Her father never noticed the cut.
Not the white line that remained after it healed, nor the way she'd started favoring her left hand for nearly everything. He never asked why she stopped cooking for a few days or why she flinched a little when she accidentally bumped her fingers against something. He was too tired, maybe. Too worn down by long hours and longer nights. She didn't blame him—she never had. But it stayed with her, that strange emptiness. That quiet truth: you can live in the same house with someone and still feel invisible.
And Hoshina—he never brought it up again.
No teasing about her terrible bandaging job. No smug smile reminding her of almost killing him after what she had heard. He didn't act any different. If anything, it felt like he'd folded the memory into a locked drawer somewhere in his chest and tossed the key into the river. Like it never mattered.
But it did.
At least... it had to her.
Still, everything went back to normal. Or at least the kind of "normal" she'd come to expect.
Except...
He kept showing up.
She'd chalked it up to coincidence the first couple times—walking the same path to school, nothing weird about that. They were long-time neighbors. But then it happened again. And again. Even on days when she stayed late for council work or extra meetings, somehow, some way, he was always there.
He never said he was waiting for her. He never asked to walk with her.
But he never left her behind either.
Sometimes they didn't talk at all. They just walked, the silence between them filled with the crunch of gravel, the distant chatter of other students ahead or behind, the occasional sound of his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets.
And sometimes, when the late afternoon light turned gold and her shadow stretched long beside his, she wondered if he did it on purpose.
If he worried about her.
If he was watching in ways she didn't notice.
The thought both comforted her... and terrified her.
Because if someone like him could see through her—see the parts no one else bothered to look at—then it meant her mask wasn't as strong as she thought. It meant she wasn't invisible, not really.
And she didn't know if that was a relief...
...or a warning.
It was supposed to be a simple favor.
A classmate had asked her—sweetly, casually—if she could help finish setting up the decor for the upcoming festival with them. Make it a fun late night at school . Nothing major, just a little extra painting, a few name tags, maybe string some lights. The kind of thing Riko always said yes to.
So, she did.
She shuffled her schedule, pushed back her committee report, even shifted her assigned shift at the bakery fundraiser. It was going to be tight, but manageable. She just had to breathe, push through, and make it work like she always did.
Only they didn't show up.
And after twenty minutes of waiting in the empty classroom—brushes in one hand, tote of supplies in the other—Riko finally checked her phone.
A photo had been posted.
Not to her.
To their story.
Matching peace signs. A pastel-colored dessert plate. A caption that said:
"Girls night out 💕✨ (sorry Riko~ you got this tho!)"
The words didn't even sting. Not at first.
It was more like... they slid under her skin and settled in her bones, too heavy and too quiet to scream.
She stood there, in a classroom washed in orange light, the sun sliding down behind her, and she felt stupid. Not for agreeing to help.
But for believing someone might show up.
For believing anyone would choose her over a slice of strawberry shortcake and a glitter filter.
She didn't hear the footsteps at first. Not until she was already kneeling on the floor, collecting the spilled glue sticks and scattered markers she'd dropped when her hands started shaking.
"Oi," a voice said from the doorway. "You rob an art store or something?"
She didn't look up. "Not in the mood, Hoshina."
He stepped inside anyway, hands in his pockets, looking around like he wasn't sure what he'd just walked into.
"You're still here?" he asked. "Everyone else's gone home."
"I noticed." She clipped her words sharp. Bitter.
He raised an eyebrow. "You good?"
"No," she said, before she could stop herself. Her voice cracked. "No, I'm not good."
She sat back on her heels, and when she looked up at him, her face was tight, flushed with the effort of not crying.
"They asked for help. And I only agreed if they agreed to help. I actually made sure this time I wasn't alone. And they just ditched me—for cake. And sparkly drinks. And I—" She pressed the heel of her palm to her forehead, willing herself not to break apart in front of him. "Why does it feel like no one ever takes me seriously?"
He blinked, like her honesty had caught him off guard. She could see it—the shift in his posture, the way his weight settled on one leg like he was grounding himself.
"They asked you to help. Then bailed?" he said.
She gave a tight nod, throat too thick for words now.
His eyes narrowed, jaw working quietly. He walked past her, scooped up the rest of the supplies, and dumped them onto the desk.
"Okay. Let's finish it."
Her head snapped toward him. "What?"
"You heard me." He shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it over a chair. "You need help. I'm here."
"But—you don't even—why?"
"Because," he said, already picking up a brush, "I've watched you bust your ass for everyone else. And no one shows up when it counts. That pisses me off."
He didn't look at her when he said it. He didn't have to.
It was in his voice. Firm. Sure.
No teasing. No sarcasm.
Just Hoshina. Standing beside her, sleeves rolled up, ready to work.
And for the first time in what felt like forever...
Riko let someone help her.
Really help.
Not because she asked again.
But because he saw she needed it.
The sun had long dipped below the rooftops, and the classroom lights hummed low above them.
They worked in a kind of clumsy rhythm at first—Riko carefully sketching outlines while Hoshina cut pieces of colored paper with all the finesse of a bored raccoon.
"Can you not butcher the letters?" she said, snatching a poorly snipped "A" from his hand.
"It's abstract," he replied, mouth twisting into a half-smirk. "Makes people think."
"It makes people think you're legally blind," she shot back, already reshaping the curve of the letter with scissors.
He snorted and leaned back in the chair, watching her fix his work like it was no big deal. "You're kinda bossy, y'know that?"
"I'm efficient," she corrected. "Someone has to be."
"Mm-hm. Whatever helps you sleep at night."
She rolled her eyes but didn't argue. Because truthfully, she was too tired for a real fight. And maybe... she didn't really want one with him.
They continued—him taping pieces crooked on purpose just to watch her twitch, her giving him detailed instructions he pretended not to hear. It was ridiculous. It was mildly infuriating.
It was... weirdly comforting.
When she wasn't looking, he straightened the ones she hadn't gotten to yet.
When he wasn't looking, she left his slanted "S" taped up just as it was, even though she could've fixed it.
"You really suck at crafts," she murmured after a long pause, more gently this time.
"Yeah, well," he said with a shrug, "you're not exactly sunshine and rainbows either."
She looked at him then—just for a second. And the corner of his mouth curved into something quieter than a smirk. Something she couldn't quite name.
She turned back to her work before it settled into her chest too hard.
"I guess we both suck," she muttered.
"Speak for yourself. I'm great at snacks and sarcasm. That's a valid life skill set."
"Wow," she said dryly. "Impressive."
"Thank you. I pride myself on my versatility."
They fell into silence again, this time easier. Softer.
It wasn't perfect. It wasn't neat.
But in that room, with half-taped decorations and crooked letters, Riko didn't feel so alone.
And neither did he.