I lay in the dorm room, the blankets tangled around me like a prison. The fever still clung to me, and my thoughts were a mess, slipping away from me like water.
There was a knock at the door, followed by the unmistakable sound of Saana's voice, bright as ever. "Kensi? You decent?"
I didn't respond right away. I just curled further into the sheets, hoping they'd forget I was here. Maybe they'd leave me alone.
The door creaked open, and Monaka stepped in, her usual mischievous grin plastered on her face. "Alright, Sleeping Beauty, rise and shine," she teased, her voice light and playful. "We brought you a present."
Saana shuffled in behind her, holding a paper cup. "It's not much, but you can thank us later when we're the ones who saved your life," she said, winking.
I sat up slowly, the world spinning just a little too much. "You didn't have to come," I muttered, but I couldn't keep the faintest trace of a smile from forming. Their presence, though lighthearted, was like a balm in the haze.
Monaka flopped onto the chair beside me, crossing her arms with a dramatic sigh. "You seriously need to stop worrying us like this. First, we almost lose you to whatever madness went down at school yesterday, and now you're stuck in bed with a fever?" She raised an eyebrow—her tone teasing, but with a hint of concern she wasn't willing to show too much.
"I'm fine," I said, dragging myself into a sitting position. "Just… a fever, like you said."
Saana set the cup down on my nightstand, her eyes scanning me with that ever-present curiosity. "Honestly, I thought you were faking it to skip school," she admitted, trying to sound serious, though her lips twitched into a grin.
Monaka leaned back in the chair, flicking her hair over her shoulder. "So, okay, we gotta talk about something. There's this new transfer student who's, like, mysteriously beautiful, right? Total legend material. I heard she's rooming with that cold, smart genius—what's her name? Yosuka?"
Saana blinked. "You mean Kensi?"
Monaka paused, then pointed at me dramatically. "Right! That's the one. Cold, scary smart, basically lives in the library. I hear she only eats starlight and grades."
Saana burst out laughing. "She's also got resting 'don't talk to me' face. Total academic royalty."
I stared at them both, deadpan. "You realize I'm literally right here."
Monaka waved her hand. "Oh, don't be modest. The mythos must live on. We're just humble messengers."
I tried not to laugh—but a tiny breath escaped.
"You two are unbelievable."
I couldn't quite suppress the faintest hint of amusement.
Monaka leaned in, nudging me with her elbow. "Come on, Kensi. You can't be this serious. You know we're just messing around. You're allowed to have fun every now and then."
I stared at them for a moment—their smiles, their laughter, the ease of it all. It was so normal. So easy. Something I hadn't felt in… well, too long.
They didn't know what it was like to carry this weight.
They didn't know what it was like to feel invisible even when surrounded by people.
They didn't know what it was like to be so far out of reach of the world.
But for a moment, I almost forgot. Almost.
Monaka stood and stretched with a groan. "Alright, sick girl. We've done our civic duty. Time for you to knock out and let the miracle tea do its work."
Saana leaned down and adjusted the blanket over my legs. "Seriously though, rest up, okay? We need our cold genius back at full power."
I gave a small nod, pulling the blanket tighter around myself.
Monaka moved toward the door but glanced back one more time. "Don't overdo stuff. You're not a robot, you know?"
I didn't answer, just gave a faint, almost invisible smile. That was enough for them.
They left with the same energy they came in with—footsteps fading, the door clicking shut behind them. And then… quiet.
***
It didn't feel like sleep.
It felt like sinking.
The silence that followed was too big. Too empty.
Without their voices, the room felt like a vacuum—pulling everything inward, pressing against my ribs.
It reminded me of those days.
The ones I never talked about.
When I barely left my room. When the world felt like it was moving without me.
I could almost see her—my younger self—sitting on the edge of her bed, wrapped in a blanket like armor.
Eyes open, but foggy. Blank. Like even blinking took too much effort.
She didn't cry. She didn't move.
She just sat there.
No hope.
No anything.
That version of me didn't just appear overnight.
She showed up after I was dragged into the principal's office.
After the voices turned sharp.
After the glances became knives.
After people stopped asking and started assuming.
It didn't take long.
Just one moment. One accusation.
And everything unraveled.
My mind was loud, but the world was quiet. My body burned, but the room was so cold.
Somewhere, someone was calling my name. But the voice didn't matter. The memory did.
The moment I stepped into the principal's office, I knew.
They didn't believe me.
The teacher stood beside her, silent as a shadow.
The ruined pen sat on the desk, a broken relic of a moment that changed everything.
I was spoken to like a criminal.
They called my parents.
They came.
They listened.
But not to me.
They didn't ask what happened.
They didn't even look confused.
They just... accepted it.
My mom sat stiff in her chair, hands folded neatly in her lap. Her face was blank—calm in the way that wasn't calm at all.
Like she'd already made peace with whatever they said I did.
Like she'd expected it.
My dad stood beside her, arms crossed, staring past me. Not at me. Past me.
Like I wasn't even there.
Like I was just some stranger wearing his daughter's face.
The principal said "suspension," and no one protested.
No one even hesitated.
"She's been under a lot of pressure with exams," my mother said quietly, her voice flat.
"As long as she learns from it," my father added.
That was it.
Not a single question.
Not Did you do it?
Not Tell us what happened.
Not We believe you.
Just silence.
Just surrender.
And in that moment—more than when my friends turned away, more than when the class stopped looking at me, more than anything—
I broke.
Not loudly. Not all at once.
But in the quiet, crumbling way
***
The week of suspension passed like a blur.
Not once did they ask.
Not once did they sit me down and say, Tell us your side.
It was as if the decision had already been made the moment we left the principal's office.
As if I was guilty, and nothing I said would matter anyway.
I stayed quiet.
Ate my meals in silence.
Slept too much. Or not at all.
Counted down the days like they were part of some sentence I deserved.
But in the quiet, something hardened.
They might not believe me.
No one might believe me.
But I would prove it.
When I got back to school, I would find a way to clear my name.
I didn't know how. I didn't know where to start.
But that promise—
That was the only thing that kept me standing.
***
I woke up early the morning my suspension ended.
The sky outside was still dark, the sun just barely brushing the edge of the horizon—but I was already out of bed. My hands moved on their own, reaching for my uniform, folding the creases straight, brushing out wrinkles that didn't matter.
Everything had to be in order.
I moved slowly, deliberately. Every motion felt heavier than it should have, like I was dressing for war—not school. But I still did it. Because this wasn't just another day. Not for me.
This was step one.
Going back.
Just showing up—that was already proof.
Proof I wasn't running.
Proof I wasn't hiding.
Proof I had nothing to be ashamed of.
I stood in front of the mirror and tightened my tie. The reflection staring back at me didn't look like someone who had been proven guilty. She didn't look like a thief. She didn't look like a liar. Just tired. Just quiet.
But her eyes were steady.
If I wanted them to believe me, I had to act like I believed myself.
I couldn't fade into the background this time.
I couldn't afford to be invisible anymore.
No more slouching.
No more hiding behind my books.
No more whispering only when called on.
If they were going to paint me as something I wasn't, then I had to draw over it with something stronger.
The truth.
Even if I had to drag it into the light myself.
I went over everything in my mind, again and again.
How I'd walk into the classroom.
How I'd hold my head high.
How I'd speak if anyone questioned me.
Because this time, I wouldn't flinch.
They wanted me broken.
But I was going to show them that I still had something left.
I pulled my blazer over my shoulders and took a slow, deep breath.
You can't clear your name by disappearing, I told myself.
And then, just loud enough for only the mirror to hear:
"I'm not afraid of them."
***
The hallway lights buzzed softly above me as I stepped into the school building for the first time in a week.
My shoes echoed faintly on the polished floor. My hands stayed steady at my sides. My head was high—not defiant, just… present.
They'd notice. They had to.
Even if they whispered. Even if they glared. Even if they laughed behind their hands.
I was ready for all of it.
But…
No one looked up.
No one turned. No one flinched. No one whispered. No one even acknowledged me.
Not with words. Not with glances. Not with anything.
I passed classmates at their lockers. Their conversations didn't pause. Their eyes slid past me like I was air.
Like I wasn't even there.
I walked into the classroom. My seat was still there—untouched, unchanged.
The same third row from the window. The same desk. But the space around it felt wider now.Like even the air had learned not to get too close.
I set my bag down. Sat quietly. Waited.
Still nothing.
Not one glance. Not one question. Not one rumor buzzing in the background.
And that's when I realized—
There were no rumors.
No accusations.
No gossip.
They weren't talking about me anymore.Because I didn't exist to them.
I wasn't hated.
I wasn't feared.
I wasn't anything.
I was just… gone.
A glitch in the system. A name that stopped being passed around. A presence erased by time and silence.And somehow—that was worse.
I wasn't being punished anymore.
I was being forgotten.
But I didn't let it shake me.
I didn't shrink. I didn't bury my head in my arms or disappear behind a book.
I sat there—back straight, chin up, eyes forward.
Because I still believed.
I believed that if I could just wait long enough… if I picked the right moment, if I said the right thing, if I caught the right eye—
I could fix this.I could make them see me again.For the right reasons.
Even if it hurt.
Even if it took everything I had.
I would not disappear.
Not this time.
Math class felt the same as always—same rows, same chalk dust smell, same tired teacher scribbling numbers on the board. Usually, each of us had to stand and solve a problem in front of the class, one by one. It was routine. I sat there quietly, waiting for my name like always, trying not to think too hard about it. But when the teacher called on the person after me, and then the next, I realized I'd been skipped. I didn't react. I didn't raise my hand. I just stayed still, watching the numbers on the board as if nothing had happened. It's fine, I told myself. They're probably just giving me space. After everything that happened last week… maybe they think I need time to breathe. That was all. That had to be it.
Then the days passed.
One day.
Two days.
Three.
And slowly, it started to sink in.
It wasn't just math class. It wasn't just a one-time thing.
None of the teachers called on me. None of them looked at me.
I watched them scan the room, giving out questions, instructions, praise—passing over me every single time like my desk didn't exist.
At first, I told myself it was just my imagination. That maybe I wasn't raising my hand high enough. Maybe I was just too quiet. Maybe I was wrong.
But then the moment came—the one that proved it.
It was in homeroom, right after the bell. The teacher had just finished explaining something important about the assignment, and I didn't catch the part about the new formula. I raised my hand. I raised it fully, like every other student would. I waited. I waited longer.
The teacher glanced in my direction for a second.
Just a second.
Then turned away.
No acknowledgement.
No answer.
Just... silence.
And kept talking like I had never spoken at all.
That's when I knew.
For sure.
I wasn't being avoided out of discomfort.
I was being ignored on purpose.
No one.
No one.
They all ignored me.
I was still coming to class. Still turning in homework. Still trying. Still breathing.
But to them—I wasn't there.
Days passed like that.
And every time I tried to tell myself to be patient, that my chance would come...
it didn't.
They wouldn't give it to me.
No one would.
And something inside me cracked.
I stood up, right in the middle of class. My heart was pounding, my voice shaking as I shouted—louder than I'd ever spoken in school.
"I didn't stole it!"
Heads turned. For half a second, I thought I'd done it. I thought they finally heard me.
But they didn't.
The teacher didn't stop.
Didn't even glance my way.
The lesson went on.
The students kept writing.
Like nothing had happened.
Like I had never spoken.
Like I wasn't even worth hearing.
Like I wasn't real.
***
rest of the day went as it is but-The heat behind my eyes wouldn't go away.
It pressed against my skull like something was trying to claw its way out from the inside. My stomach turned—tight, nauseous. My breath caught in my throat and wouldn't settle.
Everyone ignored me.
Still.
But I could feel them.
Their eyes not looking, but still aware.
The kind of silence that hums. That burns.
They didn't speak, but their presence felt like a weight pushing down on my skin.
Their stillness screamed.
My pen slipped in my grip, and I clenched my jaw to keep the shaking out of my hands.
I couldn't breathe.
I can't take this.
My body ached like I'd been running for hours. My head throbbed, a sharp, pulsing beat that matched the rhythm of my heartbeat—too loud, too close.
If I walk out right now, no one will stop me.
I looked at the door. The exit was right there. Just a few steps away.
But still...
I raised my hand again.
Slowly. Hesitantly.
"...May I go to the nurse's office?"
No response.
The teacher kept writing, her back turned. Chalk against the board. The sound grated like sandpaper on bone.
I waited.
My hand stayed up.
My voice cracked slightly. "I don't feel well."
He didn't turn.
Didn't even pause.
Another second passed.
Then another.
And then finally—finally—without even glancing back, she said, "Whatever."
And just like that, I was dismissed. Like a chore. Like trash.
Like she'd been waiting for me to leave.
I stood up slowly, my legs heavy beneath me. The class didn't look at me. Not even a flinch. I walked out, each step echoing too loudly in the quiet room. The hallway was colder than I remembered.
***
The nurse didn't ask questions.
Didn't ask what was wrong. Didn't ask if I was okay.
She pointed at the cot with a pen still moving across a clipboard.
Like she couldn't be bothered.
The lights buzzed overhead, humming in time with the pounding in my head. My body folded onto the mattress like paper, and I pulled the blanket over my face to block out the world.
It smelled like disinfectant and old cloth.
Somewhere between the aches and the flickering lights above, my mind started slipping.
I remembered the weight of eyes that weren't watching.
I remembered the silence that wasn't quiet.
My thoughts blurred into a jagged, pulsing loop.
"I didn't steal it."
"Please, just listen."
"I'm still here."
Words that meant nothing.Words that no one heard.
I don't remember how I got home.
Just that I was walking.
Just that the air felt heavy.
Just that my legs moved even when I didn't want them to.
I reached the door—the door to my room.My hand hovered over the knob. For a moment, I stared at it like it didn't belong to me.
Then I opened it.
And I saw her.
Not a reflection. Not a memory.
Just her.
My past self, sitting on the edge of her bed, wrapped in that same blanket she wore like armor.
Eyes glazed. Shoulders low. Mouth shut.
I stood just outside the room, watching her.
She didn't move.
She didn't look up.
And I realized—
She wasn't me anymore.
Not really.
I had stepped outside of her somehow.
And still…
I understood her better than anyone else ever could.
The shame.
The fear.
The silence so deep it filled her lungs.
I walked in slowly. She didn't disappear. She just stayed there, frozen.
I reached for the door.
And shut it behind me.
Soft.
Final.
The sound echoed in my chest like a closing casket.
The outside world didn't matter anymore.
Not school.
Not the teachers.
Not the rumors or silence or second chances.
It was over.
This was it.
Me.
Her.
And everything I had tried to outrun.
***
I watched her.
Even though I was her. Even though I was in the room.
It still felt like I was standing on the other side of the glass.
She didn't scream.
She didn't cry.
She didn't even try to leave.
Not once.
She never reached for the doorknob again. Never leaned toward the mirror.
Never looked at her own face.
The uniform she used to wear every morning—
She had tossed it into a cardboard box like it was covered in ash. Like just touching it might burn.
She sat in the dark most days—not because the power was out, but because flipping the switch felt pointless. Darkness was quieter. Easier. A space where she didn't have to think.
Just sleep. Just silence.
She ate because her body demanded it.
She slept because there was nothing else to do.
But beyond that—
Nothing.
Time passed.
Or maybe it didn't.
One day, an envelope arrived—
The kind stamped with something official, something heavy.
It was from the school.
Her acceptance letter.
A scholarship.
She'd done it.
But she didn't open it.
Not at first.
It sat on her desk for days.
Then weeks.
When she finally did tear it open, she didn't read it.
Just glanced at the header, and set it down again.
The words blurred together.
She couldn't process them.
It didn't matter anymore.
None of it did.
Middle school ended.
She never went back.
Never said goodbye.
Never walked across a stage.
Her graduation certificate came in the mail, folded neatly between layers of clean white paper.
She didn't touch it.
Didn't even break the seal.
It sat on the floor for a long time, unopened.
Poisoned.
Like proof that she was never really there to begin with.
More time passed.
She lost track of the days.
Until one morning—she blinked, and it was spring.
High schools were starting again.
Another round of entrance ceremonies.
Another generation of bright, clean uniforms and polished shoes.
She looked at the calendar.
At the date circled in red.
The one she had once called her dream.
And felt nothing.
Not fear.
Not regret.
Not longing.
Just… nothing.
Even if I go, she thought, no one will believe me.
There's no one to prove myself to.
No one who wants the truth.
Not even my parents.
Not really.
They still smiled sometimes. Still cooked dinner. Still knocked on her door.But the trust was gone.
And once trust breaks—
It doesn't come back with apologies.
There's no use being alive, she thought once.
Not dramatically. Not loudly.
Just a quiet fact that settled in her chest like dust.
Months passed like that.
And she was still in her room.
Frozen. Erased.
***
Her room had stopped being a place.
It was a world. A shell. Her room had become her world.
Dark. Quiet. Still.
Four walls. A blanket. The sound of her own breath.
That was all that remained.
No school.
No future.
No expectations.
No voice.
Just the stillness.
She stopped checking the time.
Stopped opening the curtains.
Stopped pretending to care what day it was.
She didn't know how long she'd been there—not really.
Days, weeks, months.
She didn't count days anymore. Didn't need to.
Time didn't exist here—not really.
Only the darkness.
Only the sound of her own breath.
Only the slow, dull echo of a heart that wasn't even sure it wanted to keep going.
She didn't cry.
Didn't scream.
Didn't beg for anyone to listen.
Didn't want anything.
Because there was nothing left to want.
She just stopped.
Stopped talking.
Stopped hoping.
Stopped expecting anything from anyone.
Even the letter from the school—the one with the scholarship she'd dreamed of, fought for, bled for—sat unopened for weeks, untouched, unread, like it had been meant for someone else entirely.
It was just… there.
Like a souvenir from a life she didn't live anymore.
She hadn't read it.
Didn't need to.
What was the point?
Every piece of that dream—every night she stayed up studying, every score she clawed her way toward, every glimmer of belief she once had—
It was gone.
She had done everything right.
And they still threw her away.
Even her old uniform, folded in the box beside the desk, looked like it belonged to someone else now
And then, one afternoon, the silence cracked.
It wasn't loud.
Just the soft creak of the front door opening.
A voice—low, unsure—calling her name.
"Kensi?"
She didn't answer.
Another voice followed.
More steps. A pause. A sigh.
They came to her room.
Knocked once.
"Kensi…? Can we come in?"
Waited.
When she didn't respond, they opened it anyway.
She heard the footsteps. Soft, cautious. Familiar.
Her mother stepped in first.
Her father behind her.
The principal was there too.
And two teachers she used to know. Ones who hadn't looked at her since the day they labeled her as that kind of student.
But knowing didn't change anything.
The room stayed dim. She hadn't turned the lights on in days.
She sat in the farthest corner, knees pulled to her chest. She didn't look at them. Didn't flinch.
She just stayed curled under the blanket, facing the wall, eyes open but unfocused.
But she heard them.
Every word.
The shuffle of feet. The way the principal cleared her throat like she was trying to sound official—but the words came out cracked.
"I know you probably don't want to see us, but—can we talk?"
She didn't move.
There was a rustle of coats. A quiet cough.
"I'm sorry," one of them said. "I should've seen it. We all should have."
"We didn't understand," a voice.
"We thought it was just stress. That you'd pull through like always. That you were just... overwhelmed."
mother knelt down beside her, close but not touching.
"I thought giving you space would help. I thought if I didn't push, you'd come back."
Her voice broke. Her breathing shook.
"I didn't know you were suffering."
Then father spoke. Voice stiff. Controlled.
"We were told everything. The letters. The bullying. Even from elementary school."
He paused. Exhaled.
"All this time, we thought you were just… difficult."
His hand covered his face, and for the first time in her life—she heard him choke back tears.
There was silence after that. The kind that fills the whole room.
Then someone else spoke—slower, softer.
"I was wrong about you," they said. "From the beginning."
The words landed like snow. Cold. Quiet. Too late.
"She cut her hair," someone whispered. "And we thought she just needed space."
And then—
The mother's voice broke.
Not her words. Her voice.
"I should have known."
Her breathing stuttered.
"I should've known something was wrong. I thought… I thought if I just gave her time, she'd come back to us. I didn't think it was this."
Her hands trembled. She sat down on the edge of the bed but didn't touch her.
"She hasn't left this room in months," she said, like she was only realizing it now. "She hasn't even looked me in the eye since that day."
Then the crying started.
Real crying.
Not the silent kind. Not the polite kind.
The kind of crying that sounds like it hurts to breathe.The kind that made her shoulders shake and her throat catch.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."
Kensi blinked.
That was all.
She felt nothing.
Not anger.
Not warmth.
Not relief.
Not pain.
Nothing.
They said they were sorry.
Again and again, like maybe repetition could fill the silence.
The teachers looked hollow. The principal's voice shook. Her father's hands trembled as he tried to explain how proud he'd been when she passed the qualifier exam. How he never doubted her intelligence—just… her judgment.
And her mother said something like "we failed you."
But even that didn't land.Because none of them had said "I believe you" when it mattered.None of them had stayed when it counted.
Kensi sat there, her eyes blank, her hands unmoving beneath the blanket.
They asked if she'd like to talk.
She didn't answer.
They asked if she wanted to return.
She didn't speak.
The principal offered her a place at their high school—a fresh start.
They promised things would be different now. That there were systems in place. That those who hurt her had been punished. Transferred. Warned.
Still—
She said nothing.
Because even if they changed the world outside her door, the one inside her had already collapsed.
There was no going back.
There was no future to run toward.
Just pieces.
They didn't know how long they stood there.
They stayed
Some part of them hoping she'd speak.
Hoping she'd move.
But she didn't.
Eventually, one of the teachers whispered, "She can't even cry…"
Her mother broke down again.
Her father stepped back like he was trying not to fall apart too.
The principal bowed her head low—too low.
It looked like he didn't want to get up again.
But Kensi just sat there.
Breathing.
Watching.
Enduring.
It wasn't strength.
It wasn't peace.
It was what happens when someone breaks past the point of repair.
When even emotions turn to dust.
They left eventually.
Soft footsteps. Quiet apologies.
The door closed again.
And the silence returned.
Heavier this time.
More real.
But Kensi didn't move.
And if the world ended that night, she wouldn't have noticed.
***
She stayed there for hours. Maybe longer.
The silence wrapped around her like a second skin.
Her body didn't hurt anymore. Not in the sharp, immediate way.
Now it was dull. Heavy. Faintly distant.
Her eyes stared at nothing.
Her mouth didn't move.
Her hands didn't tremble.
The letter still sat on the desk.
Unopened. Untouched.
Just like before.
She looked at it.
Not for long. Not with interest.
Just a glance. The kind you give something you've already decided doesn't matter anymore.
Because school had already started.
The world had already moved on.
And she had missed it.
Like everything else.
But then—
Another letter.
Same envelope. Same seal. Same faint stamp at the corner.
She hadn't noticed it at first.
It must've arrived sometime during the long blur of days she didn't get out of bed.
This time…
She reached for it.
Her fingers were clumsy. Her hands still cold.
But she opened it.
Her eyes moved across the page slowly—
word by word.
And there it was.
A second chance.
A line that shimmered between the sentences like silver thread.
"Due to your exceptional academic performance, we are pleased to offer you a renewed scholarship for next year's admission…"
She stared.
Read it again.
And again.
Her heart didn't leap.
It didn't race.
It just… shifted.
Moved.
Like something inside her was starting to come back online.
There's still something.There's still a way forward.
The letter shook in her hands as the air in the room began to feel different.
Not warm. Not safe. Not yet.But real.
That night, for the first time in months,
She reached for her textbooks.
At first, she could only read a few pages at a time.
But the rhythm returned.
And once it did—she couldn't stop.
Five years of material.
Reviewed. Relearned. Rewritten.
Every formula, every theory, every experiment—she devoured it.
Not because she was chasing anyone.
Not because she needed to prove anything.
Because this time, she was doing it for herself.
And slowly, the world began to change.
The room no longer felt like a coffin.
The air no longer felt like dust.
The days began to take shape.
And then—so did she.
It didn't happen all at once.But I knew the fever had finally broken.
The first thing I felt was the sunlight—soft and low, crawling across the edge of my blanket. My skin was damp with sweat, my breath light. My body still ached, but it was the kind of ache that comes after rest, not collapse. My head was clearer. Still fogged in places, but… lighter. Not empty.
For the first time in a long time, I didn't feel like I was falling through something.
I just felt... still.
Calm.
Not fake calm. Not that brittle, hollow silence I'd been clinging to for years.
Just quiet. Just present.
Just… alive.
Somewhere nearby, I heard the sound of movement. A cup being set down gently. Fabric shifting.
I didn't panic.
I didn't freeze.
I just listened.
Ozaka.
I recognised her footsteps. That smooth, careful rhythm that never seemed to falter.
I sat up slowly, brushing strands of hair from my face. My body was stiff, but steady. I pulled the blanket aside and stood without wobbling for the first time in days.
When I stepped out into the room, I saw her—standing by the window with a book in her hand. Her silhouette was neat and composed, like always. She looked up, her expression unreadable, eyes calm.
The two upperclassmen who'd stayed with me must've left earlier. I remembered them faintly—how gently they'd spoken. How they hadn't asked too many questions. I hadn't realized how much that had mattered until now.
I met Ozaka's eyes. And for once, there was no panic in my chest. No tremble in my fingers.
Just breath.
"Thank you," I said, my voice soft but steady. "For looking after me while I was sick."
She blinked. Just once. Then gave a short, almost imperceptible nod.
That was it.
She didn't press. Didn't prod. Didn't try to make the moment bigger than it was.
And I appreciated that.
I walked back to my desk, pulled out a book—one I hadn't touched since I arrived. One of my favorites.
The pages smelled the same. The corners still held the folds from nights I spent re-reading my favorite parts.
And as I flipped through them, I felt it.
That tiny flicker.
A life. Not perfect. Not pain-free. But mine.
I had made it here. Somehow.
I had survived the silence. The isolation. The collapse.
I was still here.
I had met people like Monaka and Saana—loud, ridiculous, kind people who didn't try to fix me, who didn't know my story but didn't need to.
I had a room. A desk. A schedule. A routine.
I was learning again. I was sleeping.
I was existing in a place that, for once, didn't try to erase me.
And whatever came next—
I'd face it.
***
The next day, I went to school.
The halls were still the same. The classrooms still buzzed with soft chatter and the scratch of pens against paper. But I walked through it all with steady steps.
I returned to my usual seat. I took out my notes. Answered questions when asked. Took quizzes. Ate lunch with Saana and Monaka, even when they argued over the best vending machine drink again.
My life—however strange, however imperfect—was mine again.
When Ozaka spoke to me, I responded politely. Clearly.
I kept my guard up. Not cold. Not hostile. Just… cautious.
She was still unreadable.
But this time, that didn't scare me.
I watched her, listened, responded. As if we were just two students sharing a room. Nothing more.I didn't let her in—but I didn't shut her out.
Not completely.
Because I wasn't the girl who hid behind silence anymore.
And I wasn't going to disappear again.
Not now.
Not ever.
***