The bus rattled down the gray morning street, the sky heavy with clouds that hadn't yet decided whether to break.
Haruto sat by the window, forehead resting on the cold glass, his reflection pale and tired.
A faint ache pulsed beneath his ribs with every bump in the road. He adjusted his sleeve lower, hiding the bruises that wrapped like faded shadows around his wrist.
Behind him, Shaun and his friends laughed, their voices carrying low but sharp, like blades dulled from overuse.
He didn't turn around. The laughter always had a way of finding him even when he pretended it didn't.
Outside, the world looked almost gentle—people crossing the street with umbrellas, the bakery sign flickering to life, the faint smell of rain and dough.
He focused on those things, anything that wasn't the sound of Shaun's voice.
By the time the bus screeched to a stop in front of the school gates, he'd already built his mask.
Soft smile.
Steady breathing.
Normal.
________________________________________
Classroom
Haruto arrived early, slipping into his seat before the bell. The room was still, empty but for the sound of chairs scraping in the next room.
He set his sketchbook down, exhaled slowly.
The door burst open.
"Good morning, Haruto!" Suki chirped, nearly tripping over his own bag. "You look like a cloud that hasn't had its coffee yet!"
Haruto blinked. "…That's a new one."
"It means you're gloomy but kind of cute about it."
Before Haruto could answer, Suki clapped him on the shoulder. Pain shot through his ribs; it took everything in him not to flinch.
He forced a small laugh instead. "Morning, Suki."
Ryuzí entered just behind, tugging at his tie. "You're going to give him a heart attack before class even starts."
"Affection builds stamina!" Suki declared.
Ryuzí sighed. "Affection gives migraines."
Their bickering drew a soft smile from Haruto—it always did—but it couldn't quite ease the sharp reminder under his skin.
He shifted in his seat, keeping his breathing shallow.
From across the room, Aoi's gaze flicked up from her notebook. She said nothing, but her eyes lingered too long.
Haruto pretended not to notice.
________________________________________
Rehearsal Plans
At lunch, the group gathered around their table, surrounded by the familiar din of voices.
"We're almost done with the choreography!" Suki said proudly, waving his chopsticks.
"You tripped over the speaker wire yesterday," Ryuzí reminded him.
"That was interpretive movement!"
Kenji snorted. "Gravity isn't interpretive."
Laughter rippled around them. Haruto smiled faintly but ate little, moving slowly, his left hand shielding his ribs when he leaned for his drink.
Aoi caught it again—that tiny, involuntary wince. Her pen hovered over her notebook. "Haruto, can you finish the new backdrops by tomorrow?"
"Yeah," he said quickly.
She frowned. "You've done enough. Don't burn yourself out."
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
"I said I'm fine."
The firmness in his tone startled even him.
Suki blinked, then laughed lightly. "See? Haruto's tougher than he looks!"
Aoi sighed but let it drop—for now.
The table soon fell back into banter, their noise filling the empty corners of the room.
________________________________________
After School
By evening, the corridors had emptied. Shadows stretched across the floors, and the distant hum of the custodians' radios echoed faintly.
Haruto stayed behind to finish the slides for their presentation. The projector buzzed softly, casting white light on his tired face.
When he finally closed his laptop, the silence pressed too close.
He packed slowly, shoulders tense.
Then came the sound he hated most—footsteps.
Three pairs.
"Well, look who's still here," Shaun drawled from the doorway.
Haruto didn't look up. "Leave me alone."
"Aw, come on. We're just checking on our classmate," Daichi said, smirking.
Riku laughed. "Yeah, see if our little artist has painted us into another masterpiece."
Haruto stuffed his things into his bag. "Move."
Shaun stepped forward, blocking the exit. "Move?" he echoed. "You used to say please."
Haruto's jaw tightened. "Move."
Shaun's grin tilted. "Still mouthing off?"
The bat cracked against his ribs with a wet crunch, blood bubbling from his mouth as he fell to his knees.
The sound didn't feel real—like it belonged in someone else's body.
He fell to one knee, gasping. His papers spilled again, fluttering across the floor.
"Oops," Shaun said, crouching to pick one up. "Still drawing sunsets?"
Haruto reached for it, but Riku's shoe pinned it down. "Don't be shy."
His skin tore as he hit the concrete, leaving streaks of red across the pavement.
Blood sprayed from his lip as the next punch landed, dripping onto his shirt.
The metallic taste flooded his throat before he even realized he'd bitten his tongue.
When they finally stepped back, Shaun wiped his hand on Haruto's shoulder as if brushing off dirt. "We should do this more often. Brings back memories."
The words hit harder than the blows.
They left, laughing, their voices bouncing off the lockers as the door shut behind them.
For a while, Haruto didn't move—just breathed, short, shaky breaths that rattled like loose glass in his chest.
His shirt was soaked in blood, dark patches spreading as he crawled toward his bag.
Each inch forward smeared more red across the tiles; it looked like he was trying to erase himself.
He gathered each page carefully, smoothing the corners, even when his hands left faint red smears on the edges.
________________________________________
Home
"Haruto?"
His mother's voice came from the kitchen when he stepped inside. The clock read past nine.
"You're late again," she said, turning from the sink. "Everything okay at school?"
He froze in the doorway; hoodie zipped to his throat. "…Yeah."
Her gaze lingered on him, the way he stood too still. "You sure?"
"Just tired," he said quickly. "Group project."
His little sister sat on the couch, a tablet in her lap. She looked up once—big, quiet eyes—then went back to her game.
"Eat something before bed," his mother murmured.
"I will."
He didn't.
________________________________________
Haruto's Room
He closed his door, turned the lock. For a moment, he just leaned against it, head bowed, breathing shallow.
The room smelled faintly of pencil shavings and soap. Safe. Almost.
He peeled his shirt off to reveal deep gashes and raw flesh, crimson against pale skin.
The mirror caught the shimmer of bandage tape and blood, a quiet testimony that refused to dry.
He winced, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed. From his desk drawer, he pulled out the small box of bandages. One by one, he patched over the marks, his hands trembling more from exhaustion than fear.
Under the desk lamp, his reflection in the mirror looked unfamiliar—someone both older and smaller than he remembered.
He stared at the blood on his hands, watching it drip between his fingers.
It should have hurt more than it did. The silence hurt worse.
He whispered, "It's fine," to no one in particular.
But his voice broke on the last word.
He turned on his laptop again, opening the art program. The stylus slipped twice before he steadied it. Slowly, carefully, he drew—lines forming a sunrise, tiny figures holding hands beneath the glow.
At the bottom, he wrote: Keep walking.
The glow from the screen painted his face gold.
Outside, dawn crept in quietly through the curtains, pale light touching the bruises he hadn't yet covered.
He closed his eyes, exhaling. Tomorrow, he'd smile again. Pretend again.
Because that was what he was good at.
And somewhere inside, he hated how easy it had become.