There were more than 1,200 students at Northridge High, but Riven might as well have been a ghost. He passed through the halls like smoke—there, but not really seen. Not truly.
No one remembered when he'd transferred in. Some didn't even know his name. If they did, it was only because someone else had laughed while saying it wrong.
"Rivan? River? Wait, what is his name again?"
"Doesn't matter. Just call him Sleepwalker."
He'd heard the nicknames. None of them bothered him. Not anymore.
Each morning started the same.
His alarm buzzed at 5:30 AM. He sat up slowly in his tiny one-room apartment, blinking into the quiet. His room was barely bigger than a storage closet. A mattress on the floor. A small desk stacked with worksheets and receipts. A cracked phone. A fan that wheezed when it spun.
He made cheap instant noodles. Got dressed. Took the train. Arrived at school before anyone else because it was quieter that way.
By 8:00 AM, the gates were flooded. Loud music. Laughter. Clicks of polished shoes. Perfume, cologne, the shimmer of clean uniforms and expensive phones. Riven's uniform looked a little worn. His shoes had a scuff he hadn't gotten around to fixing. Not that anyone noticed.
"Hey. You dropped something," a voice called once, and when he turned, someone tossed a crumpled paper cup at his face. Laughter echoed. "Oops. My bad."
He didn't react.
They wanted a reaction.
They never got one.
Class was just another place to disappear. He took notes quietly. Sat in the back row. Teachers barely remembered he was there, except for Mr. Han, the literature teacher, who sometimes gave him a faint nod like he saw something others didn't.
During break, Riven walked past people who didn't bother to look up. Couples arguing. Clubs promoting their events. A student council boy waving flyers in front of everyone—except him.
Behind the science block, he sat on the sun-baked pavement, chewing through a half-stale bread roll and drinking warm juice from a can. He never bought cafeteria food. Too expensive.
That's when he heard it.
"Seriously, that guy creeps me out," someone whispered nearby.
"He never talks. Just stares at the floor. Bet he's hiding something."
"Like what? A secret girlfriend? Ha! As if."
They giggled. Walked away. Riven sat still, letting the wind carry their words far from him. That was easier than letting them stick.
At 3:00 PM, the school day ended. By 3:45 PM, he was in a convenience store across town, tying on his apron. The manager, Mr. Han,was kind enough not to ask too many questions. Just told him to work hard and not be late. Riven did both.
From 4 to 8 PM, he restocked snacks, mopped up spills, and quietly watched people live lives he didn't feel part of. Students came in laughing. Parents came in tired. Lovers came in holding hands.
Riven just worked.
He got home at 9:15. Made rice. Ate in silence. Showered. Collapsed onto his mattress.
Sometimes, whwxxwm wllile staring at the ceiling, memories would push at him. A voice. A sound. A feeling.
He'd push back.
Whatever he used to be—whatever he used to do—it didn't matter anymore.
At Northridge High, he was no one. And that was safer.
But even the invisible leave shadows. And someday, someone was going to notice his.