XX/XX (I think? I actually don't know what day or month it is anymore, sorry.)
Dear Journal,
Today I ate breakfast. I had rice and eggs.
Not merely rice and eggs, mind you, but fluffy, pearled rice still steaming gently in the bowl and soft-scrambled eggs so tender they seemed to fall apart under my fork. I am quite certain I tasted butter in them—real butter, not the watery substitute Mother used if she cooked me food—and I drank a whole glass of milk afterward. An entire glass. No one measured it. No one told me I had already had enough. It was cool and sweet and left a little white mustache on my lip that I wiped away quickly so he wouldn't think I'm messy.
Afterward, I brushed my teeth for the full recommended two minutes. I counted. Twice. The mint burned pleasantly and I stared at myself in the mirror while I did it, foam at the corners of my mouth like a rabid little snow creature, and I smiled—a real one.
Then I took a bath. Quietly. I did not want to seem ungrateful by being loud.
A bath, Journal. Not a rushed splash with someone pounding on the door, not a shouted reminder that water costs money, not a fist on the wall demanding I hurry up. I soaked until the heat turned my skin pink and my hair clung to my cheeks. Everyone is right, it looks like seaweed. I washed it twice. I felt like someone who belonged in a magazine advertisement for soap.
And then when I came out, he was gone. He left me clothes to change into. He's very thoughtful.
I must confess something terribly embarrassing.
His clothes are too big for me.
Not just a little too big in a charming, oversized fashion that fashionable people might praise, but absurdly, large. The pale blue T-shirt I am wearing now—soft, faintly scented with something clean and masculine—hangs off one shoulder as though it has given up any intention of fitting properly. It slides down my collarbone with ease, exposing it to the cool air but somehow making me feel like… I don'tknow… safe?
As for the pants, I couldn't wear them without it puddling around my ankles. I tried. I truly did. I stepped into the pair and promptly lost them to gravity.
So I am in my boxers.
And socks that go up to my calves.
Mismatched ones.
One baby blue and one dark blue, as though even the universe cannot quite decide what shade of sorrow I am meant to be.
If anyone could see me, I think I might perish from mortification. Though, I suppose, no one can.
—
I pause here.
My pen hovers.
I find myself chewing on my bottom lip again, pressing it between my teeth until it aches faintly, a nervous habit I have never managed to abandon no matter how many times I've been scolded for it. My lips always feel too soft, too big, and I worry I look foolish when I do this, but there is no one here to correct me.
That is… rather the point, isn't it?
—
I like it here.
—
There. I have written it.
The words look strange on the page, almost foreign, but they do not feel like a lie.
—
I like the quiet. I like that no one shouts my name in anger. I like that the walls do not echo with accusations or disappointment. I like that the food is warm and that I am not flinching between bites. I like that no one at school can corner me here, can shove me down and beat me or call me things that crawl beneath my skin and stay there.
Here, the door locks from the outside.
And somehow, that feels safer.
It is a peculiar thing to feel grateful for captivity, and yet my chest fills with a soft, aching warmth when I think of him. My savior. My captor. The one who took me away from all of that noise and cruelty and did not once ask me to apologize for existing.
I wish I could thank him properly.
I have rehearsed it in my head many times—how I would bow slightly, how I would keep my voice steady and polite, how I would say that I am happy, that I am trying to be good, that I am grateful beyond what words can explain. But whenever he stands in the doorway, tall and illuminated by the hallway light, my tongue forgets how to move and I can only nod like a wind-up toy.
Perhaps one day I will be brave enough.
For now, I will simply be quiet and obedient and appreciative.
That is something, isn't it?
I think it is.
Goodbye for now, Journal.
Thank you for listening.
—
He closes the book carefully, smoothing his palm over the cover as though tucking the words inside to sleep. His icy-blue, droopy eyes lift from the book and drift toward the wall where a window should be.
There is only the curtain.
A heavy, dark blue blackout curtain, thick as a winter sky, nailed firmly into place so that not even the most curious sliver of light can slip through. The fabric hangs long and unmoving, an ocean frozen mid-fall. Behind it—he knows this without needing to check—are wooden boards secured tightly over the glass, layered like ribs across a chest, ensuring that nothing may enter and nothing may leave.
Even if the curtain were drawn aside, even if his fingers traced the edges and found the nails, even if he pried and pulled until his soft hands splintered, there would be nowhere to go.
Not that he wants to.
A slow smile begins at the corners of his mouth, gentle and luminous, transforming the natural gloom that rests upon his features into something almost otherworldly. His plump pink lips curve upward, and the nervous tension leaves them at last. In the dim lamplight, his icy-blue eyes shimmer, bright and glassy, like sunlight scattering across the surface of an endless ocean.
He presses the journal to his chest for a fleeting moment, as though it were something alive.
And the boy smiles as if he has finally found home.
He rises quietly from the kitchen table, careful not to scrape the chair legs against the floor as though the sound itself might be disruptive, though there is no one present to disturb. The oversized pale blue shirt slips further off his shoulder when he stands, and he hastily gathers a large blanket from the back of the chair, draping it around himself like a makeshift cloak of dignity. It swallows him whole, pooling around at the ends of his feet and brushing against his mismatched socks so that he resembles a small, wandering ghost who has misplaced his haunting grounds.
He pads softly into the living room.
The couch is broad and upholstered in a deep blue fabric, plush and expensive-looking, the kind of furniture meant to cradle someone substantial. When he lowers himself onto it, however, the cushions barely shift beneath his weight. There is the faintest sigh of compressed air, the most subtle indentation where his hips rest, and that is all. The blanket swallows the rest of him, concealing the thin lines of his frame, the narrowness of his waist, the delicate jut of collarbone that peeks from beneath the slipping neckline of the shirt.
He curls one leg beneath him and reaches for the remote.
The television flickers to life, casting cool light across his pale skin and illuminating the soft droop of his icy-blue eyes. For a moment, the room feels less like a sealed box and more like an ordinary home, humming faintly with electricity and distant voices.
A news anchor appears.
Her smile is solemn, professional.
"Authorities are continuing the search for a recently reported missing high school boy…"
He stills.
"Just recently turned eighteen. He is approximately five foot four inches tall, with black hair that reaches his shoulders and blue eyes. He was last seen leaving school in his blue uniform…"
The boy's fingers tighten ever so slightly around the remote, partly in fear and partly in panic.
Before the anchor can finish the sentence—before she can say his name—the channel changes with a soft click.
Bright colors flood the screen. Cheerful music swells. A lively host in an apron beams at the camera while standing behind a spotless kitchen counter.
"Today we're making a simple but delicious braised pork bowl that anyone can master at home!"
The boy exhales.
He shifts closer to the edge of the couch, blanket slipping down to his elbows as he leans forward with sudden, earnest focus. The earlier report dissolves in his mind like steam off hot rice. He does not replay it. He does not linger on the report. He does not allow himself to wonder how worried anyone might pretend to be.
Instead, he reaches for his journal and opens it again.
Not to the page with the confessions.
A fresh one.
His handwriting is small and careful, each letter shaped with patient concentration as he writes down ingredients and measurements.
—
Soy sauce—two tablespoons. Mirin—one tablespoon. Simmer gently, do not boil too harshly.
—
He underlines that part twice, his tongue peeking out faintly in concentration.
He hums under his breath.
It is not a particular song—just a soft, wandering melody that rises and falls like a lullaby searching for its own rhythm. The sound fills the room in place of sirens, in place of concerned voices, in place of the sharp edge of reality.
When the host demonstrates how to crack an egg cleanly into the pan without breaking the yolk, the boy leans even closer, eyes shining with interest.
"I should practice that…"
He murmurs to himself, almost solemnly.
"He might like it with a runny center."
The thought warms him.
If he can cook well—if he can prepare meals that are flavorful and comforting—then perhaps he can repay even a fraction of what has been given to him. Warm food. Clean water. Silence instead of shouting. Safety instead of fear.
The television light dances over his delicate features as he scribbles down the final steps. His plump pink lips curve into a small, satisfied smile when he finishes the recipe. He flips the pen between his fingers once, nervously, then steadies it and writes at the bottom of the page.
—
Practice tomorrow.
—
He sits back, finally, and tucks the blanket more securely around his shoulders. The cooking show continues in the background, cheerful and bright. Outside—beyond the nailed boards and the heavy blackout curtain—the world searches.
Inside, he hums.
And in the gentle glow of the television, wrapped in borrowed fabric and quiet devotion, he spends his day as though he is exactly where he is meant to be.
After some time—though how much time passes is difficult to measure when one is wrapped in warmth and humming softly to the rhythm of a cooking show—the boy becomes aware of a faint dryness at the back of his throat, a gentle but persistent reminder of the glass of milk he had so proudly finished earlier. The sensation is not urgent, yet it grows steadily enough that he lowers the volume of the television and sets his journal aside with deliberate care, as though even the act of thirst must be handled cautiously.
He slips from the couch, the cushions rising almost immediately as if relieved of so little weight, and gathers the blanket closer around his narrow shoulders before setting it aside entirely. Bare legs pale against the dim light, mismatched socks whispering against the floorboards, he moves toward the kitchen.
Each step is placed with exquisite caution.
Not because he has been told to be quiet.
Not because anyone is watching.
But because silence has become instinct, stitched into his bones from years of learning that noise invites attention and attention invites consequence. He avoids the boards that creak faintly near the edge of the living room, skirts the corner of the coffee table without brushing it, and inhales only through his nose so that even his breathing will not echo.
The kitchen greets him with stillness.
He retrieves a glass from the cabinet with careful fingers, holding it firmly so it does not clink against the shelf, and turns the faucet only slightly so that the stream of water runs smooth and controlled rather than splashing recklessly into the basin. The sound is gentle, almost soothing, and for a fleeting second he watches the clear liquid fill the cup as though it is something miraculous.
When the glass is full, he shuts the tap just as delicately and cradles the water in both hands, returning the way he came with the same quiet vigilance.
Back on the couch, he settles once more into the oversized pale blue shirt that slips from one shoulder the moment he sits, exposing the fragile slope of his collarbone to the cool air. He lifts the glass and takes a slow sip, eyes fixed on the television where the host now laughs brightly over a garnish gone slightly crooked.
Another sip.
And then—
Fwoosh. Splat!
"Wow! Would you look at that perfect flip!"
The host flips a pan dramatically, and the boy, startled and impressed all at once, shifts his attention too quickly. His hand tilts.
Water spills.
It spreads across the front of the borrowed shirt in a widening bloom, soaking through the soft cotton and darkening it several shades deeper. Coldness seeps against his skin, clinging to his chest and stomach, and for a single, suspended heartbeat he merely stares at it.
Then the shock arrives.
"Oh—"
The word escapes him in a fragile breath.
His eyes widen, icy-blue irises trembling as if the ocean within them has been stirred by sudden wind. The glass shakes in his grasp before he hurriedly sets it down on the table, sloshing a little more water in his haste. His heart begins to pound—not with physical pain, but with something sharper, older.
'I ruined it.'
The thought strikes with disproportionate force.
It is not his shirt.
It was given to him.
Borrowed out of kindness.
And he has stained it carelessly, clumsily, foolishly.
Panic swells inside his narrow chest, climbing his throat like smoke. He scrambles to his feet and rushes toward the bathroom, socked feet nearly slipping against the floor as he fumbles with the hem of the shirt.
"I can fix it…"
He whispers to himself, voice thin and shaking.
"I'll dry it. I'll wash it. He won't even notice. I'll—"
He tugs the shirt upward.
It should be easy. It is far too large for him, after all.
But panic makes hands uncoordinated, makes fabric feel like restraint rather than clothing. The damp cotton clings stubbornly to his skin as he yanks it over his head, arms flailing blindly within the folds. The neckline catches at his chin, then his nose, then twists around one elbow so that the entire garment spins crookedly, trapping one wrist while the other struggles uselessly for an opening.
The world narrows into darkness and cloth.
His breathing quickens.
The more he pulls, the tighter it seems to bind, the wet fabric twisting around his forearms and hands until he cannot tell which direction is up. His long hair tangles against the inside of the shirt, static crackling faintly in his ears. The scent of soap and something distinctly his captor's lingers in the cotton, and somehow that only makes the panic worse.
"I'm sorry!"
He gasps, though there is no one present to hear it.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"
His knees buckle.
They give way beneath him as though the strength has drained out entirely, and he collapses onto the cool bathroom floor in a soft, graceless heap. The impact is not violent, but it is final. He remains tangled, half-covered, arms caught awkwardly above his head, the damp fabric clinging to his flushed skin.
Tears come before he can stop them.
They slip from the corners of his drooping eyes and trail down into his hairline, dampening the shirt further where it still shrouds his face. His shoulders shake with quiet sobs, the sound muffled by cotton and humiliation.
It is such a small thing.
A glass of water to quench his thirst.
A shirt so easy to slip off it was already barely clinging on.
And yet the fear of disappointing the only person who has ever offered him softness grips him with crushing force.
He curls in on himself as best he can despite the tangled fabric, pressing his forehead against the tile. The chill seeps into his skin, grounding and unkind.
"I didn't mean to…"
He whispers brokenly into the darkness of the shirt.
"I'll be better. I'll be more careful. I'll be good."
The bathroom light hums faintly overhead.
Beyond the heavy curtain and nailed boards, the world continues to search.
Inside, on the cold tile floor, the boy weeps softly, ensnared not by ropes or chains—but by fear of losing the fragile safety he believes he has finally found.
---
Beyond the heavy door reinforced with steel and habit, the faint metallic chime of keys brushing against one another breaks the stillness of the night.
One lock turns.
Then another.
Then another.
The sequence is meticulous, practiced, almost ritualistic in its repetition, as though the act of unlocking the door is less about entry and more about reassurance. Each mechanism clicks open with a distinct, satisfying sound—deadbolt, secondary latch, reinforced padlock—and the final turn of the key is delivered with the quiet certainty of someone who knows precisely how many barriers stand between what is his and the rest of the world.
The door opens inward.
He steps inside.
He is tall for his age, long-limbed and elegant without appearing fragile, his fluffy blond hair falling softly across his forehead in a way that frames his face with careless charm. His skin carries a pale jade undertone that gives him an almost luminous quality beneath the hallway light, and the cut of his blue school uniform—still crisp, still neat—only heightens the impression of youthful normalcy. In one hand, he carries a small plastic bakery bag, the faint scent of sugar and vanilla rising from it in sweet, warm spirals, and the aroma clings to him as though he has walked straight out of a bakery's embrace.
He looks, at first glance, like someone who should be greeted with trust.
Approachable.
Kind, even.
The sort of boy who would kneel to help a stranger tie their shoe. The only unsettling thing about him is his eyes.
They are black.
So profoundly black that they seem to swallow light rather than reflect it, like twin apertures opening into a depth too vast to measure, rivaling the endlessness of space itself.
He steps fully into the house and nudges the door closed behind him with his heel before beginning the careful process of relocking every mechanism in reverse order, sealing the world out once more with the same reverence he used to open it.
"Sute-chan!"
He calls brightly, voice lilting with genuine enthusiasm as he lifts the bakery bag slightly in triumph.
"I brought cake—"
The rest of the sentence dies in his throat.
Silence answers him as his smile falters.
For a fraction of a second, confusion passes over his features like a drifting cloud, but it is replaced almost immediately by something far more volatile. The warmth drains from his expression as though someone has flipped a switch inside him, and the approachable softness collapses into sharpness. His jaw tightens. The muscles along his neck pull taut.
'Where the fuck did Sute go?'
The thought surfaces with a violent clarity that cracks through his composure.
He doesn't move at first.
He simply stands there, eyes scanning the open layout of the home from the vantage point of the front door. From here, he can see nearly everything that matters—the kitchen counters still neat and orderly, the small dining table with its two chairs positioned exactly as they always are, the living room couch facing the television, which still glows softly with the bright cheer of a cooking program.
His mind begins to work at a fevered pace.
All windows are boarded.
Every curtain is nailed.
The door was locked—every lock intact, untouched.
There are no signs of tampering.
No disturbed boards.
No shattered glass.
No dislodged nails.
He would know if someone had tried.
He would know.
Which means—
'Sute is still inside.'
His gaze shifts to the television.
The cooking channel.
'Of course.'
'Recently, that has been Sute's favorite, hasn't it? Watching carefully, scribbling down recipes with that earnest concentration that makes his lower lip tremble slightly when he writes. Huuah, so cute!'
The blackness of his eyes flickers.
He steps further in.
The blanket.
It lies in a soft pile on the couch, unmistakable in its familiarity, still bearing the faint crease where small fingers tend to clutch it close. And beside it, on the low table, sits a half-drunk glass of water, condensation gathering along its surface in delicate droplets that have yet to fully evaporate.
He stops breathing.
'If the water is still there—'
'If the television is still on—'
'If the blanket has not been folded away—'
'Then Sute was here recently.'
'Very recently.'
His pulse begins to pound in his ears, heavy and thunderous, and something fractures behind his composed exterior. The black of his eyes seems to deepen, expanding as though swallowing what little light remains in them. The gentle, approachable boy who carried cake through the door recedes, replaced by something raw and unhinged.
His gaze darts across the room.
Under the table.
Behind the couch.
Toward the kitchen nook.
His thoughts race, spiraling into darker possibilities with terrifying speed.
'Did someone get in?'
'Did someone take him?'
'Did Sute hide?'
'Did Sute try to leave?'
The very idea sends a surge of fury up his spine, hot and suffocating.
"No."
He mutters under his breath, voice losing its earlier sweetness entirely.
"No, no, no…"
His fingers tighten around the plastic bag until it crinkles loudly in protest, the sugary scent of cake suddenly cloying, sickening. He had bought it because Sute's eyes had lingered on the bakery's commercial for it the last time they had watched TV together. He had noticed. He always notices.
And now—
His eyes move again, frantic and searching, the abyss within them seeming to churn as if something feral is clawing its way to the surface. The careful locks, the sealed windows, the untouched boards—these facts anchor him, but barely. His mind teeters on the edge of hysteria, and it shows in the way his pupils appear to widen impossibly, black bleeding outward until they look almost inhuman.
"Sute?"
He calls again, though this time the name carries an undercurrent of something sharp, something trembling between fear and rage.
The house remains silent.
And in that silence, his composure begins to splinter.