If one were to ask me what high school is, I would answer without hesitation: a theater where everyone plays at being ordinary. The tragedy, of course, is that some of us never receive a script.
I am seventeen years old, and people look at me as though I am a foreign object that slipped into their neat little classroom. Not because I am dangerous—no, if anything, I am embarrassingly harmless—but because I do not know how to hold my face in the right position when another human being says hello.
This morning, for example, I nodded too quickly when greeted by a classmate. The nod was so sharp it might have been mistaken for disdain. I heard a whisper after: "Why is he glaring?" How marvelous! My nod, apparently, has the same effect as a scowl. Perhaps I should try smiling. No—that would be worse. My attempts at smiling resemble a wince.
And so, I continue to play the role of "the silent tall boy." An extra on stage, tall enough to block the view of the real actors but too awkward to deliver a single line.
Classroom
During mathematics, the teacher, with his customary malice, called on me to read aloud. I rose, book in hand, and read the problem in what I thought was a steady tone.
When I finished, silence. Then, a soft murmur:
"He sounds angry."
Angry? Ah, so now I am the tyrant of equations. A one-man dictatorship of fractions.
I sat down quietly, staring at the chalk dust drifting in the air. There is nothing more humiliating than to be misinterpreted in every gesture, every sound. Even breathing feels conspicuous.
Lunch
At lunch, I unfolded my bento. I always prepare it at dawn: rice, fish, vegetables. The routine comforts me. Cooking, at least, has rules—slice, stir, season. Food never misunderstands you.
A boy leaned over.
"You made that yourself? Looks good."
I froze, chopsticks halfway to my mouth. Compliments are dangerous. They demand response. I muttered, "…Yes."
"Yes…?"
"…Thanks."
The conversation ended there. The boy returned to his friends. My hands shook slightly as I picked up my next bite. Why do they not see? For me, this was a victory.
Cleaning Duty
After classes, I swept the floor with my usual precision. If I cannot master conversation, then I will at least master dust. Another boy laughed, "Kato, you clean like you're in the army."
"…Better than leaving dust behind," I said.
Laughter again. This time, not cruel. Perhaps they found me amusing. Perhaps I am their class clown without realizing it. What a pitiful comedy—my silence mistaken for menace, my efficiency mistaken for a joke.
Home
When I returned home, my sister Emi was hunched over her textbooks, her hair falling into her face. She looked up immediately.
"Nii-san, you're late!"
Her voice carried indignation, as though my very existence revolved around her homework schedule. I wanted to tell her I was detained at school by the cruel bureaucracy of sweeping dust, but instead I only said, "Cleaning."
"They always make you do it!" she protested.
"It was my turn."
I began cooking dinner, tying the apron with practiced hands. Emi chattered beside me, recounting the idiocies of her classmates. I answered only in nods, the occasional grunt, but she didn't mind. She never misinterprets me. She requires no performance.
And so, in this cramped kitchen, among the scent of frying onions, I am not a misfit. I am simply her brother.
Night
Later, washing dishes alone, I caught my reflection in the window: a boy of seventeen who looked closer to twenty. The shoulders too stiff, the eyes too tired.
At school, I am avoided because my silences resemble contempt. At home, I am necessary because no one else will do it. Which role is the truth?
I leaned against the cool glass, staring out at the streetlamp. There are boys my age who dream of futures grand and impossible. As for me, I only dream of waking up one day without the sensation that my very existence is a mistake.
But then Emi coughed lightly in her sleep. The sound traveled through the thin walls, fragile but real. I turned back to the sink and continued scrubbing the plates.
Even if I am misunderstood everywhere else, here—in this small apartment—I am the one who keeps the house alive. That is enough.
For now.