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It’s always been this way for him, but he doesn’t care anymore.
It’s not like he’s alone.
But he feels so lonely anyways.
“It’s because you’re ugly”
“Nobody wants to be associated with you”
“They know your secrets”
“Nobody cares for you”
“Why are you even trying?”
“You’re not pretty enough”
“You’re trying too hard.”
The thoughts keep flooding in. New ones everyday. Just more to add to the list of potential reasons why nobody wants to talk to him.
“Too skinny.”
“Not skinny enough.”
“Boring.”
“Lazy.”
He knows what he’s doing wrong. He’s just too lazy- too ashamed- to fix it.
If he were alone maybe it’d be okay, maybe he’d take it, but he’s not technically alone.
He doesn’t sit alone at lunch; but nobody talks to him.
One-sided conversations
Nobody waits on you when class ends
Nobody lets you talk
Nobody notices when you stop talking
Nobody notices when you try to distance yourself
Or cry.
Never that.
But he keeps trying anyways.
Keeps trying to befriend these people, these people who tease him, belittle him, and flat-out ignore him.
The only time something he says is important, is when it caters their egos.
That, or the geometry homework. And, somehow, that’s even worse than being truly alone.
He’s been told many things about his looks. Some of them- no, most of them- from his own family.
He’s cut before. It didn’t serve as much justice as people made it sound.
He’s also purged. Shoved two fingers down his throat and released the day’s food. It made him feel better.
Kind of.
He still tries to climb the ladder.
He feels too heavy.
He can feel the food in his stomach.
So, he does what makes him feel better. He uses his fingers to empty himself until he feels better- skinner- lighter- accepted.
It works, he thinks.
The bad breath and foul taste are the only downsides he can see.
That and the fiery red marks that appeared on his knuckles afterwards.
But he’ll be damned if anybody notices.
Why would they?
All they care about is your face- and maybe your personality for that matter.
Scars on your wrists and legs, bruises on your arms, scratches, marks on your knuckles- none of it matters.
As long as you’re pretty.
And pretty, Tadashi Yamaguchi is not.
Tsukishima Kei begs to differ.
Tall, dark haired, freckled, beautiful.
That’s how he’d describe Tadashi Yamaguchi.
his yamaguchi
The one that follows him around like a puppy, always trying to mimic him.
Part of him wants to believe that it’s endearing, the way Tadashi acts like an almost-Kei.
And the other part says
“it’s wrong”
“it’s not him”
It’s not the Tadashi he wants to see.
He wants to see the Tadashi he knows, the one from his childhood who plays Pokémon games on his bed and narrates it all the way.
The Tadashi that laughed- god, the beautiful, hearty laugh that adds years to his lifespan. Not the fake, forces laugh he’s used to hearing.
He wished he could will the confidence, or strangle his pride, just for a moment, and allow himself a moment of weakness and say
“Stop pretending. Stop trying to be me, you’re not me, you’re Tadashi, the Tadashi. The Tadashi that practiced for weeks trying to nail your jump float. The Tadashi who looks at me like I’m the moon. But I’m not the moon. I’m Tsukishima Kei and I love you.
I love you like you love volleyball.
Like you love th- our team.
And if I’m the moon, you’re my stars.”
But he can’t say that.
He’s too stuck-up, and he knows it, but he still doesn’t do it. Why?
Because he’s in love, and he wants Tadashi to see himself like Kei sees him.
Absolutely beautiful.