predators on the deserted bridge, I felt terrifyingly small. Exposed. I tried to raise my fists, adopting a pitiful defensive stance, but my legs trembled violently beneath me. Water. They felt like water.
Kenji and Taro lunged. Not fists to knock me out. Open hands. A barrage of sharp, stinging slaps – head, shoulders, arms. Calculated degradation. Each smack punctuated by vicious taunts.
"Waste of space!"
"Look at him shake!"
"Can't even block!"
"Like a scared kid!"
"Should've stayed down!"
I tried to duck, shield my face, shove them away. My movements were sluggish, my arms heavy, unresponsive. A hard slap from Kenji caught my ringing ear. Pain lanced through my skull like a white-hot needle. Tears of pain, frustration, utter helplessness streamed down my stinging cheeks. Hot. Shameful. I tried to shout, curse, call for help. Only a choked, ragged sob escaped. Ryota watched, arms crossed, a cruel smile twisting his scarred face as his cronies delivered their punishment. The world narrowed to the sting, the jeers, the violation, and Taro's words echoing: "Like a scared kid!" The familiar shame about how I looked, how weak I felt, magnified a thousand times by their casual cruelty, threatened to drown me right there on the sun-dappled stones of my own shortcut.