The ceremony ends, and I stand there, feeling the weight of their eyes on me. My classmates—most of them, anyway—are here. The same faces, the same whispers. Nothing's changed.

I knew this would happen. High school, middle school—it's all the same. I never asked for any of this. They'll look at me like I'm some kind of puzzle to solve, but they'll never understand the pieces. I'm just a quiet, smart guy to them. A target. They don't know the real me, not the one they made into a shadow of someone who never existed.

It's the same thing every time. The rumors that never fade. The whispers that get louder as I walk past. They all know what happened with Tatsuya, even if no one ever believes me. They've turned me into someone I'm not, and the story always ends the same. No matter where I go, it follows. The betrayal. The misunderstanding.

It doesn't matter how many times I prove myself, or how hard I try to be the person they want me to be. They'll always see me as a liar. A traitor. The kid who pushed his friend, the one who got blamed for something that wasn't his fault. The one who's always too smart for his own good. Too cold. Too distant. Too much of everything they can't understand.

I walk through the halls, my steps a little slower now, knowing what's waiting for me. They're all here, the same faces that tried to break me before. Some smile at me with that fake kindness, others pretend not to notice, but I can feel their eyes burning into me. It's like a constant, invisible weight, pressing down on my chest. I don't know why I even bother trying to fit in anymore. I'll never be part of their world.

Classes start, and I keep my head down, focusing on the work. My grades are easy enough to maintain. They don't demand much. It's the only thing that keeps me from cracking. If I can bury my head in books, keep my mind busy, I won't have to think about everything else. I won't have to deal with the way people look at me, like I'm broken, like I'm not worth the air I breathe.

Homeroom

The teacher steps up to the front, her voice cutting through the low murmur of the classroom. "Alright, class, it's time to introduce ourselves. Let's start with your name, something about you, and what you're hoping for this year."

I already know how this goes. The same routine as last year, the year before, the year before that. Everyone will say something generic—some will try to be funny, others will say they like sports, or music, or whatever it is that's supposed to make them stand out. I don't care. I don't need to stand out. I'm just... here.

The first student stands up, eager, almost too eager. He's trying too hard, and it shows. I roll my eyes, though no one's looking at me. I let the voices blur together, their words a soft hum in the background.

But when my turn comes, I know what I'm supposed to do. Keep it short, keep it simple. I don't want to draw attention. I never do.

"Akihiko Yamioka," I say, my voice steady, detached. "I like reading books, and I don't really have any big expectations for this year."

There's a pause. I glance up at the faces staring at me, the same ones I've seen before. A few nod like they understand, but I know they don't. They don't care about me. They only care about what they think they know.

No one says anything. The silence feels heavier than it should, but I've grown used to it. The teacher moves on, but I stay rooted in place, my mind already drifting back to that quiet corner of the library. That's where I'll go after this. The one place I don't have to pretend.

I can hear them now—the subtle whispers. "He's so quiet." "Is he really that smart?" "Why does he act like he doesn't care?"

I don't respond. There's no point. They'll never see past what they think I am. They'll never know the truth, not really. Not that it matters.

The introductions continue, each student stepping up with their own nervous energy or false confidence. I'm barely paying attention to most of them, but a few stand out. Some I recognize, others I don't. But it doesn't matter. They're all just faces in a crowd.

The first to speak is a tall guy with messy hair and a confident smirk. "Yo, I'm Ryuuji Takeda. I'm into sports, especially soccer. This year, I'm aiming to join the soccer club and lead us to victory." His voice is loud, like he's trying to make a statement. He's the kind of guy who always seems to be the center of attention. The one who can laugh off anything, who never seems to have a care in the world.

I can already tell he's someone I'll never relate to. It's hard to respect someone who doesn't seem to have to try, someone who's always the star. The kind of person who gets everything handed to them, and yet still wants more. Ryuuji will probably be the type to ignore me—or worse, pretend we're friends when it suits him. I've seen enough of people like him to know the routine.

Next is a girl with bright pink hair, standing up a little too eagerly. "Hi, I'm Emi Nishimura. I love fashion and I'm hoping to join the art club this year. I'm also really into photography!" Her voice is upbeat, the kind that tries to be cheery but rings a little too fake for my taste. She's the kind of person who wants everyone to like her, and she'll do anything to make sure they do. I can see it in her eyes, the need for validation.

But that's the thing—people like Emi are so desperate to be liked, they never stop to think about what's real. It's all about image. But I guess I can't blame her. I used to care about that, too, back when I thought fitting in mattered.

Then it's my childhood classmate, Yuuto Takahashi. He stands up with his usual lazy air, ruffling his hair like it's nothing. "Hey, I'm Yuuto. Don't really care much about school, but I guess I'll get by. I'm into gaming and sometimes anime. Hope we don't have too much homework this year."

He doesn't even look at me as he speaks. Just like always, Yuuto's never been much of a friend. He's the one who sided with the others back in middle school, the one who believed Tatsuya's rumors without a second thought. I can't say I care what he thinks of me anymore. But the lack of acknowledgment is something I've gotten used to.

Then there's Tatsuya, the one who's always followed by a small group of guys who laugh a little too loudly at his jokes. I've been bracing for this moment. He stands up with his usual cocky grin. "Tatsuya Sakamoto. I'm into martial arts, and I plan to be a champion one day. Looking forward to seeing all the new faces in the class."

I can feel the eyes shift toward me, even though no one says anything. Tatsuya's grin falters for just a second, his gaze lingering on me before he turns away. I know what he's thinking. He's still the same, still got that smug look on his face like he's the one who's in control. The one who spread rumors about me.

I don't need to look at him to know he's probably still telling people I'm the villain of that story.

Next is a girl named Megumi. She's quiet, with soft brown eyes and short hair that frames her face. "I'm Megumi. I like reading, too. Mostly mystery novels. I'm just here to do my best." She doesn't stand out, but there's something about her that feels different. She doesn't try to impress anyone. She doesn't pretend to be someone she's not. It's a kind of honesty I rarely see. But she's quiet—so quiet that people probably forget about her right after she speaks. 

Then there's the girl who I didn't expect to see: Akira Kanzaki. She stands up last, and I can feel the shift in the air. "I'm Akira. I like drawing and hope to be an illustrator one day. Looking forward to the year," she says, her voice soft but clear.

I know her. Or at least, I think I do. Akira's the one who was always on the edges of my group back in middle school. Not really a friend, but not an enemy either. She's always been quiet, observant. Maybe too observant. I catch her glancing at me, but she doesn't smile or acknowledge the years that have passed. To her, I'm just another face in the crowd now. I don't know if she ever noticed the way people treated me back then—or if she even cared. She always had that air of someone who was too absorbed in their own world to bother with what was going on around them. But even so, there's something in her eyes that makes me wonder if she knows. If she saw the cracks that everyone else ignored.

I look away, not wanting to get stuck in old memories. There's no point. Not anymore.

When the last introduction ends, the teacher moves on,  the faces of the people I used to know—those who've already shaped my life in ways I can't escape. But it doesn't matter. They can think whatever they want. I don't need them. I've got my books. That's all I've ever really needed.