Kaito woke with a dull ache behind his eyes and a soreness that lingered beneath every breath. His body still felt like wet cloth left to dry in the wind—too heavy, too tender. The fever had simmered down during the night, but what it left behind was the hollow chill of fatigue.
He blinked slowly in the pale dawn light, adjusting to the shape of the dorm room. Toty was pressed against his chest, his little stitched nose tucked under Kaito's chin.
On the nightstand: a flask of still-warm tea and two small honey candies.
He stared.
No note. No explanation.
But he didn't need one. The flask was the same silver one Ren used. The candies were Azel's favorites—the brand he always stashed in his drawer, swearing they were "for emergencies."
Kaito's throat tightened.
He sat up, wincing slightly at the stretch along his ribs. Moving hurt. Breathing hurt. But the tea smelled like care.
He drank it slowly, then dressed. As always: full sleeves, high collar, long trousers. His bruises had darkened since yesterday. One along his hip bone, another peeking along his collarbone.
He left quietly. Late enough to avoid the morning hallway stampede. Early enough not to be marked absent.
Sociology Class – Midmorning
The lesson was painfully ironic.
"Today," said the professor, "we'll be discussing the phenomenon of invisible suffering. When pain hides behind good grades, good posture, or silence."
Kaito kept his head down, scribbling in a straight line across his notebook.
The girl beside him leaned over and muttered, "Scholarship boy thinks he's deep now."
He didn't look up.
A paper landed on his desk. Crumpled, greasy at the edge. He smoothed it open without reacting.
Go back to your street. You don't belong here.
He folded it once, twice, tucked it under his sleeve. There was no space left in his heart to feel surprise. Only quiet acceptance.
Just a little longer. If I stay small enough, maybe I'll make it through the day.
Kaito entered the cafeteria late. He always did. The crowd had thinned, and the noise had simmered into casual background chatter.
He took a soft roll and a carton of milk.
No appetite. But carrying something helped him blend in.
He didn't see the leg sticking out.
He stumbled. The tray tipped.
Milk spilled down his front. The roll hit the ground. He barely caught himself.
"Oops," said a voice behind him. "Guess that cheap blazer needed washing anyway."
Laughter. Another boy chimed in: "Scholarship boys come with built-in mop mode, huh?"
Kaito froze. Heat crawled up his neck—not anger. Shame.
He didn't move.
Then:
A tray slammed down on the table beside him.
"Pick it up," Ren said quietly.
The bully turned. "What's your—"
Another voice interrupted.
"I'd listen to him," Azel said, appearing behind Ren. "Because if you make me angry before I've had my lunch, I'll rearrange your teeth alphabetically."
The cafeteria fell into a hush.
The bully backed away.
Kaito blinked. He looked at the milk dripping down his sleeve. At the handkerchief Azel held out.
"You're not paper," Azel muttered. "Don't let them treat you like you'll dissolve."
Ren handed him a fresh milk carton. Didn't say a word.
Kaito clutched it with both hands.
He didn't know if he should thank them. Or cry. Or vanish.
They studied the fates of orphaned children during wartime. Displacement. Exploitation. Systems that failed to protect.
Kaito didn't take notes. He stared at the desk, fingers trembling slightly.
The teacher's voice blurred: "...often overlooked in institutions... invisible unless they misbehave or break."
He swallowed.
I'm still invisible. But I think they saw me today.
Just a little.
Kaito walked slower than usual. His body wouldn't move faster. He didn't expect company.
So when Azel suddenly appeared beside him, bouncing a sour candy in his palm, he almost tripped.
"You okay, Cotton Ball?" Azel asked casually.
Kaito blinked.
"You always float like a ghost. Starting to wonder if you eat air."
Kaito didn't respond.
But his pace adjusted.
Ren followed behind them, a few steps back, headphones half-in. Watching. Always watching now.
The dorm glowed gold with lamplight.
Azel lay on his bed upside down again, arm dangling off the edge.
Ren typed something on his laptop.
Kaito entered with silent footsteps. A wrapped pastry sat on his desk. Sweet custard bun—the kind he never bought for himself.
He looked at Azel.
"Eat it," Azel said without looking up. "You'll blow away otherwise."
Kaito peeled it open slowly.
The first bite tasted like sugar. And salt.
He blinked too fast. Hid behind Toty for a second.
Across the room, Ren spoke without turning:
"You don't have to pretend everything's fine."
Kaito froze.
"If something hurts," Ren added, "you should say it."
Kaito didn't reply. Couldn't.
But his chest ached in a way that didn't come from bruises.
That night, curled in bed, Kaito held Toty to his chest.
He thought of the tea. The candy. The pastry. The napkin. The voices that rose when he couldn't defend himself.
He thought of Azel's lazy grin.
Of Ren's quiet eyes.
Of a question that burned behind his teeth:
Why are you being kind? Why now?
Toty didn't answer.
But Kaito whispered anyway:
"...Please don't stop."
Across the room, Ren stared at the ceiling.
Azel rolled over and muttered, "Night, Cotton Ball."
For the first time in years, Kaito almost answered aloud.
But instead, he closed his eyes.
And let hope curl up next to his pain.