Some truths are too sharp to be spoken.
They cut deeper than knives, leaving wounds that may never heal.
Shino understood this better than anyone.
As the days passed, he found himself carrying more than just his own thoughts. He carried fragments of conversations overheard, cracks in the masks people wore, and patterns invisible to anyone else. What others dismissed as chance, Shino saw as cause. What others believed as truth, he recognized as lies.
Knowledge became his shadow. And with it, the weight of silence.
---
It began with small things.
A friend laughing, pretending to be confident—yet Shino saw the tremor in his hands, the eyes that hid fear.
A teacher praising a student's brilliance—yet Shino knew the grade had been altered, favoritism hidden beneath polite words.
Two classmates sharing secrets in the hallway—yet Shino read their lips from afar, realizing betrayal would soon break their fragile bond.
Everywhere he turned, he carried pieces of truth no one else noticed.
---
One evening, his closest companion confessed, voice trembling:
"I think I'm in love. She understands me. She'd never hurt me."
Shino's gaze lowered. He had already seen her walking with another, laughing too sweetly, her hand lingering on someone else's arm. His chest tightened with the urge to speak. To protect his friend from heartbreak.
But he didn't.
Because the truth, delivered too early, could destroy more than the lie itself. His friend needed the journey, even if it ended in pain. To steal that away would be crueler than the betrayal waiting ahead.
So Shino forced a smile and said only:
"Then protect that feeling."
And in silence, he carried the secret alone.
---
In the classroom, the history teacher spoke of victories—grand battles, noble leaders, golden ages. The students listened, their eyes shining with pride. But Shino knew better. He had read the margins of old books, the footnotes others skipped. He knew those victories came with massacres, that leaders bled their own people, that golden ages were built on chains and silence.
His hand twitched, ready to rise, ready to speak.
But he didn't.
Because truth without timing was chaos. And the class wasn't ready for chaos.
So he swallowed the words, letting the lie stand—another secret buried, another stone added to the weight pressing on his chest.
---
At night, when silence filled the room, Shino felt the heaviness most.
He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying all the truths he carried. Each one a whisper:
You know what they don't. You see what they can't. You're alone with it.
It was not pride that filled him. It was loneliness. The deeper he saw, the further he drifted from those around him. Their laughter became distant. Their dreams became fragile illusions. He loved them, but he could not walk among them fully, not when his eyes saw through every mask.
The weight of secrets was not only knowledge. It was isolation.
---
Yet Shino did not collapse under it.
He told himself: If not me, then who?
Someone had to see clearly. Someone had to protect others from truths that would crush them. Someone had to carry the burden until they were ready.
This was not punishment—it was responsibility.
And Shino accepted it.
---
One night, standing by the window, watching the faint glow of lanterns outside, he whispered to himself:
"I will hold what they cannot. I will keep safe what they are not yet strong enough to face. That is my duty. That is my burden. That is my strength."
And though the secrets weighed heavier than ever, his back straightened, his eyes sharpened.
Because this was who he was becoming—not just the strategist, not just the rival-dismantler, not just the boy with patience beyond his years.
He was the keeper of truths. The silent guardian of knowledge others could not yet bear.
And the world, unknowingly, rested on the strength of his silence.