Haruto Kirigami was in a desolate school yard, surrounded by a warm, golden glow. His hands were shaking as he extended them, his voice cracking but genuine.
Haruto: "I like you. I want to date you."
Standing before him was a girl with a face that was indistinct and faded. She shifted back, her face unreadable.
Unknown Girl: "No. I can't."
Before Haruto had a chance to move, the girl whirled around and fled, her shadow dwindling into the radiating horizon. He stretched out his hand, his words trapped in his throat, and the world broke apart into shards.
Haruto's eyes flew open. His chest labored, drops of sweat stuck to his forehead. Morning light filtered through the drapes of his tiny room, dust motes whirling in the air.
He remained motionless, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Haruto: "Ah. Another one, right?"
He sat up, massaging his eyes, the memories of the dream still hanging in his head.
Haruto: "Well, it doesn't matter anyway."
His words drifted away, empty and exhausted. He had given up on anything different—a long time ago, from both his dreams and his life.
Haruto navigated his morning routine with the precision of a machine. A hasty shower, a drab uniform, and glasses that softened the cut of his features. His hair, intentionally rumpled, served as a screen.
He peered into the mirror, taking in the appearance of the person he once was—the person who had once been convinced of friendship, of love, of visibility. He moved away before the image could torture him further.
Class 2-B was already abuzz with activity when Haruto slid in. He made his way to his window seat, where he always sat, and opened his notebook. The sounds around him became background noise, and he felt reassured in his solitude.
The teacher asked for silence, and the class started. Haruto's pen glided across his notes, but his thoughts drifted. The dream stayed with him, a ghost that reminded him of when he still had the courage to touch others.
As the day crawled by, Haruto sat once again at the window, his eyes fixed on the gray sky. The world outside kept going, but he sat fixed—a silent witness to a life that had lost its color a long time ago.
He spoke quietly to himself, as if trying out the words for their heaviness:
Haruto: "It doesn't matter. Nothing ever does."
But somewhere deep inside, beneath the layers of coldness and distance, something was stirring something broken and still alive.