VOLUME #2 - EPISODE 10
[NARRATOR: Some mornings arrive with the weight of unspoken things. Today is one of those mornings. Where yesterday's trauma sits heavy in your heart and you have to pretend it's not there. Where you paste on a smile so big it hurts your face. Where you become a performance of yourself because the real you is too broken to show anyone. Welcome back to Jeremy High, where everyone's pretending and nobody's fooling anyone.]
The Morning After Everything
Riyura Shiko stood in front of a mirror, staring at his reflection like it was a stranger.
His purple hair stuck up at odd angles—more chaotic than usual, like even his hair had given up on maintaining structure. Dark circles under his eyes spoke of a night spent crying silently, then staring at the ceiling, then crying again. His star-shaped yellow pupils looked dimmer somehow, like someone had turned down their brightness setting.
He reached for his yellow star hairclip. Paused. Grabbed two more from his bedroom drawer. Clipped all three into his hair at random angles. Then his red bow tie—which he tied crookedly at odd angles. But that part was normal. Kind of this time... I guess.
He forced a smile at his reflection. Too wide. Too bright. The smile of someone trying desperately to convince themselves they were fine.
[RIYURA'S INTERNAL MONOLOGUE: Okay. Deep breath. Yesterday was horrible. Last night was worse. But today is a new day. A fresh start. I can do this. I can be the cheerful host. The optimistic friend. The person everyone relies on. I just have to ignore the part of me that's screaming. The part that wants to curl up and never move again. The part that remembers my father's words and his casual dismissal of a child's death. I just have to be normal. How hard can that be?]
It was going to be very hard. His mother knocked softly on his bedroom door. "Riyura? Sweetie? Are you okay?" "I'm great!" His voice came out too loud, too cheerful, completely unconvincing. "Super great! Extremely great! All the great!"
Silence from the other side of the door. "Riyura—" "Gotta go to school, Mom! Don't want to be late! Love you bye!"
He grabbed his bag and practically ran out of the house before she could say anything else. Before the concern in her voice could crack the fragile shell he'd constructed around himself.
The winter morning was bright and cold—the kind of cold that felt sharp in your lungs, like breathing broken glass. Riyura walked fast, hands shoved in his pockets, three hairclips glinting in the early sunlight like warning signals. Because for some reason he'd put on three on accident.
[NARRATOR: When Riyura wears multiple hairclips, something's wrong. When his bow tie is aggressively crooked, something's very wrong. When he's moving like he's running from ghosts, everyone should probably start worrying.]
The Transfer Student Who Saw Too Much
Homeroom was its usual controlled chaos—Subarashī explaining his latest "ultimate technique" to anyone who'd listen (no one was listening), Miyaka humming while doodling elaborate fantasy scenes, Cartoon Headayami reorganizing his pencils by exact millimeter measurements, and Shoehead quietly eating what appeared to be a shoelace while staring philosophically into the middle distance.
Riyura slid into his seat, his smile fixed so firmly it looked painted on.
"Yo, Riyura!" Subarashī appeared beside him. "You look—" He paused, his usually oblivious energy sharpening into something concerned. "—you look like you're trying really hard to look normal."
"I'm totally normal!" Riyura's voice was too high. "Super normal! The normalest!" "That's not a word," Miyaka said gently, sliding into the seat in front of him and turning around. "And you're wearing three hairclips."
"Fashion statement!" "You've also tied your bow tie so crooked it's basically sideways." "New trend!"
Yakamira appeared silently, his pale gray eyes immediately assessing his brother's state. He said nothing—just placed a hand briefly on Riyura's shoulder. A gesture that meant I know. I see you. We'll talk later.
Riyura's throat tightened. He nodded once, not trusting himself to speak. The classroom door opened with such grace. Somehow, and they were about to find out why.
Their homeroom teacher—still traumatized, still barely functional, but trying—entered with the exhausted energy of someone who'd given up on enthusiasm years ago.
"We have a new transfer student," he announced flatly. "Try not to break him. We've lost two transfer students this semester already and the administration is getting concerned about our retention rates. Kaiju... also glad to see you my son. Man lifes a pain in the back spine."
He gestured vaguely toward the door. "Come in." The student who entered made the entire classroom go quiet.
He was sparkly. Not conventionally handsome—something more ethereal than that. Tall and graceful, with perfectly styled dark hair that fell across his eyes in a way that suggested either careful styling or natural perfection. His uniform fit like it had been tailored specifically for him. He moved with fluid precision, like every step was choreographed, like he was constantly performing a dance only he could hear.
But his eyes. His eyes were what made Riyura's breath catch.
They were bright—almost feverish—with the intensity of someone who saw too much, felt too much, existed in a reality slightly adjacent to everyone else's.
The new student turned to face the class, and his smile was radiant. Dazzling. The kind of smile that made you want to trust him immediately. Then he spoke, and everything became strange.
"Good morning, everyone!" His voice was melodious, almost musical. "I'm Keiko Pianissimo! It's wonderful to meet you all! Your collective aura is very backed spined today! Very F-sharp percent! With undertones of beautiful anxiety and splashes of pretty curiosity!"
The classroom stared in collective confusion. "I'm sorry, what?" someone asked.
"Your aura!" Keiko gestured enthusiastically, his hands moving through the air like he was conducting an invisible orchestra. "The emotional symphony you're all projecting! It's crescendo crimson mixed with pianissimo periwinkle! Absolutely magnificent!"
"Is he speaking Japanese?" Miyaka whispered. "Technically yes," Yakamira replied quietly. "Functionally no." Keiko's bright eyes swept across the classroom, cataloging each student with that feverish intensity, until they landed on Riyura.
He froze. His smile widened impossibly further.
"Oh," he breathed, walking directly toward Riyura like a moth to flame. "Oh, you're fascinating. Your emotional palette is incredible! Chromatic purple melancholy layered over pretty yellow desperation with crescendoing undertones of obsidian grief!"
He leaned in close, studying Riyura's face with unsettling focus.
"You're trying so hard to be fortissimo joy when your actual composition is diminished seventh sadness. It's beautiful. Tragic. Like a symphony playing in the wrong key while pretending everything's perfect. Oh it makes my heart flutter in amusement of such amazing joyful sadness."
Riyura felt something cold settle in his heart. This stranger—this weird, beautiful, incomprehensible stranger—had seen through him in approximately thirty seconds.
[RIYURA'S INTERNAL MONOLOGUE: How? How does he—I'm smiling. I'm wearing extra hairclips. I'm performing normalcy perfectly. How can he see—]
"I don't know what you're talking about," Riyura said, his forced cheerfulness cracking slightly. "I'm fine. Great, actually. Super great."
"No you're not," Keiko said simply, tilting his head. "You're mezzo-forte breaking. But that's okay! Breaking can be beautiful too! Like when a piano string snaps—there's this gorgeous twang of release!"
"Please stop analyzing my emotional state using music terms," Riyura said, his smile becoming strained. "I can't!" Keiko said brightly. "It's how I see the world! Everyone's a symphony! You're just a particularly complicated one!"
The teacher cleared his throat. "Keiko, please take a seat. Preferably one where you're not diagnosing your classmates."
"Of course my beautiful depressed teacher!" Keiko moved to the empty desk beside Riyura, his movements fluid and graceful. As he sat, his fingers began moving across his desk like he was playing piano keys that weren't there.
Riyura watched, fascinated and disturbed in equal measure.
[NARRATOR: And so begins the weirdest friendship that will inevitably form at Jeremy High. Because of course Riyura—who's currently falling apart—would attract someone who speaks in abstract musical-color descriptions and plays invisible piano. It's like the universe has a sense of irony and a psychology degree.]
The Lunch Period Of Increasing Strangeness
By lunch, Keiko Pianissimo had become a phenomenon. Students gathered around him like he was performing a show—which, in a sense, he was. Everything he did was theatrical, dramatic, incomprehensible.
"Your sandwich!" he told Subarashī, pointing at the student's lunch with profound seriousness. "It's projecting staccato beige energy with undertones of militant mustard! The lettuce is particularly pianissimo green! Well done!"
"I don't know if you're complimenting my sandwich or having a breakdown," Subarashī replied, genuinely confused. "Both! Always both!"
Keiko turned to Miyaka next. "Your humming! That melody you were doing earlier! Pure legato lavender with crescendoing rose gold harmonics! You should sing more! Your voice is mezzo-soprano turquoise!"
"That's... nice?" Miyaka said uncertainly. "I think?"
Even Cartoon Headayami seemed baffled, making notes on his clipboard: "New student exhibits signs of synesthesia, possible sensory processing differences, definitely concerning speech patterns..."
But it was when Keiko approached Shoehead that things got truly strange. Shoehead was eating a boot heel, his usual contemplative expression in place, when Keiko knelt down beside him with reverent intensity.
"You," Keiko whispered. "You understand texture. The tactile symphony of leather. The rhythmic resistance of rubber. The way consumption becomes meditation."
Shoehead paused mid-bite. "You eat weird things too?" "Oh yes!" Keiko reached into his bag and pulled out a piece of paper—sheet music, Riyura realized—and took a bite. Just ate it like it was food.
"Sheet music is particularly good," Keiko said, chewing thoughtfully. "The paper has mezzo-forte beige texture and consuming the notes helps quiet the symphony in my head. Makes everything diminuendo until I can breathe."
Shoehead stared. Then slowly nodded. "I understand completely." "I knew you would! You're sparkly with harmonious understanding!" They sat in companionable silence, eating shoe and sheet music respectively, while everyone else watched in horrified fascination.
"We've collected another one," Miyaka said quietly. "Another person with deeply concerning coping mechanisms." "It's becoming a pattern," Yakamira agreed.
Riyura, who'd been trying to eat lunch while maintaining his forced cheerfulness, felt exhaustion settling into his bones. Everyone was so weird. So broken in their own unique ways. And somehow they'd all found each other.
But Keiko—Keiko kept looking at him. Those bright, feverish eyes kept drifting back to Riyura like he was a puzzle Keiko was desperate to solve. Finally, Riyura couldn't take it anymore.
"Why do you keep staring at me?" he asked, trying to keep his voice light. Keiko smiled—that radiant, unsettling smile.
"Because you're like me," he said simply. "Performing. Translating unbearable things into bearable language. Except I use colors and music, and you use cheerfulness and optimism. But we're both hiding the same fortissimo agony underneath."
The words hit Riyura like a physical blow. "I'm not—" he started. "You are," Keiko interrupted gently. "And it's okay. Hiding hurts less than showing. I know. I've been hiding for three years."
"Hiding from what?" Miyaka asked softly. Keiko's smile didn't waver, but something flickered in his eyes—something ancient and painful. "From the person I used to be. Before everything went dissonant. Before the music became too loud to survive."
He stood gracefully, his fingers still playing invisible piano. "But that's a story for another time! Right now, I'm going to explore this magnificent school and document all its chromatic emotional frequencies!"
He walked away, leaving the group in confused silence. "He's hiding something," Yakamira said quietly. "Obviously," Shoehead agreed, still eating his boot.
"But what?" Miyaka wondered.
Riyura watched Keiko disappear around a corner, and something in his heart recognized something in Keiko—the same way broken things recognize other broken things.
[RIYURA'S INTERNAL MONOLOGUE: He sees me. Really sees me. Under the smile and the hairclips and the performance. And that's terrifying. Because if he can see through me, what else can he see? What else am I failing to hide?]
The Music Room Discovery
After school, Riyura found himself drawn to the music room—not intentionally, just wandering while trying to avoid going home, trying to delay facing his mother's concerned questions and the possibility of his father calling again.
The hallways were quiet, most students having left. Winter sunlight slanted through windows, painting everything in shades of gold and shadow. Then he heard it.
Piano music.
Not the cheerful, simple melodies you'd expect from a school music room. This was complex. Devastating. The kind of piece that sounded like someone's entire soul breaking in real-time—rapid heavy key progressions cascading into each other, harmonies that felt like grief made audible, a tempo that suggested panic barely contained.
Riyura followed the sound to the music room door, which stood slightly ajar. Inside, bathed in late afternoon light, sat Keiko Pianissimo. He wasn't playing invisible piano anymore.
He sat at the school's old upright piano, his hands moving across the keys with shocking precision and skill. His eyes were closed, his face twisted with concentration and something that looked like pain.
The music was incredible. Professional. The kind of playing that suggested years of training and natural talent combined. But his hands.
Riyura could see them now in the golden light—thin white scars across his knuckles, his fingers, precise and deliberate, like someone had taken a blade to them repeatedly.
The piece built to a crescendo—faster, more complex, more desperate—and then Keiko's hands began shaking. The notes became discordant. Clashing. Wrong.
Keiko's eyes flew open, and for just a moment, Riyura saw pure terror on his face. He slammed his hands down on the keys—a horrible dissonant crash—and stood abruptly, breathing hard.
Then he noticed Riyura in the doorway. The terror vanished instantly, replaced by that radiant smile.
"Oh! Hello handsome friend! Sorry, got carried away! Your indigo concern was just so inspiring I had to translate it into music!" "Keiko," Riyura said quietly, stepping into the room. "That playing. You're... you're really good."
"Thank you! I dabble!" "That wasn't dabbling. That was professional. And those scars on your hands—" Keiko's smile tightened imperceptibly. "Old injuries! Very boring story! Lots of staccato crimson but ultimately not worth discussing!"
"Why do you talk like that?" Riyura interrupted, his exhaustion making him blunt. "The colors. The music terms. Is it because saying things normally hurts too much?"
Keiko froze.
For just a moment—one terrible, vulnerable moment—his entire performance shattered. His eyes showed something raw and broken and ancient beyond his years. The handsome voice gone.
Then he laughed. Bright. Artificial. "Don't be silly! I just see the world in symphonic color! It's much more interesting than boring old words!" He moved toward the door, his grace suddenly looking more like flight. And his handsome voice was back all of a sudden.
"I should go! Lots of arpeggio adventures to have! So many chromatic discoveries!" He paused at the doorway, not looking back.
"But you're right, Riyura. About one thing. Some things hurt too much to say normally. So we translate them. Into colors. Into music. Into forced cheerfulness and extra hairclips."
His voice dropped to something barely above a whisper. "We become performances of ourselves because the real us is too broken to show anyone."
Then he was gone, leaving Riyura alone in the music room with the fading echoes of devastating piano and the certainty that Keiko Pianissimo was hiding something. Something that made Riyura's own trauma look simple by comparison.
The winter sun set slowly, painting the empty music room in deepening shades of orange and purple and blue—colors that needed no translation, that spoke directly to the parts of Riyura that recognized beauty in brokenness, art in agony.
He sat at the piano. Pressed a single key. The note rang out pure and clear and achingly lonely.
"I see you too, Keiko," Riyura whispered to the empty room. "And whatever you're hiding—whatever broke you so badly you have to translate reality into abstract colors and musical terms—I understand. Because I'm doing the same thing. Just with different words."
The note faded into silence. And Riyura sat alone in the darkening room, two performers recognizing each other across the stage of their own carefully constructed facades.
[NARRATOR-KEIKO: Keiko the handsome pianolist here. And so our cast grows by one more broken soul. Keiko Pianissimo which is me introduced in this elegant chapter—child prodigy turned trauma survivor, speaking in colors because words cut too deep for his beauty, eating sheet music to quiet the symphony that won't stop playing in his beautiful head. He and Riyura are mirrors reflecting different translations of the same pain. And next episode, that mirror is going to crack. Badly. Stay tuned, dear handsome readers. The performance is only beginning for the stage of sparkles.]
TO BE CONTINUED...