Kaito Igarashi had spent most of his life in silence—not the kind that blanketed a library in reverence, nor the peaceful hush of an empty room, but the oppressive, isolating quiet of a person afraid to be noticed. His world had been carefully constructed from shadows, where he could observe without participating, exist without intruding.
But lately, something had shifted.
It wasn't a transformation so much as a slow unraveling. A thread pulled loose from the fabric of his self-imposed solitude. The library encounter, the stolen glances, the hesitant exchanges—they were minor moments, insignificant to anyone else. Yet, to Kaito, they felt monumental, as if he were standing on the edge of something vast and unknown.
And today, the world was about to test just how far he had come.
Kaito had never particularly enjoyed group projects, but he had perfected the art of surviving them. His strategy was simple: volunteer for the background tasks—research, note-taking, organizing slides—anything that kept him from speaking. It had worked flawlessly for years.
Until now.
Professor Aoyama paced at the front of the classroom, his usual air of strict intellectualism softened by a hint of mischief. "For today's assignment, I'm mixing things up," he announced, clasping his hands behind his back. "Instead of choosing your roles, I'll be assigning them."
A ripple of murmurs spread across the lecture hall. Kaito's pulse quickened.
The professor scanned the room, his gaze landing, uncomfortably, on Kaito. "Igarashi," he said, and Kaito immediately knew he wasn't going to like what came next.
"You'll be presenting for your group."
A sharp prickle of panic crawled up Kaito's spine. The weight of a hundred unseen eyes pressed against him. A presentation? In front of the whole class?
He could already feel his throat closing up, his limbs turning to stone.
"I—I think I'd be better suited for—"
Professor Aoyama cut him off with a knowing look. "Consider it a challenge. Growth happens outside our comfort zones."
Kaito wanted to protest, to argue that "growth" was overrated, but he knew it would be useless. The professor had already moved on, pairing up other students, as if he hadn't just shattered Kaito's carefully maintained defenses.
Beside him, his teammate—a tall, confident student named Daichi—grinned and patted him on the back. "Well, looks like you're in the spotlight, Igarashi. Don't worry, just imagine everyone in their underwear."
Kaito shot him a deadpan look. "That sounds like the worst possible advice."
Daichi laughed. "True. But hey, maybe it won't be as bad as you think."
Kaito highly doubted that.
The days leading up to the presentation were a blur of anxiety-fueled rehearsals. Kaito spent hours memorizing his lines, yet every time he imagined standing in front of the class, his mind blanked.
It wasn't just the act of speaking—it was the visibility. The unavoidable truth that people would be looking at him. That his voice would fill the space, that his existence would be acknowledged in a way he couldn't control.
The night before the presentation, he sat in his dorm room, gripping his notebook so tightly his knuckles turned white.
A message popped up on his phone.
[HARU]: You got this, man. Just breathe.]
Kaito exhaled shakily. Breathe. As if it were that easy.
But then, another message came.
[HARU]: Besides, if you pass out, at least you'll be remembered for something cool.]
Kaito snorted despite himself. Leave it to Haru to find humor in his impending doom.
Still, the tiniest sliver of warmth crept into his chest. Maybe he wasn't as alone in this as he thought.
The next day arrived too quickly.
Kaito stood at the front of the classroom, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. The projector buzzed softly beside him, casting a faint glow over his notes.
The room stretched out before him, filled with students who—mercifully—weren't paying much attention. Yet, as he cleared his throat, heads began to lift, eyes shifting toward him.
For a brief, horrifying second, his body refused to move. His tongue felt too heavy, his thoughts tangled.
Then, in the crowd, he spotted a familiar face.
The girl from the library. The one whose gaze had once held him captive.
She wasn't staring in judgment. She wasn't waiting for him to fail.
She was simply watching, quiet and patient.
For some reason, that steadiness grounded him.
Kaito inhaled, gripping the edge of the podium. And then
He spoke.
The first few words were unsteady, barely more than a whisper. But as he kept going, something strange happened.
The room didn't implode.
The walls didn't collapse.
No one laughed. No one looked away in disgust.
Instead, people listened.
His voice, though strained with nerves, carried across the room, shaping words into meaning. And with every sentence, the weight pressing against his chest lessened, just a little.
He stumbled once—tripped over a phrase—but Daichi threw him a thumbs-up from the side, and the encouragement propelled him forward.
By the time he reached the conclusion, his hands were still trembling, but his voice was firm.
As he finished, silence hung in the air for a moment.
Then—applause.
Not thunderous, not exaggerated. But real. Genuine.
He met the girl's eyes again, and this time, for the first time—he didn't look away.
The rest of the day passed in a haze. Compliments, nods of approval, even a rare grin from Professor Aoyama.
But it wasn't until that evening, when Kaito sat alone under the campus sky, that the weight of the moment truly settled in.
He had spoken. He had been seen. And he had survived.
More than that—he had felt something.
Something like… freedom.
Not complete. Not total. But enough.
Enough to make him wonder what else was possible.
A quiet smile ghosted over his lips as he stared at the stars.
For the first time in a long time, Kaito Igarashi wasn't just an observer in his own life.
He was living it.
One step at a time.