At the age of eighteen, I found myself devoid of direction or a sense of belonging. Despite possessing a kind disposition, my intense introversion left me socially isolated, with no close companions.

I spent the majority of my days in solitude, grappling with profound regret over the choices and circumstances that had defined my life thus far.

But about ninety minutes ago, under the cover of midnight, I made a decisive choice and left my parents' house in secrecy.

Until that moment, I had only very occasionally ventured outside, aimlessly.

In Fourth grade, After my only friend Oh Ji-wan's family left Japan to settle back in South Korea, I started to spent some time studying by myself. And my parents started to praise me for that.

My upbringing had been shaped by their praise for my solitary focus on studies rather than playing outside with other children.

This encouragement led me to believe that isolation was virtuous and would serve me well. However, I have since come to realize that this was not the case.

This was the very reason I chose to leave without a word to anyone.

My parents, though bound to me by blood, became a source of profound pain from the moment I first tasted the tender sweetness of love.

It was in the summer of my fifth-grade year, elementary school, a season brimming with childhood innocence and unspoken dreams, that a girl of rare and radiant beauty transferred to our school. From the very first glance, she awakened within me a sense of life's fragile wonder—a feeling I had never known before.

In my youthful exuberance, I rushed home to share this newfound marvel with my mother, hoping she might understand the magic I had discovered. Instead, she merely laughed, dismissing my confession as the trivial musings of a child, unaware of the depth it carried in my heart.

The very next day, I found myself silently making heartfelt wishes to God, pleading for a chance to speak with the girl.

To my astonishment, my prayers were answered. The teacher, perhaps guided by some unseen force, asked me to assist her with her studies. As the top scorer in the entire school—a result of countless hours spent in solitude poring over books—it seemed a natural choice.

When she turned to me, her lips curving into a soft smile, she introduced herself: "Tachibana Ilaria."

Though I already knew her name from her introduction to the class the day before, hearing it from her own voice, so close to me felt different, almost musical.

Ilaria-san's jet-black hair shimmered in the light, and her features carried a subtle yet striking uniqueness. Her face, unlike mine, bore the traces of her mixed heritage.

She revealed to me that she was half-Japanese and half-Swiss—her father a foreigner, her mother Japanese. Born and raised here in Tokyo, she embodied a harmony of cultures, a living bridge between two worlds.

As someone veiled in mystery, a natural result of my introverted nature, I seemed to spark a curious fascination in Ilaria-san. Her growing interest was something I couldn't help but notice, and the thought of it filled me with a shy, blooming warmth that reddened my cheeks every time it crossed my mind.

Time flowed gently between us, and before I knew it, Christmas arrived.

That year, my house brimmed with activity as all my cousins and relatives gathered to celebrate, coinciding with my little brother's first birthday.

Yet, amidst the chaos, my heart belonged elsewhere. Ila-san had invited me to her house for Christmas—yes, by then, we had already grown close enough to use nicknames—and the very thought sent me soaring to the seventh heaven.

Eager to attend, I pleaded with my mother to either accompany me to Ila-san's house or allow me to go alone. It wasn't far, and despite rarely venturing out, I felt confident enough to make the journey on my own. But my mother refused.

She insisted I stay, claiming my presence was essential for the family celebration. "It's your little brother's first birthday," she reminded me, her tone firm. "He needs his big brother here today."But my heart tugged in a different direction.

Ila-san had become the light in my otherwise dim world—the reason food tasted better, the reason life seemed vibrant and alive then.

She was the hope that encouraged me to confront the embarrassing conversations going out of my way, the inspiration behind my newfound care for my appearance as well.

I couldn't bear the thought of missing this chance to be with her.

I kept urging, persistent in my requests, perhaps a little too much. In hindsight, I see now how my insistence may have frayed my mother's patience.

Finally, as the cake sat ready to be cut beneath the glow of the Christmas tree, surrounded by cousins, neighbors, and relatives, I mustered the courage to ask one last time.

"Mom," I began hesitantly,

"can I go to Ila-san's after we're done with the cake-cutting?"

Her face turned sharp with irritation, and in a voice that echoed louder than I ever wished, she shouted, "Ila! Ila! Ila! Can you not stop mentioning that girl for a minute? What is she to you? Your wife? Your girlfriend? Your lover? You should be studying, not chasing after nonsense like this at your age!"

Her words struck me like a thunderclap, shattering the fragile world I had built in my mind. The room fell silent as every pair of eyes turned toward me, their gaze heavy with curiosity and judgment.

I had never been comfortable being the center of attention, and now, under the weight of humiliation, I felt my breath tighten.

Without a word, I turned and ran upstairs, tears blurring my vision. Locking myself in my room, I collapsed onto the bed, sobbing quietly.

My mother's words, flung carelessly in anger, had landed with the force of a blow, carving scars I would carry long after that Christmas had passed.

That day, I never made it to Ila-san's house, and though it may have seemed inconsequential in the moment, the repercussions of that evening rippled far beyond my imagination.

Most of the neighborhood kids had been present at the gathering, some of whom also attended my school, though I'd never interacted with them personally.

By the next morning, whispers of the Christmas debacle echoed through the hallways, weaving their way into every corner of my class. My humiliation had become fodder for their amusement.

When I approached Ila-san to apologize for not visiting her as promised, she seemed distant, her hesitation cutting deeper than any words could have. My already fragile confidence crumbled entirely.

Agitation and shame burned within me, but what I felt most was an unbearable irritation—at myself, at the situation, and at the world around me.

On my way home, a group of kids those who had witnessed the events of the previous evening began taunting me.

They sneered and jeered, clearly envious of my closeness to Ila-san, whose beauty had captivated them just as it had me.

Their mocking words fanned the flames of my anger, and before I could stop myself, I lashed out. I fought them, and to my surprise, I overpowered them, unleashing all my frustration in that brief, violent encounter.

But victory was fleeting, and the consequences soon followed. Their parents filed complaints with both my school and my parents, twisting the narrative until it seemed as though I had bullied them over a girl.

Obviously, I never was able to provide anybody with any explanations. My hesitation and nervousness came in the way.

The weight of their accusations crushed me, but nothing hurt more than Ila-san's reaction. Her avoidance, her apparent disgust, was the final blow. It felt as though she had turned her back on me, and in that moment, my heart broke completely. The light in my eyes dimmed, and the love that once shimmered there, was shrouded by a hollow darkness.

The ridicule only intensified. The word "simp" became my unwanted label, a scarlet letter branding me wherever I went.

Unable to face the unrelenting mockery, I retreated into the one place where I could find solace—my books. I buried myself in studying, drowning out the noise of the world with the rustle of pages and the steady rhythm of formulas and facts.

As time passed, I became a shadow of my former self, an introverted bookworm with a reputation for excelling in every exam. To everyone else, I was the quiet genius, the boy who lived for academic perfection.

But beneath that carefully crafted exterior lay a heart weighed down by disillusionment, a soul that had once soared with love but now cowered in the shadows of isolation.

...

Years drifted by, and then the world found itself engulfed in a pandemic. For someone like me, who had always kept thoughts locked away and rarely shared them with others, the confinement of four walls felt especially suffocating.

It was during this solitude that I turned to the internet for the first time, venturing into a world I had largely ignored.

I had never been fond of anime. Watching others lose themselves in the fantasy of those vibrant worlds, wishing to escape reality entirely, had always seemed foolish to me.

But now, desperate for distraction, I decided to give it a try. On the first day, I watched just two episodes. By the next, the numbers began to climb—four, twelve, twenty-four. Some days, I consumed as many as forty-five episodes, reducing my sleep to just three or four hours a night.

The root of this obsession lay deep within me: her. The name Tachibana Ilaria-sann... still lingered like an unhealed wound, and every story I watched became a projection of my own unfulfilled fantasies. In every scene, I imagined Ila-san with me, together in a life that only existed in my mind.

Amid this haze of nostalgia and longing, I began questioning the course of my life. Why had things turned out this way? The answer seemed painfully clear: my extreme introversion.

Determined to change, I resolved that when the world reopens, I would shed my old self. I would get a makeover, adopt a more extroverted demeanor, and finally experience life as others did—free from the chains of solitude.

When schools reopened with restrictions, I returned to the classroom. Yet, my focus was no longer the same. I had skipped many online classes during the lockdown, and though my teachers didn't reprimand me—my reputation as a top student spared me from their scrutiny—I felt the cracks in my academic resolve.

Worse still, I realized I had grown lazy, a side effect of the long hours spent indulging in escapism during the pandemic.

But with my new look, style, and outgoing attitude, more things changed. My improved appearance caught the attention of a new transfer student. Her name was Sato Asuka, a girl with a sunflower-like smile that radiated warmth.

Despite warnings from her friends, she asked me out. I hesitated but eventually agreed, partly because Ila-san was no longer in my life—we had gone to different high schools—and partly out of curiosity about what this new relationship could offer.

Asuka was originally from Shōbara, a small city in Hiroshima Prefecture. Her family had moved to Mitaka, Tokyo, before eventually settling in Taito City, where she joined our school.

Our time together was blissful on the surface. She prepared lunches for me, we listened to music, went on dates, and shared moments that would have seemed perfect to anyone looking from the outside. Except for Christmas, which I still associated with the painful memories of Ila-san, Asuka and I were inseparable.

She adored me. To her, I was the ideal boyfriend, someone who embodied everything she had dreamed of.

Sometimes, she would speak of our future, weaving dreams of family life and imagining children with names inspired by happiness and joy. Yet, those conversations only deepened my sense of unease. I could never love her the way she loved me, nor could I feel for her what I had felt for Ila-san.

Asuka was a wonderful person, but to me, she felt more like a best friend than a partner. I barely shared my thoughts or feelings with her, not because I didn't care, but because my heart wasn't fully into it. She didn't seem to mind—she mistook my silence for a calm, stoic demeanor that she admired. But inside, I knew the truth.

Each time she spoke of our future, I saw it as a sign that our relationship needed to end. I couldn't keep leading her on, no matter how happy she seemed.

Though I hadn't yet told her, I had begun preparing myself for the inevitable breakup, rehearsing the words I would use to let her go.

It was the beginning of the final year of high school—a year meant to define futures and shape dreams. Until then, I had aced every exam with ease, never investing much effort into classes or studying at home. My secret was simple: I already had it completely studied before I even started in that grade.

Earlier I buried myself in anime, using it as an escape from reality. But now, with college admissions looming, the pressure to genuinely study began to surface.

I tried to focus, but it was as though a vital spark had been extinguished. My mind resisted the act of learning, and the passion I once held for academic achievement seemed distant, almost unreachable. Perhaps it wasn't just a lack of focus; perhaps I simply no longer cared.

Instead, my thoughts drifted to a different kind of life—a quiet existence in some nameless, serene town.

In this imagined haven, I could live peacefully with a certain girl, free from the meddling of everyone I had ever known. My introversion could find its solace there, untouched by the chaos of the world.

Gradually, I surrendered to this fantasy, abandoning my studies entirely. When midterm exams came, I barely managed to scrape by with passing marks, shocking everyone—teachers, classmates, and my parents.

Their disappointment was suffocating, and their constant badgering only deepened my irritation.

Amid the turmoil, Asuka tried to comfort me, her words gentle and kind. But overwhelmed by my frustration, I lashed out at her, my anger spilling over in a moment of thoughtless cruelty.

Almost immediately, regret gripped me. I apologized, and to my relief, she forgave me without hesitation.

Yet the damage was done—not just to her, but to me. I couldn't shake the guilt of hurting her, of being someone unworthy of her affection. So, I ended our relationship.

I still remember her sobs, muffled by her friends' attempts to console her, and the way they glared at me with eyes full of righteous anger.

With Asuka gone, I resolved to study, to reclaim the person I had once been. But every attempt ended the same way: with an anime episode playing on my laptop and my books lying forgotten on the desk.

I would sit there for hours, staring blankly, my mind consumed by overthinking and daydreams of a life that could never be.

Then, the final exams arrived. I walked into the examination halls with no confidence, no preparation, and no hope. And the outcome was as disastrous as expected—I failed every single exam.

The weight of failure crushed me. I couldn't bear to face the whispers and stares of those who had already abandoned me. So, I locked myself away in my room, retreating from the world entirely.

My parents were worried, but their concern only fueled my resentment. In my mind, they were the architects of my misery.

If they had been better—more understanding, more supportive—I might have led a different life.

I might not have missed my relationship with Ila-san, excelled in my studies, and built a future filled with love and purpose.

Instead, I was here, drowning in loneliness, my existence reduced to ashes by the weight of what could have been.

The Turning Point

Locking myself in my room I was thinking how people like me, who falter at expressing their desires and hesitate to forge connections, often find life's cruel hand snatching away their only slivers of joy.

It was in one of those moments of despair that a rebellious thought surfaced in my mind—what if I ran away to a far-off town, where no one knew me? A place where expectations would dissolve into nothingness. Perhaps, in such a haven, I could finally feel normal.

And yet, as the thought brewed,

Ila-san's image flickered in my mind. Although we hadn't spoken in nearly half a decade, I'd caught glimpses of her on rare occasions.

My mother, in her clumsy attempt to pry me out of my room and into the world after the pandemic, had often sent me on errands for groceries.

She'd taken that advice from some self-righteous TV anchor preaching parenting tips, as if those shallow remedies could fix the damage they had already inflicted on me.

On those outings, I had seen Ila-san. Just a fleeting glance each time—a cruel reminder of the life I couldn't have.

The first time I saw her, again, was when I was with Asuka at the Seven-Eleven Tatsuya convenience store, while walking her home, shortly after schools reopened.

She noticed me, her eyes locking onto mine for a brief, heart-stopping second before she rushed out, leaving behind only the silence of her retreat. Her sudden departure made it clear—she hated me, or at least, that's what I told myself.

Yet, I couldn't stop myself from returning to that corner store for groceries, despite it being three times farther than the usual one. The hope of seeing her again last time, was an irresistible pull.

And when I did see her for the first time in high school was, while with Asuka, it was like time froze. Her jet-black hair shimmered like a raven's wings under the fluorescent lights, her deep blue eyes piercing through me as if they could unravel every hidden corner of my soul. Her lips, soft and rosy, seemed to whisper forgotten springtime joys, while her pink-tinged cheeks reminded me of warmth I could never touch.

On my way to the corner store, her image lingered in my mind. I could no longer tell if it was hope or delusion that guided my steps as I walked to the store again, wishing desperately to see her and perhaps—just once—speak to her.

As I turned the corner, my heart full of yearning, was greeted with a sight that tore it apart.

Across the parking lot, by the store's glass window, Ila-san stood with a tall, blonde boy.

He had her pinned gently against the glass, their intimacy looked unmistakable to me. It was as if the universe itself mocked me, presenting my worst fears on the canvas of reality.

My heart cracked, the shards piercing every corner of my chest. My vision blurred, and for a moment, the world became a haze of colors and shapes.

Ila-san seemed to notice me standing there, motionless, drowning in my shattered emotions.

She pushed the guy away, her lips moving as she approached me, but her words were muffled, swallowed by the storm raging within my head. My legs trembled as if the ground beneath me was collapsing, and without a second thought, I turned and ran.

I don't remember what happened after that. My mind was blank, my emotions a cacophony of pain and humiliation. Halfway home, I realized I had left the grocery bag, along with the money, in the parking lot.

But I couldn't care less about the damn groceries or the money. Nothing mattered anymore.

By the time I reached home, a single thought crystallized in my mind: I would leave tonight.

At midnight, I would run away to some far-off town, though I had no destination in mind. The only certainty was that I needed to escape, and night offered the perfect cover.

With my family always present at home, leaving during the day would raise suspicion, and once caught, I knew there would be no second chance.

My mother called out to me as I entered the house, asking about the groceries. I ignored her, retreating to my room. She gave up after a few attempts, and I began packing a small bag, my heart heavy with grief and anger.

As I packed, tears streamed down my face, mingling with the bitter thoughts swirling in my mind.

If only I had been different—more outgoing, more confident—I might have been able to claim what I wanted most, Ilaria-san. Perhaps, if I had been braver, bolder, she might have belonged to me.

But Ila-san wasn't like me. She wasn't trapped by hesitation or awkwardness. She was vibrant, free, and undoubtedly admired by countless men far more handsome, more charismatic than I could ever dream of being.

The realization crushed me, sparking a bitter rage that simmered alongside my despair. I felt impotent, powerless against the tides of life, and with that impotency came a fierce yearning for potency or power.

If only I were stronger—stronger in every sense—I could have bent the world to my will. I could have shaped my fate, carving out the life I dreamed of with ease.

Maybe if this world was magical like all those other world animes. I could have found a better way. These thoughts consumed me as the hours crawled toward midnight, my emotions a storm of anguish, desire, and resignation.

By the time the clock struck twelve, I was ready to leave behind everything I had ever known, carrying with me only the weight of my shattered heart and the faint glimmer of hope that somewhere, far away, I might find a life worth living.

It was midnight when I finally stepped out of my room. The house was shrouded in silence, the kind that felt heavy and oppressive, amplifying every creak of the floor beneath my feet.

The faint moonlight filtering through the windows outlined the darkened corridor leading to the main door. I moved cautiously, each step deliberate, ensuring no sound would betray my escape.

The air was still, and my heart raced as if it feared discovery more than my mind did.

My bag was slung over my shoulder, containing only the essentials: a few changes of clothes, some money I had painstakingly saved, and my old watch to keep track of time.

I had left my smartphone behind, every trace of my digital existence wiped clean. No breadcrumbs, no way to track me. I was determined to sever every tie that could pull me back to this life.

Reaching the main door, I paused, holding my breath. The lock clicked louder than I anticipated, and for a moment, I froze, ears straining for any sign of stirring from the rooms.

But the house remained silent, its occupants undisturbed by my betrayal. Slowly, I pushed the door open, the cool night air brushing against my face like a quiet promise of freedom.

I stepped outside, closing the door behind me with a careful precision that felt more final than I had expected.

The weight of my decision pressed down on me, yet there was a strange lightness too—a whisper of liberation, fragile but intoxicating.

The world beyond my home stretched out, vast and unknown, waiting welcome or to consume me whole.

With the bag secure on my shoulder and my breath steadying, I took my first step away from everything I had ever known. The night swallowed me, and with it, the remnants of the life I was leaving behind.

...

For the last ninety minutes, I have been utterly lost. I don't truly know where I am, but I'm certain I haven't strayed too far from my parents' house.

When I first ventured out, I headed south toward the train station, only to find that the trains weren't running. Frustrated, I continued south, wandering aimlessly through the labyrinth of concrete buildings. It feels like the city itself has swallowed me whole.

Realizing the futility of my direction, I decide to turn back, retracing my steps northward.

After trudging about two kilometers, I finally find myself in a familiar suburb.

A sinking realization dawns on me—I've inadvertently wandered into Asuka's neighborhood, though I've approached it from an unfamiliar angle.

From where I stand, I can see the corner store, its shutters drawn tightly shut. A thought flickers in my mind: perhaps I should check the parking lot for the shopping bag I left behind.

With a little luck, I might recover some money. But as I scan the lot, it's empty. The bag is gone.

Maybe someone picked it up—good for them, I think bitterly. Then a chilling thought strikes me: what if she picked it up?

The memory of seeing Ila-san with that blonde guy, rushes back like a wave crashing over me, and my chest tightens painfully.

I turn away from the parking lot, my steps aimless once again. Suddenly, another realization dawns: the trains must be running now. I should head to the nearest station.

As I start toward the station, I see a taxi pull up near the corner I came from.

Asuka steps out, holding the hand of a little girl—probably her younger sister. The sight catches me off guard. "What are they doing out at this hour?" I asked myself.

Then I recall hearing Asuka's friends mention a vacation months ago. Perhaps it finally happened, and she took her sister along.

I watch as they begin walking toward the same corner where I now stand, hidden behind an electricity pole.

Suddenly, a low mechanical hum grows louder, cutting through the night's stillness. My heart quickens as I see a vehicle speeding toward the corner without its headlights on.

In an instant, I realize the danger. The truck barrels toward them, its dark silhouette, an ominous blur under the moonlight.

Asuka and her sister seem oblivious, their pace unhurried. My pulse pounds in my ears, and I feel an instinctive surge of urgency.

I move without thinking, rushing forward to grab Asuka and push her, and the little girl out of harm's way.

Asuka cries out in alarm, her voice sharp and confused.

"Woah! What are—"

Before she can finish, another voice pierces the chaos—a voice I would recognize anywhere.

"Look out for the truck!"

[Shouted Ila-san]

That's Ila-san. Her voice freezes me for a moment, my focus momentarily shifting toward her. "Why is she here?" But there's no time for questions. The truck is too close now, its roar deafening.

With all my strength, I kick the little girl out of the way, watching as she tumbles safely to the side.

But it's too late for Asuka and me. The truck slams into us with devastating force, and I'm hurled through the air, landing with a sickening thud on my neck.

Pain explodes through my body as I realize, with cold clarity, that my neck is broken.

I am alive, but barely. My vision blurs, and every breath is a battle against the searing pain in my chest and neck.

Through the haze, I see Ila-san running toward us, her face pale with horror.

The little girl's crying echoes in the background, a haunting symphony of fear and grief.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Asuka lying motionless nearby. A sudden regret passes through my head.

Then something extraordinary happens.

Asuka begins to glow. A soft, ethereal light surrounds her, and tiny fireflies flit around her still form, their golden luminescence painting the scene with an otherworldly beauty.

My mind struggles to comprehend what I'm seeing.

Ila-san stops abruptly, her eyes widening as the same glow envelops her. She looks radiant, almost divine, and for a fleeting moment, I think to myself: She's looks like an angel.

My own body begins to feel warm, the ground beneath me glowing faintly. My consciousness fades further, but I force myself to hold on, desperate to cling to the sight of Ila-san.

Her glow fills my heart with a bittersweet comfort, even as my body succumbs to the weight of its injuries.

I close my eyes, a faint smile on my lips despite the unbearable pain. I thank God for Ila-san, is the last sight I see.

With my remaining strength, I make a silent vow: if by some miracle I survive, I will change. I will shed this shell of introversion and become someone better, someone stronger.

And if there is another life waiting for me, I hope to be reborn as someone who fits in effortlessly, someone bold and confident. Perhaps even blonde and tall.

But, before Ila-san could reach me the warmth fades, replaced by an all-encompassing numbness. My lungs ache with every shallow breath, and I know my time is up. Darkness envelops me as I surrender to it, my final thought a prayer for a second chance.

And then there is nothing. I seem to have died a painful death.