The next morning, I sat in my usual spot, the back row corner where the cracked window let in a sliver of cold light. My hands clenched the edge of the desk. The weight of yesterday's silence hung around me like a thick fog.
Reika came in just as the bell rang, weaving through the sea of indifferent faces, eyes searching. She smiled when she found me. It wasn't a smile meant for the crowd—just for me.
She sat down, careful not to disturb the other students, who glanced over with thinly veiled curiosity.
"Good morning," she said softly.
I looked up briefly. "Morning."
It was the most I had said in years.
She didn't press for more. Instead, she pulled out a small notebook and started sketching quietly, her fingers moving with delicate precision.
I watched her for a moment. The way her hair caught the light, the way her brow furrowed slightly in concentration. It was strange, the way she could seem so alive in a place that wanted to kill you.
During the break, the usual crowd gathered around me. They shoved my books off the desk. Laughed when I didn't flinch.
Reika didn't look away. She stood up.
"Leave him alone," she said, voice calm but sharp.
The leader of the group, a tall kid with scars and sneers, turned. "Or what? You gonna cry for him?"
"No," she said, folding her arms. "I'm saying stop. Now."
For a heartbeat, the hall fell silent. Then the group backed off, throwing hateful glares but not touching me again.
I didn't say anything. But Reika sat back down, her eyes meeting mine. For the first time, I felt seen—not as a joke or a target, but as a person.
Days turned into weeks.
Reika didn't give up. She sat with me at lunch, walked with me to class, and listened without judgment. She asked no questions about the bruises I hid beneath my sleeves. No questions about the scars I carved into my soul.
One afternoon, she surprised me with a notebook of her own.
"I thought you might want to write," she said, handing it over with a shy smile.
I took it, fingers trembling. The pages were empty, waiting.
For the first time in a long time, I wrote.
Words spilled out, jagged and raw—anger, pain, confusion.
Reika read it later, her eyes moist but steady.
"Your pain doesn't make you less," she whispered. "It makes you human."
I wanted to believe her.
But darkness still clung to me like a second skin.
One day, after class, I found her waiting outside the school gates.
"Hey," she said. "Want to walk home together?"
I hesitated. The streets were dangerous. I was dangerous.
But she smiled, unafraid.
We walked in silence at first, the world noisy around us but distant, like we were in a bubble.
"I used to think school was a nightmare too," she said. "But you make it easier."
I glanced at her. Her eyes held no pity—only hope.
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
"Why do you care?"
She stopped walking, turning to face me.
"Because everyone deserves to be seen."
For the first time, I wondered if maybe, just maybe, I could be saved.
But salvation wasn't simple.
The next week, the bullying worsened.
Rumors spread—Reika was just using me for some twisted game.
She overheard the whispers, saw the cold stares aimed at her.
Instead of retreating, she confronted them.
"Akihiro is my friend," she said. "And I don't care what you think."
That night, I found her crying behind the school gym.
I wanted to comfort her. Wanted to tell her it wasn't worth it.
But my voice was lost in the storm inside me.
Instead, I just sat there, the silence between us louder than words.
One evening, she brought me a gift—an old book of poetry.
"Sometimes words can heal," she said, pressing it into my hands.
I flipped through the pages, hesitant.
A poem caught my eye—lines about pain, about darkness, about finding light in the cracks.
For the first time, I read it aloud.
Her smile grew.
"You have a voice," she said.
I didn't know what to say.
Our fragile bond grew stronger, a flicker of light in the endless grey.
But inside me, the rage never died.
It simmered beneath the surface, waiting.
Waiting for the moment to explode.
I wanted to be free.
Free from the cage.
Free from the pain.
But could I let her in?
Could I trust someone when trust had been the thing that broke me?
One rainy afternoon, we stayed after school to study.
The classroom was empty, except for us.
She looked at me, her eyes shining with quiet determination.
"Tell me what hurts," she said.
I swallowed hard. The words were heavy.
I wanted to scream, to shout, to unleash the storm inside.
But instead, I whispered, "I'm tired of being invisible."
She nodded.
"You're not invisible to me."
Her hand reached for mine.
For a moment, I thought I might break.
But instead, I let the warmth in.
And so, the days passed.
Two broken souls leaning on each other in a world that tried to break them.
School was still a prison.
But with Reika, I began to see the cracks in the walls.
And maybe—just maybe—I could find a way out.