The quiet of Kaito's apartment had always been his sanctuary, a refuge where the weight of existing in the outside world could be set down, if only for a little while. But tonight, that quiet was suffocating. The dim glow of his desk lamp cast long, stretching shadows along the walls, and the hum of his laptop filled the silence like a static presence, constant but meaningless. He had opened a blank document hours ago, its cursor blinking expectantly, as if waiting for him to type out something profound, something important.
But his mind was empty.
He wasn't sure when it had started to feel this way—the slow unraveling of what little balance he had built. Maybe it was when he agreed to that study group with Yuuki and her friends, a moment of weakness where he had let himself believe, just for a second, that he could belong. Or maybe it had started long before that, when the first cracks in his carefully constructed solitude began to show.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard, but the words wouldn't come.
Instead, he thought about the way his body had tensed in the café, the way his heart had pounded against his ribs when he became the center of attention. The fear had been instant, automatic, a reflex that he couldn't control, like breathing or blinking.
It was stupid. He knew that. No one had been judging him. No one had been looking at him the way he thought they had.
And yet, even now, long after the moment had passed, the anxiety lingered like the aftertaste of something bitter.
His phone buzzed against the desk, the sudden vibration jolting him from his thoughts. For a brief, fleeting second, he considered ignoring it. But then he saw Yuuki's name flash across the screen.
Yuuki:Did you get home okay?
A simple message. Casual. Effortless.
He hesitated before typing out a response.
Kaito:Yeah.
The reply felt insufficient, but anything more seemed impossible. He stared at the screen, watching the three little dots appear—proof that she was typing something else.
A second later, another message appeared.
Yuuki:You seemed really out of it earlier. Wanna talk?
He exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around the phone. He could feel the weight of the question pressing against him, the unspoken invitation to let someone in, to share a piece of himself. But how was he supposed to explain something he barely understood himself? How was he supposed to put into words the constant push and pull of wanting to be seen and yet dreading the moment anyone truly looked?
Kaito:I'm fine.
Another lie.
He sent it anyway.
The next morning, he made the mistake of thinking that the previous night's exhaustion would fade with sleep. But sleep, as it turned out, was an unreliable cure for something that wasn't just tiredness but a bone-deep, marrow-heavy kind of fatigue.
Still, he showed up to class, taking his usual seat at the far end of the room where no one could sit on both sides of him. He kept his head down, scribbling mindless notes into his textbook, hoping that if he looked busy enough, no one would notice how absent he felt.
But Yuuki noticed.
She always did.
Sliding into the seat beside him, she nudged his arm lightly, her presence disrupting the delicate equilibrium he had tried to maintain.
"You're avoiding me," she said, not bothering to couch it as a question.
"I'm not."
Yuuki raised an eyebrow. "Liar."
He sighed, glancing up at her for the first time that morning. Her expression wasn't accusing, wasn't frustrated—just concerned. And somehow, that made it worse.
"I'm just tired," he said, the words tasting stale even as he spoke them.
Yuuki studied him for a moment before sighing. "You always say that."
Because it was always true. Because he didn't know how to say anything else.
"I don't mean to push," she continued, softer now, "but I just… I don't want you to think you have to deal with everything alone."
Kaito swallowed. He knew that. He knew she meant well. But knowing something and believing it were two very different things.
"Thanks," he murmured, even though he wasn't sure if he meant it.
Yuuki didn't press any further. Instead, she just offered him a small, knowing smile and turned her attention back to the lecture.
And Kaito sat there, staring at his half-filled notebook, wondering why the simple act of being cared for felt heavier than being alone.
The days blurred together after that, a series of routine obligations and carefully measured silences. He convinced himself that as long as he kept moving—kept attending classes, kept pretending to be fine—then eventually, he would be fine.
But pretending had its limits.
And eventually, he hit his breaking point.
It happened on a Wednesday, in the middle of an ordinary conversation, when one of his classmates—some guy whose name he barely remembered—laughed and said something offhandedly about how quiet he always was. It wasn't malicious. It wasn't even meant as an insult. But something about it lodged itself deep inside him, a splinter beneath his skin, small but unbearable.
Later that night, when he was alone again, the words echoed in his head, over and over, louder and louder, until he wasn't sure if they were real or if he had just imagined their weight.
Quiet. Always so quiet.
It shouldn't have bothered him. He had spent years perfecting the art of invisibility. But for some reason, hearing someone else acknowledge it—seeing himself through someone else's eyes—felt like being stripped bare.
And for the first time in a long time, he felt the sharp, suffocating loneliness of it all.
Because the truth was, he didn't want to be invisible. Not really.
But being seen—that was even worse.
He wasn't sure what made him do it.
Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the quiet desperation of wanting something to change, even if he didn't know how to make it happen.
But that night, instead of ignoring his phone, he picked it up.
And he sent a message.
Kaito:Hey. Can we talk?
It was only three words. Simple. Effortless.
And yet, as he stared at the screen, waiting for Yuuki's reply, he felt
the shift of something small but significant.
Maybe this was how it started.
Maybe this was how people changed.