Kind's POV
Kind's fingers curled around the edge of the letter, the paper crinkling beneath his grip. His eyes traced the words again, but they didn't change. You'll be working part-time at a garage café. The sentence pressed against his ribs, tightening the space around his lungs.
He set the letter down, his movements slow, careful—like any sudden action might make the weight in his chest spill over. His gaze flickered to the phone beside it. Black screen. A reflection of himself stared back.
His hands felt cold.
A sharp clang rang through the quiet morning as he slammed a spoon onto the table. The sound cut through the still air, sharp enough to sting.
"Why do I have to work?" His voice came out harder than he intended.
Across the table, Peter barely flinched. His hands shifted, the newspaper rustling as he folded it. Without even glancing up, he tossed it onto the table, the pages landing with a dull thud.
"Because I'm not going to waste my money on you anymore."
The words landed like a slap.
Kind's stomach twisted, breath hitching in his throat. The room felt smaller, the walls pressing in, his own skin too tight.
Waste…
His fingers curled into his palms. Nails dug into his skin, grounding him against the rising sting in his chest. He swallowed.
"But why?" The question barely made it past his lips, but it was all he could manage without his voice shaking.
Peter let out a sharp breath, one of those deep, tired sighs that made it seem like Kind was nothing more than a burden.
"You heard me," Peter said, finally looking up. His eyes were unreadable, cold in a way that made Kind's stomach churn.
"But you never say that to Ruby." The words slipped out before he could stop them.
Peter's expression flickered—just for a moment. Then, his face smoothed over, empty again.
"That's because Ruby belongs here."
Something inside Kind cracked.
The air in the room felt heavier, suffocating. His throat tightened, his pulse a dull roar in his ears.
I don't belong here.
Peter stood, chair scraping against the floor. He didn't say another word. Just turned and walked away, leaving Kind alone at the table.
The newspaper sat in front of him, the bold headlines blurring as his vision burned.
His hands curled into fists, knuckles white.
The phone sat beside him, still dark, still unfamiliar.
He wanted to crush it.
The clock ticked. The sound was steady, unbothered, unlike the storm unraveling inside Kind. He sat there, staring at the cold breakfast on his plate, his appetite long gone.
The spoon he had slammed lay on the table, a tiny dent marking the wood beneath it. Peter hadn't even looked at him properly—hadn't cared enough to see the way his words had cut through skin and bone.
Ruby belongs here.
The words rattled in his skull, echoing like footsteps in an empty hallway.
Kind pushed back his chair abruptly. The legs screeched against the floor, a sound that made his teeth grit. He grabbed the phone from the table, its smooth surface foreign in his grasp. A gift that wasn't really a gift—just another chain, another way for them to control him.
Outside, the sky was a dull gray, the December cold seeping through the windows. He forced himself to move, slipping on his jacket and stepping out the door. The wind bit at his skin, cutting through the thin fabric of his sleeves.
His legs carried him toward school, each step heavier than the last. The streets were quieter than usual, the world still waking up. The air smelled of damp pavement and something faintly metallic. A bird sat alone on a bare tree branch, feathers ruffled by the wind.
"Morning, Kind!"
The voice was loud, cutting through the silence like a blade.
Kind barely had time to turn before Win came bounding across the road, weaving between the sparse traffic with the kind of reckless energy that only he could pull off.
He landed beside Kind, grinning, his breath puffing out in white clouds. "You look like hell," he said, laughing like it was a joke.
Kind forced a small smirk. "Thanks."
Win nudged him with his elbow. "So? Did you eat breakfast?"
"Yeah."
"Good."
They walked in silence for a moment, the sound of their shoes crunching against the pavement filling the space between them.
Then, Kind reached into his pocket, pulling out the phone. He turned it over in his hand, hesitating for a second before holding it up.
"I got a new phone," he said. His voice lacked the excitement that usually came with something like this.
Win's eyes lit up. "No way! You got your own number too?"
Kind nodded.
Win grabbed his own phone, shoving it into Kind's hands. "Give me your number."
Kind typed it in, fingers moving mechanically. He barely registered the moment before Win's phone buzzed with the confirmation.
"Damn, you're finally a real person now," Win teased, slipping his phone back into his pocket.
Kind didn't reply. His mind was still trapped at the breakfast table, in the heavy silence of that house.
Win must have sensed it because he changed the subject. "Hey, do you know what the teacher said yesterday when you and I were in the infirmary?"
Kind shook his head.
"The school's taking us on a trip next week!" Win practically bounced on his feet. "And get this—eleventh graders are coming too!"
Kind glanced at him, his face blank. "So?"
Win blinked. "So? Dude, are you even listening? This is huge! You never go on trips. You have to come this time."
Kind let out a slow breath, staring down at his phone.
"They won't let me," he muttered.
Win scoffed. "They have to."
Kind clenched his jaw. "You don't know them."
"Then make them say yes."
Kind didn't reply.
Because he did know them. And he knew, without a doubt, that no matter how much he begged, no matter how hard he tried—
The answer would always be no.
Win kept talking, his voice bright and full of energy, but Kind wasn't really listening. The cold nipped at his skin, seeping through his jacket, but it wasn't the December air that made him feel frozen inside. His father's words still clung to him like a weight pressing on his chest.
"You'll be working part-time at a garage café."
The sentence kept replaying in his mind, over and over, until it didn't even sound like words anymore—just a dull hammering in his skull. He clenched his fists inside his pockets. His fingers were ice-cold.
"You okay?" Win asked, nudging him lightly with his elbow.
Kind blinked. He hadn't realized they were already at the school gates.
"Yeah," he muttered.
Win didn't seem convinced but let it go.
The courtyard was alive with students—laughing, shouting, running past them, their breath misting in the crisp morning air. It was loud. Too loud. Kind felt like he was walking through a world that had nothing to do with him.
"Fine," he said suddenly.
Win turned to him, confused. "Huh?"
"I'll ask."
Win's face lit up. "That's the spirit!"
Kind forced a small smile, but he already knew how this would end. He would ask. Peter would say no. And that would be the end of it.
The hallway was just as crowded as the courtyard, the voices blending together into an unrecognizable hum. Win was still busy typing on his phone as they made their way to class.
"What are you doing?" Kind asked, just for the sake of saying something.
"Texting the group," Win said without looking up.
"Group?"
Win grinned, lowering his voice like he was about to share some grand secret. "A guy from our school made an app—a messaging platform for students and teachers. The school actually bought it off him. Everyone's on it now."
Kind frowned. "And it's anonymous?"
"Yep. We all use nicknames."
Kind hesitated. The idea of a space where no one knew who he was, where he didn't have to be Kind—the disappointment, the weakling, the boy who could never be enough—was oddly tempting.
"What should I name myself?"
Win thought for a moment. "You like reading, right? Call yourself 'Bookworm.'"
Kind scrunched his nose. "That's horrible."
Win laughed. "Then name it after something you like."
He stared at the screen for a long moment before typing: Rose.
Win leaned over and snorted. "Rose? Dude, that sounds like some tragic romance novel."
Kind's lips twitched slightly. "A red rose. Passion and jealousy."
Win clutched his chest dramatically. "Oh no, it's even worse than I thought."
Before Kind could respond, a notification popped up.
A new friend request.
Sarane.
Kind stared at the name. Something about it made his stomach twist. It wasn't a name he recognized, but it felt... familiar, in a way he couldn't explain.
Win peered over. "Know them?"
"No."
He hesitated, then, slowly, pressed accept.
The moment he accepted the request, a message popped up.
Sarane: You finally joined.
Kind's fingers hovered over the screen. His heart gave an odd lurch.
"Who is it?" Win asked, trying to sneak a peek.
Kind angled the phone away. "No idea."
He tapped a reply.
Rose: Do I know you?
No response.
The classroom bustled with morning energy—friends chatting, chairs scraping, bags thudding against desks. Kind sat down, setting his phone face down on the table. His mind felt stretched between two thoughts—who Sarane was and what waited for him back home.
His father's voice still rang in his ears.
"It's better that you earn it; it will also help you develop as a man."
He'd seen the finality in Peter's eyes when he said it. The kind of finality that said, This is not up for discussion.
Kind gritted his teeth, fingers curling into his sleeves. It wasn't about money. It wasn't even about work. It was about getting rid of him.
Win plopped down beside him, drumming his fingers on the desk. "So, what's the plan?"
"What plan?"
"You said you'd ask about the trip. Any strategy?"
Kind exhaled through his nose. "There's no strategy. Just a straight-up no."
Win smirked. "Then I'll ask."
"You—what?"
Win winked. "Don't worry, I've got this."
Kind wanted to protest, but before he could, the bell rang.
All throughout class, his mind kept drifting. His phone stayed silent. No more messages from Sarane. He told himself it was nothing—a student playing a joke, a random person adding him. But something inside him whispered otherwise.
Lunch break came fast. As Kind stood up, stretching his arms, his phone vibrated.
Sarane: You're not where you're supposed to be.
His stomach twisted.
His fingers felt stiff as he typed back.
Rose: Who are you?
No answer. Again.
But this time, Kind felt it—a presence. Not in the room, not physically, but… somewhere. Someone was watching.