The morning light filtered through the grimy attic window, casting long shadows across the cramped space that Aiko called home. Dust motes danced in the pale sunbeams, the only movement in the suffocating stillness that had become her world. She pulled the thin blanket closer around her shoulders, feeling the familiar ache in her bones from sleeping on the hard wooden floor.
Downstairs, the sounds of a real family beginning their day drifted up through the floorboards—the clatter of dishes, the cheerful chatter of her cousins getting ready for school, the warm voice of her aunt calling out breakfast instructions. It was a symphony of belonging that Aiko could only listen to, never join.
She pressed her ear against the floor, straining to catch fragments of conversation. Her male cousin, Daisuke, was complaining about a math test. Her female cousin, Yumi, was asking for money for a school trip. Normal problems. Normal requests. Normal love.
The sharp rap of knuckles against the attic door made her flinch.
"Aiko! Get down here. Now." Her aunt's voice cut through the morning air like a blade, all warmth evaporating from its tone.
Aiko's stomach clenched—not from hunger, though she was always hungry—but from the familiar dread that accompanied any summons from below. She scrambled to her feet, her legs stiff from the cold, and quickly folded her blanket. The attic was so small she could barely stand upright without hitting her head on the slanted ceiling.
As she descended the narrow wooden ladder that served as her only connection to the world below, the sounds and smells of family life grew stronger. The rich aroma of miso soup and grilled fish made her mouth water, even as her heart sank. She knew that feast wasn't meant for her.
The kitchen was warm and bright, everything the attic wasn't. Daisuke and Yumi sat at the table in their crisp school uniforms, backpacks ready by their chairs, lunch boxes packed with care. They looked up when she entered—Daisuke with mild curiosity, Yumi with the casual indifference reserved for unwanted houseguests.
Her aunt, Mariko, stood by the stove with her back turned, her posture rigid with perpetual disapproval. She was a handsome woman in her forties, her hair always perfectly styled, her clothes always pressed. Everything about her spoke of order and control—everything except her treatment of Aiko.
"You're going to be late for school," Mariko said without turning around. "Again."
Aiko glanced at the clock on the wall. She had plenty of time, but she'd learned not to argue. "Yes, Aunt Mariko."
"Don't call me that." The words were sharp, final. "You know the rules."
Aiko's cheeks burned. She was to call her aunt 'Mrs. Tanaka' like a stranger, never family. Never acknowledge the blood connection that linked her to these people who shared her mother's face but none of her warmth.
"Yes, Mrs. Tanaka."
Mariko finally turned, her eyes scanning Aiko with the same expression she might use when examining spoiled food. Aiko instinctively raised her hand to her hair, knowing what she would see there. The matted, unwashed strands hung limp around her shoulders, and she could feel the telltale itch that meant her scalp was once again infested with lice.
"Disgusting," Mariko muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear. "How can you go to school looking like that? Do you want to embarrass this family more than you already have?"
Daisuke snickered into his breakfast. Yumi wrinkled her nose and moved her chair slightly away, as if Aiko's presence might contaminate her perfect morning routine.
"I'm sorry," Aiko whispered, the words automatic after years of practice.
"Sorry doesn't fix anything," Mariko snapped. "Sorry doesn't bring back what your mother took from this family. Sorry doesn't—" She stopped herself, her jaw clenching as if she'd said more than she intended.
Aiko's heart leaped at the mention of her mother. Any crumb of information about the woman she barely remembered was precious, even when it came wrapped in anger and resentment. "What did my mother—"
"Don't." The word cracked like a whip. "Don't you dare ask about her. You have no right."
The silence that followed was heavy, oppressive. Daisuke and Yumi exchanged glances, suddenly uncomfortable with the familiar tension that always surrounded discussions of Aiko's mother. They might not like Aiko, but even they seemed to sense that their mother's hatred ran deeper than mere inconvenience.
Mariko turned back to the stove, her movements sharp and angry. "There's rice from last night in the pot. Take some and get out of my sight. And Aiko—" She paused, not bothering to look back. "Come straight home after school. No detours. No wandering. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Mrs. Tanaka."
Aiko moved quickly to the rice cooker, taking a small portion into a chipped bowl. The rice was cold and hard, having sat out all night, but it was food. She'd learned to be grateful for whatever she could get.
As she turned to leave, Yumi spoke up for the first time. "Ew, Mom, she's going to make everyone at school think we don't take care of ourselves. Can't you at least make her wash her hair?"
"With what?" Mariko's voice dripped with false sweetness. "Should I buy special shampoo for the girl who contributes nothing to this household? Should I waste our money on someone who's already proven she's worthless?"
Aiko's fingers tightened around the bowl, the ceramic edges cutting into her palms. Each word was a small violence, precisely aimed to hurt. But beneath the hurt, a small flame of anger flickered. Her mother hadn't been worthless. Her mother had been famous, successful, loved by people all over the city for her incredible talent with hair. She knew this much, even if no one would tell her more.
"I'll... I'll figure something out," Aiko said quietly.
Mariko's laugh was cold. "Yes, you do that. Figure it out. Just like your mother figured everything out before she—" Again, she stopped herself, biting off the words like bitter medicine.
Aiko wanted to scream, to demand answers, to know what terrible thing her mother had supposedly done that made her own family treat her daughter like a disease. But she'd learned that pushing only made things worse. Instead, she bowed her head and headed for the door.
"Remember," Mariko called after her, "straight home after school. I'll know if you go anywhere else. And if you embarrass this family today, there will be consequences."
The threat hung in the air like smoke as Aiko gathered her worn school bag and stepped out into the morning. The fresh air was a relief after the suffocating atmosphere of the house, but it couldn't wash away the weight of her aunt's words.
As she walked toward school, Aiko caught her reflection in a shop window and winced. Her uniform was clean but faded from too many washings, hanging loose on her thin frame. Her shoes were scuffed and worn, held together more by hope than by leather. But it was her hair that made her want to disappear entirely.
The lice had returned with a vengeance, making her scalp itch constantly. She could see the tiny insects moving in the matted strands, and she knew that anyone who looked closely would see them too. At school, it would mean more whispers, more pointing, more of the casual cruelty that children wielded like weapons.
She pulled her hood up, trying to hide the worst of it, but she knew it was futile. In a few hours, she'd be sitting in class, trying to focus on lessons while scratching desperately at her scalp, watching her classmates edge away from her like she was something contagious.
Maybe she was.
The walk to school took her through the older part of town, where narrow streets wound between traditional wooden houses and small family businesses. This early in the morning, the shopkeepers were just beginning to open their doors, sweeping their stoops and arranging their displays. Some nodded politely as she passed, others pretended not to see her at all.
She paused outside Mrs. Yamamoto's small grocery store, watching the elderly woman carefully arrange pyramids of perfect apples in her window. Mrs. Yamamoto had known her mother, had sometimes spoken kindly to Aiko when she was very young. But that was before Mariko had made it clear that such kindness was unwelcome, that Aiko was not to be treated as anything more than a burden to be endured.
"Good morning, dear," Mrs. Yamamoto called out, her voice gentle. "You're up early today."
Aiko managed a small smile. "Good morning, Mrs. Yamamoto."
The old woman's eyes softened as she took in Aiko's appearance, lingering on the poorly concealed hair. For a moment, Aiko thought she might say something, might offer help or at least sympathy. Instead, Mrs. Yamamoto's expression grew sad, and she simply nodded.
"Have a good day at school," she said quietly, turning back to her apples.
Even kindness felt like pity now, and pity was almost harder to bear than outright cruelty. At least cruelty was honest about what it thought of her.
The school building loomed ahead, a modern concrete structure that always made Aiko feel small and insignificant. Students were already gathering in the courtyard, clustering in their familiar groups, sharing snacks and gossip and the easy camaraderie of belonging.
Aiko pulled her hood lower and hurried toward the entrance, hoping to slip inside unnoticed. But hope was a luxury she'd learned not to indulge.
"Oh gross, look who's here," a voice called out behind her. "It's the bug girl."
Aiko's steps faltered, but she didn't turn around. She knew that voice—Takeshi, a boy in her class who seemed to take particular pleasure in making her life miserable.
"Hey, bug girl, I'm talking to you!"
This time she did turn, slowly, dreading what she would see. Takeshi stood with three of his friends, all of them grinning with the anticipation of entertainment. He held something in his hand—small, dark, moving.
"Look what I found," he said, holding up a love bug, its wings iridescent in the morning light. "I thought you might be lonely without your little friends."
The other students in the courtyard had started to notice, forming a loose circle around the confrontation. Some looked uncomfortable, but none stepped forward to help. They never did.
"Please," Aiko whispered, taking a step back. "Just leave me alone."
"Leave you alone?" Takeshi's voice rose in mock outrage. "But you love bugs, don't you? That's why you keep so many of them in your hair!"
Before she could react, he lunged forward and pressed the love bug into her tangled hair, grinding it in with the palm of his hand. The insect's wings crumpled as other students laughed and pointed, some pulling out their phones to record her humiliation.
"There," Takeshi said, wiping his hand on his uniform with exaggerated disgust. "Now you match."
Aiko's hands flew to her hair, feeling for the crushed insect among the existing lice and tangles. Her eyes burned with unshed tears, but she refused to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of them.
"Ew, don't touch it," one of the girls called out. "You'll get infected too!"
"Maybe we should call the health department," another voice suggested, prompting more laughter.
The circle of students pressed closer, their phones capturing every moment of her shame. This would be online within minutes, shared and reshared until everyone in school had seen proof of her degradation.
"That's enough." The voice was stern, authoritative. Mr. Sato, her homeroom teacher, pushed through the crowd with a thunderous expression. "All of you, get to class. Now."
The crowd dispersed reluctantly, disappointed that their entertainment had been cut short. Takeshi shot Aiko one last grin before sauntering away, his friends trailing behind him like disciples.
Mr. Sato knelt down beside Aiko, his voice gentle. "Are you hurt?"
She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. Her fingers were still tangled in her hair, trying to extract the dead love bug while avoiding the live lice that scattered at her touch.
"Let me help," he said, reaching toward her hair.
"No!" The word burst out of her, sharper than she'd intended. "I mean... please don't. I can handle it."
Mr. Sato's hand dropped, his expression pained. He was a good man, she knew, one of the few adults who treated her with consistent kindness. But even he couldn't fix what was fundamentally broken about her situation.
"Aiko," he said quietly, "you know I have to report this incident. And I really think we should call your guardian about getting you some help with—"
"Please don't," she interrupted, panic rising in her chest. "Please, Mr. Sato. It'll only make things worse."
He studied her face for a long moment, seeing more than she wanted to reveal. Finally, he nodded. "Go clean up in the bathroom," he said. "Take your time. I'll mark you present for first period."
Aiko nodded gratefully and hurried inside, her face burning with shame. The bathroom was mercifully empty, and she locked herself in the farthest stall, finally allowing the tears to fall.
Her hands shook as she tried to untangle the dead love bug from her hair, its broken body a grotesque reminder of how others saw her. She was the bug girl, the dirty girl, the girl who carried pestilence and shame wherever she went.
But as she worked, pulling lice and debris from her matted hair, a memory surfaced—faint and precious, like light filtering through deep water. Her mother's hands, gentle and sure, working through Aiko's hair with infinite patience. Her mother's voice, soft and musical, singing lullabies that spoke of love and beauty and dreams that soared beyond the mundane world.
Her mother had been a hairstylist, she knew that much. A famous one, whose work had graced magazine covers and red carpets. People had traveled from other cities just to have her mother touch their hair, to transform them into something beautiful and confident.
What would her mother think if she could see Aiko now?
The question was too painful to contemplate, but it planted a seed of something that might have been determination. Her mother had made people beautiful, had given them confidence and joy through the simple act of caring for their hair. Maybe there was something of that gift in Aiko too, buried beneath years of neglect and abuse.
Maybe she didn't have to stay the bug girl forever.
The thought was so fragile, so dangerous, that she almost discarded it immediately. Hope had always led to disappointment in her experience. But as she finally extracted the last of the dead love bug from her hair, something inside her refused to let the idea go.
She would find a way to learn about hair, about beauty, about the art that had made her mother famous. She would discover what her aunt so desperately wanted to keep hidden about her mother's life and death. And maybe, someday, she would transform herself from the girl everyone pitied into someone worthy of the legacy she'd inherited.
It was a dream so distant it seemed impossible, but it was hers. And for the first time in years, that felt like enough to keep going.
The school bell rang, signaling the start of first period, and Aiko dried her tears. She had classes to attend, homework to complete, another day of survival to endure. But beneath it all, a small flame had been kindled—one that all the cruelty in the world couldn't quite extinguish.
She was more than the bug girl. She had to be.
And someday, she would prove it.