The east corridor of the college was full of students coming and going, laughing loudly, swapping books, kicking empty bottles, blasting music from their phones.
But in the middle of that chaos, someone walked as if she didn't belong to the scene.
Hana Fujimoto. 21 years old.
Black hair, simply tied back. Glasses sliding down her nose. A blouse too loose for her delicate frame. A plain skirt. Old sneakers.
She walked close to the wall, hugging her books as if they were a shield. Around her, the world had no saturation. The sky, seen through the window, wasn't blue; it was a light lead-gray. The trees weren't green; they were smudges of dark graphite.
Since that day, three years ago, Hana's brain had flipped the switch on colors. It was a defense mechanism: if the world has no color, it can't attract you. If it doesn't attract you, you don't get close. If you don't get close, you don't get hurt.
— Bora pro karaokê!(Brazilian slang meaning "Let's go to karaoke!") Today we're gonna sing the opening of Tokyo Ghoul!
The male voice exploded behind her, full of energy. Full of life. Hana instinctively shrank. She heard laughter. Not cruel laughter, but open laughter, fearless.
— The scene from episode three gives you chills! said another voice. I told you! The soundtrack is insane!
Hana stopped for a second, invisible in the flow of students. They were talking about anime. Loudly. In the middle of the corridor. Without shame. Without fear of being judged. Without fear of being ridiculed.
How, she thought, feeling a physical stab in her chest. How do they have that courage?
She dared to glance sideways. She saw a group of boys passing by. One of them, wearing a suit, smiled as he gestured. He seemed to vibrate on a frequency Hana could no longer tune into.
The word "anime" floated in the air, left behind by them like a forbidden perfume. A locked door deep inside Hana's mind trembled.
I used to be like that.
I used to love something like that.
The sound of their laughter faded away, but the echo remained. And the echo brought back the memory that turned her world black and white.
— Hana-chan!
Mina's voice was sweet. Too sweet. Like cough syrup.
Hana turned around, surprised. Mina and Kaori, the most popular girls in class, were calling her.
— You were reading that manga about the girl with the sword, right? Kaori asked, smiling.
Hana felt her heart race. No one ever asked about her hobbies.
— Y-yes! It's Claymore. Do you know it?
— Of course! Mina lied perfectly. We think it's super cool. Actually, we have a friend who loves it. Kaito.
Kaito. The boy from the soccer team. The boy who looked like he had stepped out of a poster.
In the days that followed, Kaito got closer. He didn't mock her. He asked about the episodes. He listened as Hana explained the complex lore of the fantasy world for hours.
— You explain things with so much passion, Hana, he said, looking into her eyes. You're different from the other girls.
Hana believed him.
Because loneliness is a persuasive lie.
She wanted so badly to be seen, to be understood, that she ignored the signs. Ignored Mina and Kaori's giggles at the back of the classroom. Ignored the fact that Kaito never talked about the anime in public, only when they were alone.
— I bought the Blu-ray, he said two weeks later. Want to watch it at my place? Just the two of us.
Hana went.
Her heart beat to the rhythm of pure hope.
Finally, she thought.
Someone who likes what I like.
Someone who likes me.
The living room was dim. The anime kept playing on the TV, colors too vibrant for a space that had already become wrong.
Kaito wasn't looking at the screen. Hana was.
When his hand slid over her thigh, Hana's body reacted in shock. Muscles tensed. Her breathing froze.
— Kaito?
— Stop that. He answered too quickly, and his hand didn't move away.
Hana pulled her leg back.
— I don't want this.
He sighed, irritated, and moved closer on the couch, shrinking the space between them until it almost didn't exist.
— Come on. His voice lost any trace of gentleness. You came all the way here for what?
She tried to stand up.
Kaito grabbed her arm.
Hard.
Not enough to leave marks, but enough to make it clear he wasn't asking.
— Let me go.
— Stop the drama. His fingers tightened. Don't start acting all pure now.
Hana's heart began to race. She pulled her arm, but he dragged her back, his body blocking the exit.
— Do you really think I'd waste my time pretending to like your stuff if it wasn't for this?
She pushed his chest, the touch feeling invasive, wrong. As if her skin had stopped being only hers.
— Stop! Her voice came out thin, broken.
He laughed softly, far too close.
— Mina was right, he said, with contempt. You'll accept anything when someone pretends to care.
His hand moved down again, insistent, as if her body were something he had already decided he could take.
That was when fear turned into panic.
Hana struggled, using all the strength she had, her heart pounding in her ears. She managed to break free in a sudden movement, almost falling backward.
She grabbed her bag from the couch, her fingers shaking so badly she could barely hold the strap.
Kaito turned off the TV with a sharp click.
The screen went black.
— Running away now? he said, laughing. I knew you wouldn't handle the real world.
Hana passed by him without answering, her skin burning where she had been touched, as if her whole body had been marked.
When she opened the door, she already heard the sound that made her stomach twist.
The ringtone of a phone call.
— Mano, cê não vai acreditar.(Brazilian slang meaning "Dude, you won't believe this") Kaito's voice came right behind her, far too excited. She actually came.
Hana stopped for a second, her hand still on the doorknob.
— It was way too easy, he laughed. I told you it was just a matter of pretending to like her stuff. She fell for it completely.
Another laugh on the other end of the line.
— No, no, he went on. She believed everything. I bet you'd laugh if you saw her face.
Hana left.
She didn't slam the door. She didn't run yet. She just left, as if her body were running on autopilot.
Outside, she started walking fast. Then she ran.
As she ran through the quiet streets of the neighborhood, Hana rubbed her hand against her thigh, as if she could erase the touch. As if she could rip that sensation out of her skin.
She felt dirty.
Not because of something she had done, but because of something that had been done to her.
Tears fell, but the crying wasn't just sadness. It was disgust. It was shame that wasn't hers, but weighed on her anyway.
That was when she noticed.
The red of the traffic light looked too weak.
Faded.
Almost gray.
The green of the trees lost its life, hardening into dead tones.
The streetlights turned too white, too cold, hurting her eyes.
The world was losing color.
When Hana got home, she went straight to the bathroom and locked the door. She didn't turn on the light right away. She stayed there, leaning against the sink, breathing with difficulty.
Then she turned on the shower.
The water fell hard, too hot, hitting her shoulders, running down her skin. Hana curled under the spray and began to scrub her body harshly.
Her arms.
Her legs.
The thigh where he had touched her.
She scrubbed as if she could erase the feeling. As if the water could wash away what had stayed on her.
Her skin started to burn, but she didn't stop.
She scrubbed and cried, mixing water and tears, trying to rip out of herself any trace of that moment. Trying to go back to being just herself.
When she left the shower, wrapped in a towel, her body trembling, she went to her bedroom.
She looked at the posters on the wall.
They were still there.
The same stories.
The same characters that had always been a refuge.
But now
The colors were dull.
Without shine.
Without life.
As if everything had been stained along with her.
As if the world had decided that after that, nothing could ever be seen the same way again.