The first sound Ai heard was the click.
Not of her alarm, she didn’t set one, but of the recorder in the hallway, playing its loop.
“Good morning.”
Pause.
“Thank you.”
Her eyes fluttered open to the twilight of her bedroom, the shrine looming tall at the far end. The mattress beneath her was damp, sour with the residue of another night spent writhing in and out of sleep. Her arms were still wrapped around the pillow-doll, its stitched face pressed against her mouth. The fabric was wet. She wasn’t sure if it was tears, drool, or something else, and she didn’t bother to check.
For a moment she stayed there, breathing him in, the crooked smile she had drawn, the faint perfume she sprayed on the cloth days ago, the old musk embedded into its fibers. Her body trembled faintly. She pressed a kiss into the doll’s warped button eye and whispered, hoarse:
“Good morning, Shu.”
She sat up slowly, bones stiff, head buzzing from lack of real rest. Tissues slid off her thighs and pattered onto the floor, joining the snowdrift already gathered. She picked one up, sniffed it once, stale, and tossed it aside. A fresh one would be needed soon.
The first ritual: kneeling before the shrine.
Ai shuffled across the filthy foam of her mattress, bare knees sticking to the tacky floor, and lowered herself until her forehead pressed against the red velvet cloth of the altar. Wax chips flaked against her skin. She stayed there, motionless, until her ribs ached from holding her breath.
Then she began. One by one she touched each sacred relic , the straw, the chopsticks, the vacuum-sealed hoodie. Her hands trembled, her mouth whispering thanks after thanks. At the lacquered box, she paused longest. She opened it a fraction, inhaled the trapped scent inside, and slammed it shut again before her body gave out. She sobbed softly, cheek pressed to the box’s cool surface.
When the sobs passed, she dragged herself to the bathroom. The hallway greeted her with its acidic stink, the “Good morning” loop still playing. She muttered back to it like a conversation:
“Good morning. Yes. Sorry. Excuse me. Thank you. Thank you…”
The bathroom light buzzed on, pale and harsh. She avoided the mirror, the taped photo of Shu’s face smiled at her anyway. She pressed her fingers to it in reverence before bending over the sink. The porcelain was raw, scratched nearly bare from scouring. Ai rinsed her mouth with cold water from the taped faucet, gagged faintly at the metallic taste, then grabbed one of the frayed toothbrushes. She scrubbed until her gums bled. Pink spittle dribbled down the drain, swirling over the black ring of mildew.
She brushed again. And again. She whispered between strokes: “Too filthy. Too filthy. He’ll see. He’ll know.”
By the time she dropped the brush, her hands shook, flecked with blood. She washed them three times in the icy trickle, each rinse accompanied by whispered apologies. She dried them on the same towel she always used, stiff with stains, folded once and never laundered.
Breakfast came next.
Not food, not really. She picked her way into the kitchen, each sticky step pulling faintly at her soles. She didn’t look at the sink, didn’t look at the pot. Instead she went straight to the drawer under the counter. Her holy bag.
She untied it carefully, reverently. Inside lay the clump of Shu’s hair, the plastic fork bent into a heart, the tissue she swore he touched. She pressed each to her lips in turn, whispering blessings, before selecting one of the labeled tissues and slipping it into her skirt pocket for the day.
Only then did she reach for the fridge. It wheezed faintly when she opened it, the stench of rot curling out. She ignored the spoiled milk, the shriveled onigiri, and took only the torn flyer of Shu held by a magnet. She kissed it once, twice, three times, then pinned it to her chest, carrying it between her breasts.
Ai’s bare feet stuck faintly to the linoleum as she crossed back to the bedroom. The shrine’s crooked paper idol stood there, with its oversized eyes following her no matter where she moved. She whispered a quick apology for turning her back on it, then knelt by the mattress.
The uniform lay where she had left it: skirt rumpled, blouse stained faintly under the arms, a knot of stockings tangled like shed snakeskins. She picked them up with care, smoothing the wrinkles on her thighs as though smoothing her own body. She pressed the blouse to her face once, inhaled, then hissed in disgust at her own scent. Too filthy. Always too filthy.
The bindings came first. She reached for the drawer where they were kept, stiff cloth wraps, long stained with mildew, crumpled into uneven coils. She selected the least ruined one, held it against her chest, and paused. Her breath grew shallow. She hated this part. The bulge of her body mocked her. She imagined Shu’s gaze finding her, disgust twisting his perfect features.
Her fingers trembled as she wrapped, pulled, knotted. The first coil pinched. The second dug into her ribs. She pulled tighter, tighter still, until her chest was as contained as possible and the pain blurred into numbness. “Better,” she whispered through clenched teeth. “Better, but not good enough.”
Stockings next. The elastic had long since given out, so she tugged the pair high and secured them with safety pins. The skirt went over them, pleats crushed, faint crusted stains hidden in the folds. She smoothed it again, whispering apologies to Shu’s image for daring to wear something so imperfect.
The blouse buttoned tight around her ribs, fabric tugging awkwardly over the binding. She rebuttoned it twice, unable to stop until the lines were straight. Even then, her fingers hovered at the collar, twitching with the urge to start over.
Shoes. The scuffed loafers by the door fit poorly, soles worn uneven by her crawling habits, but she shoved her feet into them with a hiss and stood.
Standing hurt. The binding dug into her chest, stockings pinched at her thighs, and her shoes rubbed raw against her heels. It was perfect. Punishment was purity. She whispered thanks for it.
The last step was the face.
She shuffled back to the low table in the living room. The cracked compact still held a smear of powder. Ai dabbed her fingers into it, pressing the dust across her cheeks and under her eyes. It barely masked the darkness there, but that wasn’t the point. The ritual was in the act itself, the attempt, not the success.
She leaned toward the fogged hallway mirror. Shu’s warped school photo stared back from where it had been glued. Ai smiled faintly at him, never once letting her own reflection come into focus.
The safety pin on her chest dug slightly as she bent to collect her bag, a plain thing. Inside: notebooks curled with moisture, pencils chewed down to nubs, tissues folded carefully and labeled with red ink.
At the threshold, she paused. The greasy doorknob glistened with prints, as if warning her. Ai pressed her forehead against it once, whispering: “Forgive me. I’m leaving now.”
Then she opened the door.
The hallway of the apartment complex smelled faintly of lemon from the diffusers. It was too clean, too false. She tugged her bag strap tighter against her chest, head down, already rehearsing how she’d follow Shu at school today without being seen.
The door clicked shut behind her, sealing the shrine and its rot inside.
Her destination wasn’t really Higan Academy. It was him.
She knew his schedule better than her own, or rather, there was little distinction between both. The path he took from his home to the station, the time he left if he skipped breakfast, the detours he made if he didn’t. She had mapped it all in the broken spines of notebooks stacked by her mattress, each page scrawled with dates and times.
And right on cue, there he was.
Shu Jinkō. Her sun. Her savior. Her reason. His hair was messy as always, but even that disorder seemed deliberate, like the world itself bent to make him more radiant. His bag was slung carelessly, one hand raised in a cheerful wave to a pair of underclassmen he passed. Their laughter rang out like bells.
Ai’s chest tightened painfully against her bindings.
When he stretched, arms high, she whispered “thank you.” When he slowed at a corner to let someone pass, she pressed her palms together and mouthed “forgive me for being like this.” When he adjusted his bag strap, she pinched her thigh hard enough to bruise, punishment for daring to feel the way she felt.
A scrap of paper fluttered from his bag as he walked, catching in the wind. Ai darted forward, her movements quick but jerky, and snatched it before anyone else could notice. She pressed it to her lips, heart hammering. A receipt, nothing more. A sacred artifact now. She folded it into her pocket with trembling fingers, tears threatening to well.
At the corner, Shu stopped to talk with a group of students. Ai melted into the shadow of a vending machine, her breathing shallow, her eyes fixed on the movement of his lips. She mouthed the words in imitation, desperate to feel them form in her own mouth, even if she didn’t hear them.
Someone brushed past her, muttering a complaint. Ai recoiled instantly, clutching her bag like a shield, eyes darting wide. The moment they were gone, she whispered another apology, not to them, to Shu, for letting herself be seen by anyone else while she was supposed to be his alone.
The group dispersed. Shu started walking again. Ai followed, her pace quickening, her stomach churning with anticipation. Soon he’d arrive at Higan, where she could watch him greet the council, where she could slip into the crowd of students and feel, if only for a moment, like she belonged in the same world.
Every morning she traced the same sacred route, breathed the same air he left behind, counted the exact number of tiles his shoes touched before crossing the gate. Each day she carried new offerings back to her shrine: a gum wrapper, a half-empty water bottle, once even the heel of bread he’d tossed after lunch.
Each day she grew hungrier.
And yet, when he glanced back suddenly, just a flicker of his head, Ai disappeared. Behind a post, a gate, a cluster of uniforms, it didn’t matter. She had practiced it. She could vanish in an instant. She didn’t exist to him. Not yet.
But she would. Or so she dreamed of.
Shu had stopped ahead, his smile shining like a torch as he greeted someone.
Ran Nejima.
Ai knew his name, his face, his height. She had memorized them all, catalogued like insects pinned beneath glass. Every classmate who spoke to Shu. Every teacher who praised him. Every club member who shared his air. She tracked them, drew shaky maps in her notebooks of who stood where, who got to laugh with him, who touched his shoulder when they talked.
Ran was hard to miss. Exceedinly tall, broad enough to blot out the morning sun. A brute wrapped in the academy’s uniform, sleeves straining over thick arms. His buzzcut and rough features made him look like he was born scowling. To Ai, he was a monster. A guardian beast that Shu, impossibly, called friend.
She clenched her fingers into her skirt until the fabric twisted.
From this distance, Ai couldn’t hear what they said, but she read the body language. Shu’s relaxed laugh. Ran’s rumbling reply, shoulders hunching with warmth that didn’t match his menacing face.
Ai’s stomach turned sour.
She hated this part. Outside of school, she could trail Shu through side streets, shadow him home. Here, in the open light of morning, surrounded by uniforms, she had no excuse to get closer, and so she had to hover at the edge of his world. The gate was a line she could cross only by pretending she still belonged. Acting normal enough or at least as much as she could manage.
School was her last claim to him. The only place where her presence, however despised, wasn't entirely out of place.
If she had her way, she would burn it all. Drop out. Hide in her shrine forever. Live in the air Shu exhaled, nothing else.
But then she wouldn’t see him here, in uniform, in daylight. Wouldn’t hear his voice calling across the courtyard, laughing with friends. Wouldn’t know which desk he touched, which hallway he walked.
The pain of school was unbearable. The thought of losing that link was worse.
She pressed her head down, hair falling like a curtain, and slipped through the gate as if unseen. Her eyes stayed locked on Shu, his smile, the angle of his hand as he clapped Ran’s shoulder.
The blackboard rattled when the teacher smacked the chalk against it, but Ai barely heard. Her eyes were open, pen moving, but her mind was elsewhere, always elsewhere.
Shu’s voice. Shu’s smile. Shu leaning close to Ran Nejima this morning, speaking in a register Ai had never heard aimed at her.
Her notebook page was filled corner to corner with his name, each character pressed too hard, tearing the paper. Shu Jinkō. Shu Jinkō. Shu Jinkō.
Her legs pressed together beneath the desk. She shifted in tiny, guilty twitches, knuckles whitening where they gripped her pen. Every word from the front of the class dissolved into background noise. Every sound from her classmates blurred into static.
Her mind swarmed with images she could never let surface. Shu reaching down to help her up, Shu smiling with pity, Shu disgusted by her filth, Shu forcing her down, Shu whispering her name like it mattered. They tangled together until she couldn’t tell shame from desire.
By second period the page was ruined, an illegible blur of names and jagged lines. By third, her thighs ached from the tension of keeping still. By lunch, she felt hollowed out, body numb but mind raw, like she’d been scraping herself against something sharp for hours.
This was every day. This was her life.
Classes weren’t lessons. They were a gauntlet of dissociation and fever-dreams, endured only because the next bell meant another chance to see him again.
The gym teacher didn’t even question it anymore. Ai’s excuses were always muttered in the same monotone: cramps, dizziness, chest pains... And always waved along with a half-annoyed sigh. Normally she’d drift to the nurse’s office, curl up on the stiff cot and let the hours vanish into fog.
But not today.
The hallways thinned as classes split toward the gym. She veered off before anyone could ask, sliding down a quieter corridor, then another, until the chatter faded.
The auxiliary club building sat squat and forgotten at the edge of campus. Most students never bothered with it unless they needed extra storage or a place to smoke without teachers catching. Ai knew its patterns, when it was busy, when it was empty. Midday, it was hers.
The bathroom was down the narrow hall, tucked behind a peeling door with a faded sign. Not the clean ones near the classrooms. This one smelled faintly of dust and stagnant pipes. Ai preferred it. No laughter echoing from the hallways. No other girls fixing their makeup, glancing sidelong at her like she was a bug crawling out of the drain.
She slipped inside, the hinges giving a tired creak, and locked herself into the far stall. Her bag slid off her shoulder and hit the floor with a muffled thump.
Ai sat down hard on the closed toilet lid, chest heaving. The binding dug into her ribs, sweat slick under the fabric, but she didn’t care. She pulled the receipt out, hands trembling.
It was nothing. Just a record of a pencil and two bottled teas from a convenience store. But his hand had pressed it. His skin had warmed it.
Ai pressed it flat against her cheek, eyes fluttering shut. A sharp sob escaped her throat before she could choke it down. The world outside could mock, could spit, could tear her apart. But here, with his trace against her skin, Ai felt whole.
The receipt lay limp in her palm, damp with sweat, when Ai finally unlatched the stall door. For a brief, trembling moment there had been relief, a fragile afterglow, like she’d been able to empty the ache clawing at her stomach.
But it didn’t last. It never lasted.
Already the shame was pooling back in, hot and acidic, burning through her skin. She pressed the receipt against her lips, whispering apologies into it, desperate to cleanse herself with devotion.
The squeak of shoes broke her trance.
Ai froze mid-step, head snapping toward the mirror. Three girls leaned lazily against the sinks, watching her with the kind of smirks that made her want to tear her own skin off.
They were familiar in the vaguest sense: classmates. She knew that much. But she didn’t bother to attach names anymore. Names implied individuality, and to Ai, their faces had already blurred into one continuous smear of torment. Different voices, same laughter. Different haircuts, same cruelty.
“See?” one of them said, nudging her friend with a sharp elbow. “Told you she’d be here.”
“Figures,” another chimed in, scrunching her nose like the air had turned sour.
They weren’t speaking to Ai. Not really. They never did. They spoke about her, as if she were an object placed in the room for their amusement.
Ai’s shoulders hunched, hair falling over her face. She could feel the acid, familiar sting of bile crawling up behind her teeth.
When Ai’s senses returned, the first thing she noticed was the buzzing light.
A thin, constant hum that carved itself into her skull.
Her cheek was pressed against cold tile. Her jaw ached. Her blouse clung damp to her chest where the binding had bitten and rubbed raw.
She sat up slowly, every movement stiff and jerky. The mirror above the sinks stared back with its jaundiced light, but she didn’t see herself, only a smear of hair, streaks of dirt, bruises under the collar. Her skirt was twisted sideways, stockings torn, her knees scraped pink where they’d struck the floor.
Her scalp specially hurt, something she never got quite used to even with how much her bullies pulled at her hair.
She looked down at her hand. The receipt was still there. Crumpled, damp, half-torn but still there. She smoothed it with trembling fingers, pressed it once against her lips, then slipped it into her pocket like an anchor.
Somewhere outside, a bell had rung long ago. She was the only one left in the building, or near enough.
Ai pushed herself up, swaying, her legs unsteady. She didn’t look at the mirror again. She didn’t want to see the mess. Step by step, she left the auxiliary building. The courtyard was deserted, shadows stretching long across the paving stones.
The world tilted as Ai stepped through the gate. Her heel caught on uneven stone, her legs buckled, and the bruises along her ribs flared.
She would’ve gone down face-first into the pavement...
...but strong hands caught her under the arms, steadying her with ease.
“A-hey. Careful.”
The voice. His voice.
Ai’s breath hitched, eyes going wide. Shu Jinkō stood above her, his face backlit by the orange haze of the setting sun. He looked concerned.
Her body betrayed her.
The moment she processed the contact, everything inside her overloaded. The blood drained from her head in a rush, her limbs convulsed in a sharp twitch, and a string of drool slid from the corner of her mouth before she could close it, mixing with the immediate nosebleed she got. Her vision whited out, then collapsed into black.
She passed out instantly.
Her body slumped in his grip, twitching faintly like a shorted circuit, breath shallow, lips parted.
Nedless to say, it wasn’t graceful unconsciousness.
Ai’s dreams came in a fever blur. When she woke up, it was slow, sticky, like crawling out of mud.
Her eyes fluttered open. The ceiling above her wasn’t her own, not the mildew-stained plaster of her apartment. It was plain, soft white, clean. She blinked again until shapes came into focus.
She was on a bed. Sheets. Real sheets. They smelled of detergent. Her body felt heavy, every bruise throbbing in its place, the bindings cutting into her ribs worse now that they’d settled through unconsciousness.
Ai turned her head, sluggish.
A girl sat at a low desk across the room, legs tucked under her, pencil tapping against a workbook. Short, small, younger, much younger. She couldn’t have been more than elementary school age. Orange hair tied into two bright pigtails bobbed as she looked up.
Ai’s fingers dug into the futon, trembling as the girl, no Meliaya Mihama, member of the student council, stood and padded out of the room. Her voice drifted back through the door:
“She’s awake~
Panic struck first.
Ai lurched upright, gasping, her bindings biting like barbed wire. The walls pressed in too close, the sheets too clean, too alien against her skin. Not her apartment. Where? Where?
Her thoughts rattled like teeth in a jar, a fever rush of escape escape escape.
She staggered to her feet, knees trembling, and shoved the door aside.
The hallway led into a living room. The blueprint was familiar: same narrow entryway, same corner cut to the kitchen. An apartment like hers. Almost identical except here the floor was clear. The furniture was neat. The air smelled of fabric softener and simmering tea instead of rot and mildew.
Voices from the kitchen. Two girls. She knew them. Of course she knew them.
Zennami Yae. Onguuchi Madoka.
Names written a thousand times in the margins of her notebooks. Faces memorized from every angle. Both on the student council. Both always orbiting Shu, always laughing with him, touching his sleeve, standing too close.
Her nails made crescent-shaped wounds into her palms. A hiss slipped through her teeth. Too much. Too close to him. Too close.
The spiral whipped tight in her skull, pictures of them laughing with Shu, Shu smiling back, Shu’s hand brushing theirs. She wanted to claw her skin raw, tear their faces out of her mind, scream.
But the spiral snapped when Yae’s voice cut across it.
“Good, you’re up.”
Ai froze.
Yae stepped out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel, eyes sharp and confident as ever. Her gaze flicked over Ai, lingering on the bruises, the twisted blouse, the way she trembled on her feet. Yae’s expression didn’t change.
“He’ll be back in a bit,” Yae said simply. “And yeah, he was the one who carried you here.” A small tilt of her head, enhancing the smugness. “My suggestion.”
Ai’s breath tore in and out of her chest. Shu. Shu.
Ai’s body moved before her mind did.
She bolted.
She shoved past the couch, fumbled with the handle, yanked the front door open-
-and slammed straight into something unyielding.
A chest.
Broad, warm, steady.
Her eyes snapped up. Shu Jinkō stood in the doorway, hand still half-raised to knock.
Ai’s legs gave out, dropping her onto the floor with a dull thump. Her breath tore ragged from her throat, and she couldn’t stop staring, couldn’t blink. Blood welled sudden and hot inside of her nose, not from the impact but from the overload.
“Oh sorry!” Shu crouched instantly, speaking with concern. He extended a hand toward her. “I didn’t mean to knock you down. I’m glad you woke up, though.”
Ai stared at the hand like it was holy. Her own twitched, but she didn’t move. Couldn’t.
Shu’s brow furrowed for a second. “Wait… your name, it’s…”
From inside, Yae’s voice called evenly, “Ai Suishi. You don’t have to worry about remembering the name of every student, Kaichō.”
He turned his head slightly, answering without losing the gentle tilt of his smile. “Maybe but I still want to try. It’s something I should do. As president.”
Ai’s pulse roared in her ears. Still on the floor, her blood dripped from her nose onto her lap, staining the wrinkled skirt she hadn’t washed in weeks.
Shu noticed. “Ah, did I bump into you too hard? I’m sorry. Really, I didn’t mean-”
Ai passed out again.
When she came to this time, it was with less of a jolt, more like surfacing from under heavy water rather than mud.
Ai sat awkwardly at the edge of the bed, with her hair hanging in damp tangles across her face.
Zennami Yae came into the room, arms crossed, sharp eyes half-lidded in that way that made her look perpetually amused.
“You should take a shower,” Yae said. “Your clothes are a wreck. I’ll wash them.”
Ai twitched, clutching at her skirt, the dried blood from her nose now stiff against the fabric. A murmur crawled up her throat, protest, apology, shame, but Yae spoke over it, calm as ever.
“You’ll feel better. It won’t fix everything, but it’ll be something. That’s how it works sometimes, you pick one thing you can clean, and let it stand for the rest until you’re strong enough for more.”
Ai blinked, dazed. She couldn’t tell if Yae was mocking her or speaking truth.
Ai wanted to sink through the floor.
Before she could stammer out an excuse, Yae cut her off with her cool, smug calm. “Don’t worry. The boys will wait outside the apartment if you need. You’ll have the place to yourself for now.”
“But,” Yae added, and now the faint smile she had showed she was enjoying this part, "the issue is what clothes to give you. You and I aren’t exactly built the same. And unless you want to wear my uniform jacket like a half-shirt, you’ll need something else to change into.”
Ai’s breath hitched, her throat tightening. She wanted to shrink, to vanish, but Yae didn’t give her the chance. She tapped her chin with one finger, eyes flicking toward Madoka, who was busying herself with the kitchen.
“The closest match for you would be Madoka’s clothes,” Yae mused. “And that’s… still falling short. By a lot.”
“You’ll have to make do with Shu’s PE tracksuit! Please bear with it.” now it was clear, for once she was really being smug.
She nodded once, jerky, like her body moved on its own without her permission. This strange, reluctant inertia kept her feet moving.
She let Yae guide her down the hall to the bathroom, where the light buzzed faintly above a narrow changing space. Yae slid the door open, gesturing inside with a little flourish, as though inviting Ai into her own execution.
The steam clung to Ai’s skin as she stepped out of the shower, water dripping from her hair in uneven strands. Her body felt raw, scoured down to nothing. Not clean, never clean, but stripped. The sting of soap lingered where she had scrubbed too hard, red welts rising along her arms and thighs, the bindings’ bruises still angry across her ribs.
On the low stool in the changing room, folded with deliberate neatness, waited her next trial: Higan Academy’s PE tracksuit. A pair of navy track pants, the school crest stitched near the hip. A plain white t-shirt. And over it, the zipped jacket, size far too large for Yae or Madoka, but not for him.
She knew it was clean. She knew it hadn't been used today, since she had flawlessly memorized Shu's schedule, and had been folded and set out just for her. But that didn’t matter. It was his. Had been worn by him.
Ai slid the t-shirt over her head. The fabric fell loose, almost swallowing her frame, soft against her sore skin. She gripped the hem tightly, pulling it close to her stomach, as if that might hide how much it dwarfed her. The cotton carried faint traces of him, imagined or real, it didn’t matter. Her breath hitched, and she nearly gagged from the flood of saliva in her throat.
The pants came next. They were far too long, pooling at her ankles, the drawstring cinched tight against her waist. She pulled the jacket on last, its sleeves extending past her hands, the collar brushing her jaw.
She caught her reflection in the mirror.
The girl staring back was drowned in Shu’s clothing, the bulk of the tracksuit muting her hated curves. She almost didn’t look like herself. But her eyes, wide, rimmed red, glistening, betrayed everything.
Ai slid down against the wall, knees drawn up, forehead pressed into Shu’s tracksuit sleeve, rocking slightly.
The sliding door opened with a faint rattle, and Ai stepped out.
The others glanced up but no one said anything. No mocking. No pointed questions. Just the faint acknowledgment of her presence before returning to their tasks.
The dining room table had been cleared and reset. Bowls of curry steamed gently with rice mounded high and a strong smell of spice and meat. Yae sat cross-legged with her usual poise, towel still draped over one shoulder from cooking. Madoka leaned forward with chopsticks in hand, talking to her council colleague. Meliaya’s small frame barely rose over the edge of the table, but she had already folded her hands to murmur a polite “itadakimasu.”
Shu and Ran sat at the lower coffee table, knees crowded. Ran ate in big, deliberate mouthfuls, his broad shoulders hunched, quiet as a storm waiting to roll. Shu’s posture was relaxed, chopsticks tapping against his bowl as he spoke lightly about something, Ai couldn’t even process what.
Yae gestured to the open space beside her. “Feel free to take a seat. Also just in time, we couldn't keep the guys waiting much longer.”
Ai obeyed. Her body moved on instinct, like a puppet jerked along invisible strings. She took the free seat at the dining table, head bowed. A steaming bowl was set in front of her.
Her stomach churned. She hadn’t eaten properly in days. But the food blurred into background, eclipsed by the figure across the room.
Shu.
He laughed softly at something Ran muttered.
Ai’s hair hid her face, but her eyes fixed on him, unblinking. Her hands hovered over her chopsticks, trembling.
She waited. Watched.
When Shu lifted his bowl, she mirrored him. When his chopsticks dipped into the curry, she forced hers to follow. When he raised food to his mouth, she did the same, lips parting a half-second behind his.
The taste was warm, spiced, perfect, and it burned like ash in her throat. She chewed mechanically, timed to match the rhythm of his jaw. Trying to feel synchronized, to be in step with him, even across the distance of two separate tables.
No one asked Ai why she was there. No one demanded explanations about the bruises, the faint swelling under her eye, the raw edge of her voice when she mumbled under her breath to no one.
They didn’t ignore her either. A bowl had been placed in front of her. Water poured without asking. When her chopsticks slipped, Madoka quietly nudged the dish closer. Yae pushed a napkin toward her without comment. Meliaya’s small hand reached over to set the soy sauce within Ai’s grasp.
Madoka set her chopsticks down with a clap. “Alright, seriously, this curry? I think I outdid myself. Don’t you think so?”
Yae sipped her tea slowly before answering. “It’s passable. Which is already a miracle, considering last time you nearly poisoned us with your ‘secret spice blend.’”
Madoka groaned, clutching her chest. “Cold! You wound me. That was an experiment. Great inventors suffer setbacks, you know.”
Yaya giggled, swinging her legs under the table. “I liked it. Even if it made my tongue numb.”
“You’re too nice, Yaya,” Yae murmured, faintly smiling over the rim of her cup.
Meanwhile, Ran rumbled from the other table, mouth half full. “This batch is good. Plenty of meat.”
Shu grinned at him.
“You guys would eat cardboard if someone told you it had protein.” joked Madoka.
Ran shrugged, unfazed. “Maybe. Depends on the seasoning.”
Shu laughed.
The room filled with laughter, Madoka’s loudest of all. She glanced sideways at Ai, still hunched in Shu’s tracksuit, hair falling like a curtain over her face. “Hey, you. What do you think? Good curry, right?”
Ai froze. Her chopsticks trembled midair. For a moment she couldn’t even swallow the bite already in her mouth. Her throat worked, dry and raw, before the word scraped out:
“...g-good.”
Her voice was broken, barely more than a rasp.
Madoka blinked, then smiled warmly, pretending not to notice. “See? She agrees with me. A woman of culture.”
Yae tilted her head, studying Ai with that unreadable, half-smug gaze. “Hm. Lucky her she didn't have to survive the experimental curry... Or maybe she's just polite."
Ai ducked her head lower, hair hiding the flush that burned across her cheeks. She shook her head quickly, forcing out another whisper, jagged and stuttering: “N-not… po-polite. I-it’s… r-really… good.”
Yaya clapped her hands softly, delighted. “She talked! Yay!”
Madoka laughed, leaning back smugly. “Ha! There it is. I win. Consensus achieved.”
"Anyway~" Madoka leaned forward, chin in her hand, eyes flicking between Yae and Ai. “So, new term’s rolling fast. Clubs are already fighting for members. The drama club cornered me this morning, swore I’d be a ‘perfect lead.’ Can you believe it?”
“You would fit,” Yae said without missing a beat. “Loud voice, big gestures, thrives on attention.”
Madoka gasped in mock offense. “That’s called stage presence!”
Yaya tilted her head, earnest. “I think you’d be good at it too, Madoka-san.”
“See? Yaya believes in me,” Madoka said, victorious.
Ai sat rigid, bowl half-raised, caught between wanting to disappear and the warm pressure of being included. Madoka’s gaze slipped to her again. “What about you, Ai? Thinking of joining any clubs this year?”
Ai’s chopsticks froze halfway to her mouth. Her throat seized. “I… I… n-no…”
“Not a club person, huh?” Madoka asked gently. “Fair enough. More free time for yourself.”
Yae set her cup down with a soft click. “Or more time to focus on classes. She does look like she takes her studies seriously.”
Ai shook her head quickly, words tumbling out raw. “N-no… I… I just…” She faltered, eyes dropping to her lap. “N-not… g-good at… any… thing.”
Silence hovered for a second. Shu, from the coffee table, spoke lightly, filling the space. “Hey, that’s not true. Just because you’re not in a club doesn’t mean you’re not good at things. Some people just don’t like being tied down.”
Ran grunted. “Clubs can be overrated anyway.”
"Bro you're in one."
"Never said mine was."
Madoka chuckled, turning back to Ai with a smile softer this time. “See? Even the prez says so. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”
Yae smirked faintly, watching Ai’s bowed head. “Besides, not everyone needs to stand in the spotlight. Some of us manage just fine in the shade.”
"It's not 'standing in the spotlight', I said it's stage presence!" Jokingly complained Madoka.
Ai’s chest tightened. She didn’t know what to say. Her fingers dug into her pants leg under the table, but her lips moved anyway, rasping out barely audible words: “Th-thank… you.”
Yaya beamed at her. “You’re welcome!”
Madoka laughed again, clapping Yaya on the shoulder. “She wasn’t thanking you, silly.”
But Yaya just giggled, happy regardless.
Yae set her teacup down with a soft clink.
“The prez doesn’t want to rush you,” she said, calm, even, like she was just making casual conversation. “But it’d be good if you came to the student council room on Monday. Tell us what happened.”
“W-we… wh-what… happened…?” The words rasped out before she could stop them, half-whisper, half-stammer.
“Exactly,” Yae replied smoothly, lifting her tea again. “Not rumors. Not guesses. Your words. On your time.”
Shu, from the coffee table, leaned his chin on his hand, smiling lightly. “Yeah, don’t stress about it. We’ll listen whenever you’re ready.”
Madoka grinned, voice warm but more direct. “It’s not an interrogation, Ai. Just we’d rather hear it from you than from the noise in the hallways.”
Ai’s chest constricted. Her fingers clutched at her pants leg under the table until the fabric twisted. The thought of going there, of sitting in their room, of having Shu’s eyes on her while she spoke, terror and yearning tangled until she could hardly breathe.
Her lips parted, trembling. No words came. Only a faint nod, jerky and small.
Yae caught it, and her smirk softened into something closer to approval. “Good. That’s all for now.”
The conversation flowed on, effortless as before. Ai stayed locked in her daze, each heartbeat drumming the same impossible thought:
Student council room. Shu. Waiting for me.
Ai barely remembered leaving.
The warmth of the lights, the chatter around the table, the clinking of bowls, all of it dissolved into a blur, muffled and dreamlike. She couldn’t recall her words, only that she had spoken them, assuring them she was fine, that she could walk herself home. Her voice hadn’t even felt like hers.
The familiar, suffocating elevator. Her key trembling in the greasy doorknob.
Inside.
The stale mix of rot and air freshener hit her, sliding down her throat like oil. She didn’t flinch. Her body had long adapted, carrying her through the entryway grave of trash bags, the narrow hall with its sticky floor and scribbled notes, the low hum of the recorder repeating thank you, thank you into the dark.
Through the shadows, into the shrine’s room.
Her thoughts were stuck, circling, gnawing.
How had she convinced them of letting her go on her own? Had she really spoken in front of him? They let her go home alone, but… how? Did they know she lived in the same building? Did they have access to that kind of information?
She dropped to the mattress without thinking, the foam sagging beneath her weight, damp with old stains. Her chest heaved once, twice. Her head felt like it was stuffed with cotton.
Ai froze. Her nose pressed against fabric, her fingers clutching sleeves bunched under her face. The texture wasn’t her soiled uniforms or old gym clothes. Softer, newer. Familiar in a way that made her throat lock.
She pulled back slowly, her eyes widening.
Shu’s tracksuit. Of course, she was still wearing it.
A hoarse sound ripped out of her throat, part sob, part scream.
She tugged the jacket tighter around her body, trembling fingers grabbing for the zipper. She had no clear thoughts other than wanting to just close it, to hide herself underneath.
Her chest strained against the fabric, forcing the seams wide. She pulled anyway, teeth clenched, praying under her breath.
The zipper snagged.
She yanked harder, breath sharp. Her knuckles went white.
A sharp snap cut the air.
The zipper’s teeth split. The pull-tab snapped off in her hand. The jacket gaped open, useless.
Ai froze.
The world stopped.
Her stomach lurched, twisting in on itself. Her eyes went wide, blood draining from her face.
She had broken it. Shu’s tracksuit. Shu’s clothes.
A sour rush surged up her throat. She doubled over, retching. Vomit spilled across the mattress, acrid and wet, soaking into the fabric beneath her.
Her body convulsed, arms locking around her stomach, hair plastered to her face.
The morning light leaking through the torn curtain was gray and thin, like it was afraid to touch her.
Ai stirred. Her body ached everywhere, not in the sharp, immediate way of bruises but in the dull, hollow exhaustion that came from constant and overwhelming anxiety and stress.
Usually she would crawl to the shrine by now, muttering her prayers, going through her rituals. Her body moved on a schedule carved by obsession. But she couldn’t. Not yet.
The scene from yesterday crashed over her without warning.
Ai sitting among them. Eating. Drinking. Not ignored. Not mocked.
When was the last time she ate with someone? Had she ever?
Her lips trembled. Her eyes blurred hot.
She cried, face buried in her arm, shoulders shaking. Because she couldn’t process it. Because it was too normal. Too human. Too far from the world she knew.
Her sobs came raw, wrecking her throat. She cried until her breath broke into hiccups, until her body curled smaller and smaller, until she wished she could disappear into the mattress and never surface again.
After a long while Ai sat slumped on the mattress until her sobs had emptied her throat raw. Her eyes were swollen, her body still sticky and trembling, but some flicker of thought survived the collapse.
Ai’s gaze drifted toward the broken tracksuit jacket sprawled across the body pillow, its ruined zipper gaping like a wound.
Now, staring at it, something else came to her mind.
Maybe. Maybe I can...
Her body moved on inertia. Barefoot, she shuffled into the living room, the mess crunching underfoot. Piles of wrappers, stained tissues, forgotten dishes. She dug through drawers, tore open boxes, pawed through stacks of yellowed paper until her fingers closed around a cracked plastic case.
A sewing kit. Rust on the scissors, the fabric tape stiff, but needles still clinked inside.
Ai carried it back to the living room. She looked at the table buried under debris books stacked sideways, dirty laundry, rotting takeout containers, candle stubs, old offerings. For a long moment, she just stared. Then, trembling, she began to push.
Plastic bags shifted. Crumpled paper slid to the floor. Wax flakes scattered. Slowly, agonizingly, she carved out a single patch of surface, half the tabletop cleared, scarred wood visible for the first time in months.
Her chest heaved. Her arms shook. But the sight of that bare patch struck something like light into her.
Ai laid the jacket flat there, reverent and terrified. She opened the kit, set the needle, threaded it with trembling hands. Every movement was jagged, her breath ragged, but she forced herself on.
It was no more than pushing trash off of half a table. But as a certain Student Council Vice President had said....
“It won’t fix everything, but it’ll be something. That’s how it works sometimes you pick one thing you can clean, and let it stand for the rest until you’re strong enough for more.”