Chapter Text
I love people.
No, really. I do. Even if all they do to me is relentlessly berate me into nothing, call me words that leave a mark on my wrists and make me go insane, I truly love them.
It’s just — something so special about them I can’t seem to decipher. They’re all hiding something in them though — and it’s like a game figuring out what lies beneath them.
Like me. I’m good at hiding. Not just the usual stuff, but the real parts. The parts I don’t want anyone to find. The pieces I stitch together when no one’s looking. You’d think after all this time I’d be tired of pretending, but pretending is safer. It’s easier. The real me? She’s too fragile to show.
School is a minefield. A constant battlefield of whispered jokes and sharp glances that never quite land where you want them but always hurt somewhere. I’m just another face in the crowd — but that’s the point. If they don’t see me, they don’t target me. Mostly.
I walk the halls like a ghost, a shadow with eyes wide open. Watching. Recording. Every little twitch, every fake smile, every crack in their perfect facades. It’s a game. And I’m winning, or at least I’m surviving.
There’s Ran, slouched by the lockers, pretending to text but really just hiding the way his fingers tremble. Ayane’s laughing too loudly in the corner, trying to drown out the knot of panic rising in her chest. Even Miss Hoshino, the teacher who smiles like a shield, has eyes that don’t quite reach the corners of her mouth. No one is perfect, no one is whole.
I keep my head down and my thoughts to myself. Nobody needs to know what I’m thinking. Nobody needs to see that I notice everything—because the moment they do, the cracks in me will become visible too.
—— • ——
Shiraishi An. Dislikes tomatoes. Used to be in my class last year. Her aunt died last year too. Nobody told her for weeks, not even her closest friends. She found out when her uncle came back and broke the news. She cried a lot, i was the one to deal with it for the most part.
She laughs loud, talks loud, but it’s a shield — I can see it in the way she twitches her fingers when no one’s looking, like she’s trying to hold herself together one breath at a time.
She’s a secret wrapped in a joke — I wonder if she knows it too.
Lately, I’ve been clinging to her presence like a life raft. To be honest, she’s one of the few I can truly tolerate. The silence between us feels less suffocating than the silence alone.
We wander into the department store nearby, the place buzzing with weekend shoppers and the hum of fluorescent lights. An drags me toward the clothes section, eyes sparkling with excitement. She’s hunting for something that screams “new me,” and I follow along, cheering happily, matching her energy.
She beelines for the accessories—sparkly hair clips and chunky plastic bracelets—while I drift toward the racks of pastel skirts and glittery tops. It’s funny how i act all cold in person, but i really do enjoy cute clothes like these. I run my fingers over a frilly sleeve, tilting my head with a smile, playing the part like always. It’s something that makes me feel human.
Makes me happy.
I turn a bit in front of the mirror, holding a baby pink cardigan up to my frame. Too soft? Too much? I giggle quietly to myself, I feel so content. My reflection smiles back—wide, sweet, real. I know exactly what they want to see.
Somewhere behind me, An’s still talking, probably comparing butterfly clips. I let her voice fade into background noise, too wrapped up in lace and glitter and the way the pastel makes me feel like I’m whole again.
Then I hear it.
“Mizuki Akiyama. Class 2-B. You were in that online music group too, weren’t you.”
My fingers freeze against the fabric. The fluorescent lights feel harsher now, buzzing louder in my ears. I don’t turn right away. I can’t.
What?
Who’s that? What did they say? No one’s supposed to know that. Not here.
Not anymore.
I turn, slow and mechanical, like if I move too fast the whole world might snap in half.
He’s standing a few feet away, one hand lazily tucked into the pocket of a store apron, the other resting against a rack of neatly folded jeans. His name tag glints under the light: Shinonome. Of course.
Akito doesn’t smile. He just looks at me with that sharp, unreadable stare, like he already knows how this ends. His posture is casual, like we’re old friends catching up. But his eyes—his eyes say something else. Something heavier. Something I don’t want to unpack.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. There’s a pulse in my throat, a warning I can’t translate.
How does he know?
Why does he know?
Before I can force a word out, I hear the familiar shuffle of shoes behind me. An’s voice cuts through the static, cheerful and oblivious—until it isn’t.
“Mizuki?”
An’s voice cuts in like a clean blade.
I flinch.
She steps into view, bunny-shaped hair clip dangling from one hand, but her smile fades the second she sees who I’m facing. Her eyes harden. No greeting. No banter.
“…Of course it’s you.”
Akito doesn’t respond. He doesn’t need to. He just stares—eyes heavy, unreadable—and the silence says more than his words ever could.
An grabs my wrist. Not gently. Not cruelly either. Just firmly enough to pull me back into reality.
“Let’s go.”
I don’t say anything. I just let her guide me out of the store like I’m not even real.
—— • ——
An walks beside me, faster than usual, like she’s trying to outpace the memory. Her grip on my wrist has softened, but she hasn’t let go.
“Didn’t expect him to be working there,” she mutters, voice laced with dry contempt. “That bitch.”
I let out a light laugh—airy, practiced. “Heh, yeah. It’s crazy, isn’t it?”
She nods but doesn’t reply. I’m glad. I don’t think I could keep talking without my voice cracking.
My smile stays on like glue, even as my thoughts spiral out.
His voice. My name. Nightcord.
Nightcord.
Nobody’s supposed to know.
I keep nodding along to whatever An says next, but I’m not really listening. My fingers are still clutching that stupid pink cardigan, and my heart’s thudding too fast for a walk this slow.
If he knows that—what else does he know?