The teacher's voice droned on like the steady hum of an old ceiling fan — something that faded into background noise the longer you listened. Rows of students scribbled dutifully into their notebooks, the occasional cough or rustle of paper punctuating the silence.
Itsuki's pen had not moved in over ten minutes.
Instead, his gaze was fixed beyond the smudged glass of the window beside him. Sunlight spilled over the football field outside. The breeze swayed the goalposts ever so slightly.
Reflected faintly in the glass was his own face — dark hair falling into hazel eyes, a shade caught indecisively between green and gold. People often told him he looked athletic, like the kind of person who might spend hours in the gym, working to carve out his build. The truth was less flattering. His frame had simply… happened. He had never worked for it.
As he looked, he thought of how out there life looked simple. A couple of birds fought over scraps of food in the grass. The wind moved freely through the trees.
In here, the air was thick with the choking pressure of competition. Every student battled for grades, approval, fleeting recognition to prove they mattered. To Itsuki, it all felt pointless— a desperate chase after something none of them would ever really catch.
The truth of the reality they refuse to face… he thought, his expression unmoving as he stared through the glass. "Everything is hevel'.
To him, it had been, and it always would be. Nothing more than a chasing after the wind.
--
The sharp scrape of chairs against the floor jolted him back. The bell had rung, though he hadn't noticed. Students shuffled out in noisy clusters, chatter swaying across the room.
Itsuki didn't move. His eyes still lingered on the football field outside, as if the fading light there carried more meaning than anything he'd heard in the past hour.
A shadow fell across his desk.
"Hey," a familiar voice broke in.
Itsuki blinked, glancing up to see Seiji leaning casually against the edge of his desk, grinning like the world had handed him good news for free. His messy black hair fell across his forehead, and his sharp eyes searched Itsuki's face with effortless concern.
"You looked like you were somewhere else," Seiji said. "Thinking about skipping lunch again?"
Itsuki shrugged. "I can't be bothered how my lunch goes. Whatever happens, happens."
Seiji smirked, tilting his head with that same grin that always seemed clever. "You're weird, you know that?"
He wasn't wrong. Not about the weirdnes. Itsuki often skipped meals, not from lack of time or appetite, but simply because he couldn't bring himself to care. Food, hunger — they were just details of existence, to him, unimportant in the grand scheme of things.
Seiji stayed, leaning comfortably on a chair and placing some food on his desk, comfortable in a way that only years of friendship allowed. They had known each other since they were ten, and despite Itsuki's distant nature, Seiji had never left his side. Maybe it was because he worried too much. Maybe because he was the only one stubborn enough to stay.
Itsuki sometimes tried to imagine himself in Seiji's place — caring so deeply for someone else that wasn't him or his mother. The thought never fit right. Like putting on clothes that belonged to someone else.
Maybe that was just who he was. Or maybe it was simply what was left of him… after that day.
---
The rest of the day dragged like paint refusing to dry. Teachers came and went, their words blurring into one another until they were indistinguishable. The classroom clock ticked on, slow and hollow.
The final bell eventually rang and Itsuki couldn't have been more glad.
The hallway erupted with the usual after-school noise. Shouts bounced off the lockers, laughter echoed in uneven bursts, and the metallic clatter of locks and doors filled the air.
Clusters of students gathered, their conversations overflowing with plans — karaoke, dinner, arcades, parks, libraries.
Itsuki passed through them like a ghost.
"Why did they try so hard? What was the point? What was the aim?'
"They live, they laugh, they make plans', he thought bitterly. "But everything they do is meaningless. Friendships, ambitions, the dreams they cling to — all of it crumbles. Even the adults, the ones who preach about responsibility, spend decades breaking themselves on jobs that drain their souls. They trade joy for paper, for numbers on a screen.
And for what? Pleasure? Security? Some form of success they were told to chase?'
"It all ends the same. Rich or poor, brilliant or foolish — they all return to the ground. Dust, swallowed by dust.'
---
Outside the gates, the late afternoon light pooled across the pavement on the streets. Seiji was waiting, leaning against the wall with his usual half-smile.
"Man, I'm gonna do it," he blurted the moment Itsuki approached. "I'm asking her out."
Itsuki raised an eyebrow. "Her?"
"You know who," Seiji muttered, his eyes flicking nervously as though the streetlamps themselves might overhear. "I don't expect advice. I just… I'm too excited to keep it to myself."
They started walking, steps unhurried. As they rounded the corner, noise spilled from an electronics store, the TV in the window blaring loud enough to rival the traffic.
"…the largest single-day collapse in stock exchange history. Makasahi Inc. has filed for bankruptcy with no hope of revival. Industry experts call it unprecedented—"
Seiji let out a low whistle. "Crazy. I actually know the guy who owned that company. Used to live near your place before he moved into some giant mansion."
Itsuki's eyes stayed on the screen a moment longer. "Another corporate king brought low. Another man chewed up by the same system he thought he mastered. Yesterday he had the world at his feet; today, the world spat him out like rotten fruit.'
"I doubt I'd know him," Itsuki said flatly. "I don't care enough to remember the faces around me."
Seiji grinned sideways. "Miracle you still remember mine."
Itsuki smirked faintly but didn't answer.
---
They reached the train station. Different destinations, same path — Seiji always got off first, Itsuki later.
When Itsuki finally reached his stop, he stepped into the cool air and made the short walk home.
The apartment greeted him with silence, broken only by the soft click of knitting needles. His mother sat on the couch, a ball of pale blue yarn resting on her lap. Her hands moved gracefully, weaving threads.
She had the kind of face that never raised its voice. Gentle, calm, always searching for the good in people — even when it cost her more than she would admit.
"How was school?" she asked without looking up.
"The same," Itsuki answered. The same question, the same answer, repeated daily.
He went upstairs, dropped onto his bed, and stared at the ceiling.
"Why am I here?'
"Surely the dead have it easier — they no longer trudged through this farce. Even the unborn were luckier, untouched by the ugliness of the world.'
---
His phone lit up. The top story mirrored the news broadcast from earlier: 'Makasahi Inc.'s collapse' plastered across the screen. He scrolled past it in seconds.
Noise upon noise, the world devouring itself, yet never changing.
After a bit he got up and proceeded to go through his after school motions—shower, change clothes, eat. After, he found himself lying back on his bed.
"It's all hevel," he muttered into the empty air.
Then came the scream.
It pierced the silence, raw and sharp, from downstairs.
Itsuki was moving before he realized, heart hammering against his ribs. His mother — it had to be her. He imagined the worst with every step.
But when he burst into the kitchen, she was standing there unharmed, holding a small bag of trash.
"You okay?" she asked, tilting her head.
"I thought—" He stopped, shaking his head. She was fine. Maybe he imagined it. "I'm fine. Just tired."
She brushed past him toward the door, carrying the garbage bag. He sighed, taking it from her wordlessly. Even when she needed help, never asked for it. And at that moment of taking the bag, their hands brushed — his finger touching hers.
And instantly it felt like the world shattered.
He was no longer in the kitchen.
He was everywhere, all at once.
Moments flooded his vision, an endless reel spinning faster than thought. Yet he lived through each one. The sounds, the agony, the pain — all of it felt real.
And she was always there.
His mother.
Dying.
Over and over again. Different ways, different details, the same outcome.
Her eyes always the same — lifeless.
It never stopped. Time bent, stretched, devoured itself until a second felt like a century.
Then—
"Itsuki!"
Her voice snapped him back.
He gasped, choking on his own breath, his cheeks wet from the tears rolling down his face. His hands trembled violently.
She stood in front of him, garbage scattered at his feet. "What's wrong? You look pale—"
He flinched back, stumbling before he fell on the floor. He couldn't tell her anything.
His knees stiff. The floor rushed up cold against his palms.
"Itsuki—"
He scrambled away from her. He couldn't touch her. Not again. Not ever.
Then instinct took over. He ran upstairs, the door slammed behind him. He pressed his back against it, his mother's muffled voice calling from the other side.
"Itsuki? What happened? You were crying—why were you so scared?"
He tried to answer, but his throat locked. His own words failed him.
"She's alive." He repeated it to himself. "She's alive."
Finally, he forced out a strained excuse. "Just… a headache. School was rough."
She hesitated. "…When you feel better, come down and talk."
Her footsteps retreated.
---
Itsuki collapsed onto the floor, fumbling for his phone. He called Seiji and there was no answer.
His hands felt like they were ice cold.
"What did I see?'
The question gnawed at him, the images pressing against his skull. No matter how tightly he closed his eyes, her dying face always returned.
The phone finally rang and it was Seiji's name.
Itsuki answered instantly.
"Dude, I did it!" Seiji's voice exploded through the speaker. "I asked her and she said yes!"
Itsuki forced a faint smile. Typical Seiji. Oblivious to his own charms.
"So what did you call me about?" Seiji asked.
Itsuki hesitated. For a moment, he nearly told him. But Seiji's voice was too bright, too alive. It didn't deserve the weight of his nightmare. Especially not when he wasn't even sure what it was.
"Nothing," Itsuki said. "Just wanted to hear from you."
Seiji laughed, still caught up in his joy. "Thanks, man. Talk tomorrow!"
The call ended as silence returned to the room.
Itsuki dropped his phone onto the bed and leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. His heartbeat slowed, but the unease coiled tighter in his chest.
He told himself to forget. That it wasn't real. That it was just exhaustion. But deep down, he couldn't shake it.
That vision. That endless reel of her death.
It wasn't just a dream.
Little did he know, that what he saw, would soon completely alter his reality.