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“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”
— Maya Angelou, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
Apathy.
Contrary to the belief that spread through the new highschool class like wildfire, Seishiro Nagi actually is, in fact, not some kind of experimental AI.
Perhaps that is not so noticeable when the gunmetal-silvery eyes are only willing to spare three-second long dismissive glances towards you at most, but a fact will always remain a fact.
Seishiro Nagi was born a human boy.
Even when your own eyes suggest otherwise.
His name, by the way, is lost somewhere in the jumble of names of the attendees of the botanics club. Not that he ever once graced it with his presence, of course, yet another fact stands tall. It was a huge deal at the start of the year – one of the school escapades the soon-to-be adults can rarely shut up about for an entire lengthy week – before throwing the fleeting amusement into the backburner along with the unfortunate soul that happened to pick the collective interest.
The desks were all taken – sole aloof one standing in the gaze of the chalkboard like a tin soldier awaiting for its commander – all quiet gazes turned towards the decisive door.
“Do you seriously think that dude will show up?” A whisper cut through the movie-worthy silence, lips moving just beneath an earpod-plugged ear.
“Dunno. He did sign up.” The disinterested voice echoes – this one louder, bolder.
“The chem teacher prays every morning for him to spare his hapless attendance at least once per week. I’d bid sixty grand he’s not gonna commit to plants of all things.”
Truth be told, Nagi doesn’t remember ever having much interest in the school program. It was always too easy, too disinteresting, too…
He doesn’t know the word for it.
Surprisingly for his level of intellect, Nagi often found himself lacking the words to say. Not that it ever concerned him, really - nothing ever does. It won’t kill him if he doesn’t find the conventionally correct words to respond to a jab or a quip. His stare seems to be telling enough – people usually back away in a few moments.
Studying was nothing. Always a hassle, but never something.
You’d think that like most boys of his age, the commotion of academics-fueled breakdowns won’t escape even someone of his temperament – but no. Nothing.
He’d stare at his perfect score in silence, just the red writing and him in the class alone. Just the two – no space left for triumph. And what is there to rejoice for in the first place? The previous test looked identical. The next one will too. With this regularity, even the grandest of achievements become a mundanity. And it wasn’t like he could pride himself on any semblance of diligence – his textbooks would’ve called the ‘book protection services’ on him a million times over if those existed.
And it also wasn’t like he had a need to overachieve involuntarily in the first place.
He’d seen his unfortunate classmates weep in despair after particularly unforgiving tests – those were the ones whose parents were all eyes when it came to their ‘academic progress’.
Nagi’s parents didn’t really mind.
He highly doubts that they ever saw his grades past the ‘excellent attainment’ certificate that was pushed into his hands on the last day of preschool. He never complained. What is there to gloat upon? Any family is a form of symbiosis, after all. He was left alone with his lifestyle – one most parents wouldn’t exactly appreciate – and they, in turn, regularly got the reassurance that their only son was still breathing somewhere. A win-win situation, in Nagi’s words.
But, well.
…
…If only–
Affection.
Nagi’d never admit it out loud, but he still lacks any interest in football.
What he can acknowledge, however, is that an interest in a particular person he possesses in abundance.
It’s weird, doing something for once. It’s even weirder trying .
But never too much, of course.
To no surprise, football came to him as easy as schoolwork did. Traps, shots – he soaked all of that up in the first few days of attempting to move. Funnily enough, soon his mundanity shifted: now, instead of his familiar one-on-one staring contests with test papers, his ‘work’hours were coated in the excited rambling of a strategy-obsessed teenager.
“Treasure, see?” the voice rang through the staircase, bouncing off Nagi’s eardrums immediately. “If I go left, and you go centre, I’d pass to you, and–...”
Nagi’s attention went dormant.
Reo has a very interesting voice. Not high enough to be used in a simile with the funny tiny bells – the christmas kind of ones – but definitely warm and proudly boyish. He always has this carefree note to him; the one that always knows how to win people over so proficiently. Reo is scarily engrossing. He unexpectedly didn’t fit into the life framework that Nagi had clumsily cobbled together for himself.
Nagi couldn’t make space in his mindroom for contentment when faced with his own undemanding achievements, but he definitely can make room for Reo.
He doesn’t know the words right now either.
Suddenly, that concerns him.
“Nagi, are you–” the initially loud remark comes to an audible halt.
Listening. You always are. I know that, out of all people.
The hood of the unironed black hoodie is pulled over the horrifyingly unruly tangled hair, shielding the eyes of its owner from the hostile midday specks of light.
Nagi thinks he believes in himself.
Nagi knows Reo believes in him.
That’s a good thing, when all is said and done – even Santa Claus can be real if you believe in him enough.
Maybe his motivation isn’t all that fictional either.
Disappointment.
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It’s a bitter feeling, disappointment.
Nagi thought he tasted it alright already in the past few months.
Turns out he never actually tasted it before.
It’s worse than any medicine in existence (and he truthfully swore the latter to be the biggest hassle mankind ever produced before) – at least it has some benefits.
His disappointment would’ve had some benefits too, yeah.
Before.
Now, his disappointment won’t get him anywhere – only pin him to the ground a little tighter. He hates the taste of it – it’s putty, sticking to his flavour-burned tongue in a myriad of even more revolting aftershocks.
It’s worse than eating sand - it’s more like eating whole unbroken rocks.
He doesn’t know the best word for it again.
This time, it horrifies him.
His spectre of emotions amplified exponentially in the last two hours – fear .
That’s the word he subconsciously searches for.
Seishiro Nagi is, for once, scared.
Scared that he will now inevitably have to face his messup (it's like dunking yourself in a soberingly glacial lake once more), scared that he finally failed f or real (even his motivation wasn't enough) , scared that his newly obtained interpersonal sentiment will slip into the cracked earth once again.
The nauseatingly present grip on his forearm strengthens, securing his limp body in place.
Reo’s still here,
I don’t think I believe in myself all that much anymore.
Now, that isn’t a good thing at all, when all is said and done –
“It’s not over yet.”