The classroom felt colder that morning, though the heater hummed weakly in the corner. Yui sat at her desk, sketchbook unopened, trying to pretend the night before had been only a dream.
"Good morning," came a soft voice.
She looked up to see a boy standing beside her desk. His uniform was neat, his hair neatly combed, but something about his presence made her throat tighten.
"I'm Haruto," he said politely, smiling. "You're the transfer student, right? Yui Nakamura?"
"Yes," she whispered, relieved at the normalcy in his tone. "Nice to meet you."
His smile widened. Too wide. For a moment she thought it was her imagination, but then the corners of his lips kept stretching, pulling upward until his cheeks strained. His eyes stayed fixed on hers, unblinking.
"You'll like it here," Haruto said. His voice didn't change, still polite, but his mouth was now a grotesque arc that almost reached his ears.
Yui's hands tightened on her desk. "Your… your face—"
He leaned closer. The skin around his mouth quivered, tugging as if invisible hands were pulling it wider. She heard the faintest sound of tearing.
From the back of the classroom, a girl giggled. Yui turned sharply. A group of students were watching, their heads tilted. One whispered something, and another answered, their voices low and buzzing.
Haruto's mouth snapped back to normal as suddenly as it had stretched. He straightened, fixing his collar as if nothing had happened. "Everyone here is very friendly. You'll see."
Then he walked away, leaving Yui trembling.
At lunch, she found the courage to approach him again. He sat alone by the window, eating quietly.
"What happened earlier?" she asked in a low voice. "Your mouth—it wasn't normal."
He chewed slowly, swallowed, then looked at her. "They're teaching me to smile better," he said softly. "The townspeople. I wasn't very good at it before. But now…"
His lips pulled upward again, though not as far as before. Just enough to make his face uncanny, stretched wrong. "Now I'm learning."
Yui stepped back. "Who's teaching you?"
Haruto tilted his head, as though confused by her question. "The ones under the skin."
Before she could respond, a teacher entered, calling the class to order. But the words stayed with her, echoing.
That evening, she tried to avoid looking at her sketchbook. She failed. It was already open on her desk, though she swore she had left it shut. The page showed Haruto's face. His smile stretched past the limits of flesh, tearing into the cheeks, exposing lines of raw skin. Beneath the torn edges, faint outlines of hands could be seen, pressing outward, as though something inside his skin was trying to pull itself free.
She slammed it shut again and shoved it into a drawer.
Later that night, her phone buzzed. A message. Unknown number.
It read:
"Do not watch him smile again."
The text vanished before she could show anyone.
Yui curled up under her blanket, but even as she closed her eyes, she saw it—the smile that wouldn't stop, the flesh that wanted to open, the whispering voices beneath it all.
And somewhere in the silence of her room, she thought she heard laughter. Not loud, but many voices at once, muffled as if hidden just beneath her own skin.