The bell rings.
Second period begins.
And like always, I sit in the farthest seat by the window — the one no one else ever touches.
Not because I like the view.
But because no one else will sit near me.
"Alright, everyone, open your textbooks to page 113," the teacher says, her voice stiff, practiced.
She avoids looking in my direction.
She always does.
I open the book slowly, the creak of its spine louder than anyone's voice in my ears.
The numbers blur. The letters too.
Not because I'm tired.
But because they don't matter anymore.
"Hey," someone mutters behind me.
I hear the sharp sound of paper crumpling.
Then something hits the back of my head.
It falls to the floor — a balled-up worksheet.
Laughter follows. Quiet. Sharp. Cruel.
"Oops. My bad," says the guy behind me — Hashimoto. One of the many who pretend I'm not human.
I don't turn around.
He leans forward and whispers near my ear.
"Hey, Endo. You're cursed, right? Bet if I touched you, I would be curse on the spot right?."
They all laugh quietly, avoiding the teachers attention.
I keep staring at the textbook.
Page 113. Section 4: Literature and Loss.
Fitting.
The teacher keeps talking.
"In the story To a Dying Autumn, the writer compares fading leaves to passing souls. What do you think he meant by that?"
No one raises their hand.
Except her.
Suzuki Yume.
She always raises her hand.
"Maybe…" she begins gently, "...he was saying that everything that's beautiful eventually has to fall. But that doesn't mean it was meaningless."
The teacher nods. "That's right."
My eyes shift.
Suzuki doesn't look at me.
No one does.
But for a moment — just a second — her voice made something inside me ache.
That was dangerous.
During break, I walk the hallway.
Alone.
I always walk slow. Not because I enjoy it.
But because the longer I walk, the longer I don't have to be there.
In the classroom.
In the world.
I stop by the vending machine.
I insert a coin.
It gets stuck. Like always.
Figures.
Behind me, footsteps.
"Oh, look who's haunting the hallways again."
Three boys. I know the rhythm of their mockery by now.
Hashimoto. Kanzaki. The third one doesn't speak much. Just laughs.
"Hey, ghost boy. I didn't know you eat real foods?, Kanzaki smirks.
I ignore him.
Hashimoto knocks the coin return. "Maybe the machine's cursed too now. What a surprise."
Then a shove.
Not hard. But enough to make me stumble slightly.
They laugh.
I adjust my bandage.
It covers yesterday's bruise.
Not that anyone asked where it came from.
They never ask.
Lunch break.
Back in the classroom.
I open my bag slowly.
My lunch is there — plain rice and pickles.
The rice is scattered. The box tampered with.
I don't react.
Just pick up the grains, one by one, and eat in silence.
They want me to scream.
Cry. Snap.
But I don't.
Because if I feel anything — even pity for them — they might die.
And despite it all…
I don't want that.
Not again.
"Hey."
Suzuki stands at the front of my desk.
She holds a can of juice.
Orange.
"Do you… want this?" she asks, with a serious look.
My heart pauses.
I say nothing.
Her hand lingers.
Then she places the can on my desk and walks away.
I stare at it.
I didn't touch it.
Because I remember the last time I did.
The bell rings again.
School ends.
I sit there until the room empties.
Until I am the only thing left among empty chairs and forgotten eraser shavings.
I stand.
Step by step.
Down the same stairs.
Past the same lockers.
The air tastes like silence and metal.
And when I step out into the sunset…
It doesn't feel warm.
It never does.