The ceiling has forty-seven stains.
Haruto knows because he's counted them. Three hundred and eighty-two times. Maybe three hundred and eighty-three by now—he's lost track somewhere around noon when his mother knocked on the door asking if he wanted lunch. He didn't answer. She left the tray outside anyway. The scent of miso soup seeped under the door crack for twenty minutes before fading into the general staleness of his room.
Stain number forty-seven looks like Iceland. Or what Iceland would look like if Iceland was made of water damage and mold. He named it Iceland four months ago. Before that it was just "the weird one near the light fixture." Before that, it didn't exist—the leak started during the typhoon season, and now there's a permanent reminder that even ceilings aren't immune to decay.
Everything rots eventually.
The thought sits in his chest like a stone. Heavy. Unmovable. True.
Haruto shifts on his futon, and his spine cracks in three places. How old is he supposed to feel? Seventeen? The last time he checked his body, it felt more like seventy. His shoulders stay permanently hunched—defensive posture learned from months of making himself smaller, less noticeable, less of a target. His jaw aches. Again. He's been clenching it in his sleep. Again. The dentist his mother dragged him to six months ago said he'd crack a molar if he kept it up.
He hasn't been back to confirm whether he did.
The monitor glows blue-white in the darkness. 3:47 PM. Afternoon, technically. Though afternoon and morning and night have all blurred into the same grey nothing. Time doesn't mean much when you don't go outside. When you don't see the sun except as a suggestion of warmth through blackout curtains.
His room is exactly 4.5 tatami mats. He measured it once. Small enough that he can reach everything without standing. Large enough that the walls don't quite crush him. His desk sits against the north wall—keyboard, monitor, mouse, and a half-empty cup of water that's been there for three days. The closet door doesn't close properly anymore because he's shoved too many things inside and refuses to deal with it. His bookshelf sags under the weight of light novels he hasn't touched in months. The floor is clean-ish. Not because he cleans it, but because he doesn't walk on most of it.
There's a path. Futon to desk. Desk to door. Door to futon. That's it. The rest is just… space he doesn't use. Like the six square feet near the window. Or the corner behind his dresser. Dead zones. Territories he doesn't occupy.
〈When did I start thinking of my own room like this?〉
The thought comes and goes. He doesn't chase it. Doesn't want to know the answer.
His phone buzzes. Once. Twice. Three times. Group chat. The notification banner shows Kenji's name. Then Yuki's. Then someone else—he doesn't read it. Doesn't swipe to open. Just watches the screen light up and fade. Light up and fade. On the seventh buzz, he reaches over and flips it face-down.
Silence.
Better.
The monitor shows a browser with seventeen tabs open. News articles he'll never finish reading. A forum post about a game he used to play. Three different wikis for three different series. A video paused at 3:24—some essay about narrative structure he told himself he'd watch two weeks ago. His cursor hovers over the close button.
Doesn't click.
Can't.
Because closing the tabs means admitting he's not going to read them. And admitting he's not going to read them means admitting he's not doing anything. And admitting he's not doing anything means—
His chest tightens.
Breathe.
Three seconds in. Hold. Three seconds out.
The therapist taught him that. Back when his mother scheduled appointments he actually attended. Back when he still thought talking about it would help. Back when the therapist smiled with that professional empathy and said things like "You're making progress" and "It's okay to take things slow."
He stopped going after session eight. Not because it didn't help. Because it did. Because progress meant eventually he'd have to go back. Back to school. Back to people. Back to—
No.
Better to stay here. In his room. In his safe 4.5 tatami mats where nobody can—
His mother's voice drifts through the door. Talking on the phone. He can't make out words, but he knows the tone. That careful, apologetic tone she uses when someone asks about him. When relatives call. When the school calls. When anyone calls.
"He's just going through a difficult time."
"He'll be fine, I'm sure."
"Thank you for understanding."
Lies. All of them. Or maybe not lies. Maybe desperate hopes dressed up as facts. Maybe she actually believes he'll be fine. Maybe she has to believe it, because the alternative—
The phone call ends. Footsteps approach his door. Stop. He holds his breath.
〈Please don't knock. Please don't knock. Please don't—〉
Knock knock.
[Mother]: Haruto? The dinner tray from yesterday is still outside. I'm going to take it, okay?
He doesn't answer.
[Mother]: …I made your favorite for tonight. Hamburg steak. With the demi-glace sauce you like. I'll leave it outside at six.
Silence.
[Mother]: …Okay. Love you.
Footsteps retreat. The tray scrapes against the floor as she picks it up. Her footsteps fade down the hallway. Down the stairs. Gone.
The stone in his chest gets heavier.
She deserves better than this. Better than a son who can't even open the door. Who can't even say "thank you" or "I love you too" or anything. Who just… exists. Breathes. Takes up space. Wastes food. Wastes money. Wastes—
Stop.
He learned that too. In therapy. When the spiral starts, acknowledge it. Name it. Let it pass.
This is a thought spiral. It will pass. I am not my thoughts.
Except sometimes he is. Sometimes the thoughts are the only thing that feel real.
The monitor flickers. His eyes hurt. How long has he been staring at it? Hours? Days? The blue light filter is supposed to help, but it doesn't. Nothing helps. He just keeps staring because closing his eyes means being alone with his head, and his head is—
Bad.
His head is bad.
Forty-seven ceiling stains. He starts counting again. Iceland. That one's definitely Iceland. Number forty-six is Greenland, ironically. Number forty-five is harder to name. Maybe it's not a place. Maybe it's just water damage. Maybe trying to name them all is his brain's desperate attempt to find patterns in chaos. To make meaninglessness mean something.
〈I should eat.〉
He should. The last meal was… breakfast? Yesterday's breakfast? He's not sure. His stomach doesn't hurt anymore—it stopped complaining around month three. Now it just exists in a state of constant low-grade emptiness that he's learned to ignore.
Food tastes like cardboard anyway. Even hamburg steak. Even his favorite. The depression killed his taste buds. Or maybe it's the anxiety. Or maybe it's both. The therapist said it's common. "Physical symptoms of emotional distress." As if naming it makes it hurt less.
His phone buzzes again. One long buzz. A call. He doesn't look. Doesn't need to. It's either Kenji trying to "check in" or Yuki pretending things are normal or his mother calling from downstairs because she's worried. None of those options require answering.
The buzzing stops.
Relief.
Then guilt.
Then nothing.
He's good at nothing. At shutting down. At going blank. It's a survival skill he developed somewhere between the first incident and the fiftieth. When feeling everything all the time became too much. When his nervous system learned that numbness is better than panic. When—
The monitor flickers again. He should probably sleep. Reset. Try again tomorrow. Except tomorrow will be the same as today. And today was the same as yesterday. And yesterday was the same as three months ago. And three months ago was the same as—
When did it start?
He knows exactly when it started. Knows the day. The hour. The exact moment everything broke. But thinking about it means remembering. And remembering means feeling. And feeling means—
No.
Better to count ceiling stains. Iceland. Greenland. Number forty-five. Number forty-four looks like his old school bag. The one they—
Stop.
Acknowledge. Name. Let pass.
Except it doesn't pass. It never fully passes. It just hovers. Waiting. Like everything else in his room. Waiting for him to break. Or heal. Or disappear. Whatever comes first.
The cursor blinks on his screen. He's had a text document open for… he doesn't know. Hours? The title says "Essay - Due Friday." That was three weeks ago. The document is blank except for his name at the top. Haruto Kirihara. Even his name feels foreign now. Like it belongs to someone else. Someone who used to go to school. Someone who used to have friends. Someone who—
Was.
Past tense.
He closes the document without saving. Doesn't matter. He's not going back. His mother pulled him out officially last month. "For his health," she told them. They didn't argue. Probably relieved. One less problem student. One less liability. One less—
His chest tightens again. Sharper this time. The anxiety likes to arrive without warning. Just shows up and squeezes. His hands start to tingle. Numbness creeping from fingertips to palms. His breathing quickens.
Three seconds in. Hold. Three seconds out.
Doesn't work.
His vision tunnels slightly. The edges go dark. His heart rate is through the roof—he can feel it hammering against his ribs like it's trying to escape. Like his body knows something his brain doesn't. Like—
〈I'm going to die I'm going to die I'm going to—〉
He's not going to die. This is just panic. Just his nervous system misfiring. Just chemicals in his brain doing the wrong thing. Just—
The room spins.
He presses his palms flat against the futon. Solid. Real. Ground. Here. Present. Not there. Not then. Here. Now. Safe.
Safe.
You're safe.
Nobody can hurt you here.
The panic doesn't believe him. The panic never believes him. The panic just knows that doors can open and people can enter and safety is an illusion that shatters the moment—
STOP.
He grabs his phone. Opens the breathing app. The one his mother installed. The one with the little circle that expands and contracts. Breathe in. Breathe out. Follow the circle. Don't think. Just breathe.
In. Out. In. Out.
His heart rate slows. The tingling fades. The tunnel vision clears.
He's still here. Still in his room. Still safe in his 4.5 tatami mats. Still—
Pathetic.
The thought comes unbidden. Sharp. Cruel. His own voice but harsher. Meaner. The voice that sounds like them but comes from inside.
〈You can't even handle being alone in your room without falling apart. What kind of person are you? What kind of—〉
He throws his phone across the room. It hits the wall. Doesn't break. Just thuds and falls. He doesn't retrieve it.
The silence afterwards is worse.
His hands shake. Not from panic now. From something else. Anger? Shame? Both? Neither? He doesn't know anymore. Doesn't know what he feels half the time. Just knows it hurts. Somewhere deep. Somewhere that counts ceiling stains because counting ceiling stains is better than thinking about—
The monitor flickers off.
He forgot to pay the electricity bill.
No. That's not right. His mother pays the electricity. The monitor just went into sleep mode because he hasn't moved the mouse in—
He moves the mouse.
The screen wakes up. Google search bar. Blank. Cursor blinking. Waiting.
What are you searching for?
He doesn't know. He types anyway.
"How to"
He deletes it.
Types again.
"Why do I"
Deletes.
"Is it normal to"
Deletes.
The search bar stays blank. Because there's no search term that captures this. No combination of words that explains the weight in his chest or the stains on his ceiling or the path worn into his floor or the way his mother's voice breaks when she says "I love you" through a door he can't open.
He closes the browser.
Opens a game instead.
The loading screen shows a fantasy world. Bright. Colorful. Full of adventure and heroes and meaning. Everything his room isn't. Everything his life isn't. Everything he—
The game crashes.
Of course it does.
He doesn't reload it.
Just stares at the desktop. At the folder labeled "School." At the folder labeled "Photos - Don't Open." At the folder labeled—
He looks away.
The clock says 4:23 PM now. Time moved while he wasn't paying attention. It does that. Hours vanish into nothing. Days blur together. Weeks disappear. Month three of being a shut-in. Or is it month four? He's lost count. Same way he's lost count of how many times his mother knocked. How many calls he ignored. How many—
His stomach growls. Loud. Insistent. Okay. Fine. Maybe he should eat something. The tray will be outside soon anyway. He can grab it quick. Won't even need to see her. Just open door. Grab tray. Close door. Easy.
Except it's not easy.
Because opening the door means leaving his safe space. Even if just for three seconds. Even if just into the hallway. It means exposure. Vulnerability. Risk.
〈Risk of what? Your mother seeing you? Your mother who loves you? Your mother who makes your favorite food even though you never say thank you?〉
The rational part of his brain knows the fear is irrational. Knows his mother isn't a threat. Knows the hallway isn't dangerous. But the irrational part—the part that controls his nervous system and his panic and his breathing—doesn't care about logic.
It just knows: outside door = danger.
So he stays inside.
Where it's safe.
Where he can count ceiling stains and track time by monitor flicker and exist in his 4.5 tatami mats without anyone expecting anything from him.
Iceland. Greenland. Forty-five. Forty-four. Forty-three looks like a hand. Or maybe he's imagining it. Maybe his brain is so desperate for patterns that it's finding them in mold. Maybe—
The world tilts.
No. Not tilts. That's not the right word. The world doesn't tilt because tilting implies axis and direction and physics. What happens to Haruto in that moment isn't physics. Isn't anything that makes sense. Isn't anything he can—
His vision… splits? No. Fragments? No. Neither of those words work because words require reference points and he has no reference point for this. For what he's seeing. For what's happening. For—
Everything is wrong.
Not scary-wrong. Not dangerous-wrong. Just… wrong. Like reality hiccupped. Like the universe forgot how to universe for exactly 1.3 seconds and during those 1.3 seconds Haruto sees—
He can't.
He literally can't.
Because how do you describe something that isn't a something? How do you put into words a concept your brain refuses to process? How do you explain that you saw everything and nothing and both and neither and—
His throat makes a sound.
Haruto:[GK—]
Not a word. Not even a syllable. Just pure reaction. The sound a human makes when language fails. When the brain shorts out. When—
Then he's falling
not falling exactly but
moving without moving
his room stretches
tears
bends in ways rooms aren't supposed to
The ceiling stains multiply
Forty-seven becomes four hundred seventy becomes four thousand seven hundred
becomes infinite
His futon feels solid and liquid and neither simultaneously
The monitor light smears across his vision like paint
like oil
like nothing he's ever—
Haruto:[WHA—]
He tries to grab something anything but his hands pass through his desk his walls himself
His body exists and doesn't exist is here and elsewhere
simultaneously
The fear should come now the panic the anxiety
But there's no time no space no anything for fear
Just movement transition
translation
From there
to somewhere
else
His last thought before the world goes fully
black/white/bothneither:
〈Iceland. I never got to see Iceland. Number forty-seven. I never—〉
And then—