The bell rang late, like it always did—half a second after everyone was already moving.
Kaito was already out of his seat.
A voice shouted his name from the back of the classroom, loud and careless. He lifted two fingers in response without turning, backpack slung over one shoulder as he stepped into the aisle.
Someone cut across his path.
They nearly crashed.
Nearly.
Kaito twisted sideways without thinking, one foot sliding back, shoulder turning just enough. The other student stumbled past him, eyes wide.
"Whoa—sorry!"
"It's fine," Kaito said, already moving.
People said he was quick. Athletic. Built for sports. A waste of talent, according to teachers. He didn't argue. He didn't really care either.
Outside, the courtyard was loud with after-school noise. His friends had claimed their usual spot near the vending machines, sitting like they had nowhere better to be.
"Took you long enough," one of them said, tossing Kaito a drink.
He caught it without looking.
"Man," another muttered, "you didn't even look."
Kaito shrugged. "Lucky."
They talked about nothing important—games, teachers, stupid rumors. Someone complained about their part-time job. Someone else bragged about quitting theirs. Kaito listened more than he spoke.
He always did.
When they finally split up, the sky had started to dull, the sun sinking behind the buildings. Kaito took the long way back, hands in his pockets, footsteps steady.
His apartment building was narrow and cheap, built for students who needed space but not comfort. Fourth floor. No elevator.
Inside, the apartment was quiet.
Not peaceful. Just empty.
He dropped his bag by the door and kicked off his shoes. The place was clean enough, bare enough. A couch, a table, an unmade bed. Nothing personal on the walls.
His phone buzzed once.
A transfer notification.
From his grandfather.
Same amount as always. Enough for rent, food, utilities. Nothing extra.
No message.
There never was.
Kaito stared at the screen, then locked it and set the phone down. He didn't hate his grandfather. Hate took energy. This was just distance—cold, solid, unchanging.
They didn't live together. They didn't talk unless necessary. Money came on time. That was the relationship.
Anything beyond survival—clothes, hobbies, nights out—that was Kaito's problem. If he wanted more, he earned it himself. The rule had never been spoken, but it had always existed.
He pulled his notebook from his bag and opened it at the table.
Homework.
Numbers stared back at him like a language he'd never learned. He tried. Ten minutes passed. Nothing stuck. His leg bounced under the table.
He shut the notebook.
"I'll fail anyway," he muttered, not angry—just tired.
He wasn't stupid. He knew that. But school felt wrong, like trying to force his mind into a shape it refused to take.
Later, standing on the small balcony, Kaito leaned against the railing and watched the street below. Cars passed. People walked. Life moved forward, loud and ordinary.
His parents had died years ago.
A car accident.
That was the story. Clean. Simple. Finished.
Sometimes, though—usually at night—something about it felt unfinished. Like a sentence that ended too early.
Kaito shook the thought away and went back inside. He locked the door behind him.
Tomorrow would be another normal day.
And normal, he believed, was safe.