After homeroom, the students are dismissed to their respective classrooms for the day's schedule. I gather my things slowly, not in a hurry to be anywhere in particular. The rest of the class floods out of the room, laughing and chatting as they go. I let them pass by, unnoticed, like I always do.

There's no point rushing. No point making myself stand out.

I walk to my next class, following the crowd but always keeping to the edges, always on the periphery. It's the same pattern. Always the observer, never the participant. I find my seat in the back of the room, away from everyone else.

The teacher starts speaking, the usual introduction about the class and what to expect this year. I nod along, but my mind drifts. I'm already thinking about where I'll go after school. The library, probably. The one place where I can focus without the noise of their voices, their eyes on me. Where I can lose myself in the pages of a book, in stories that don't expect anything from me.

As the class goes on, I can hear the murmur of conversations. Some students are already getting to know each other, forming groups and laughing. It's easy for them. The ones who know how to talk, how to fit in. I watch them from my seat, detached. Some try to catch my eye, but I don't look at them. I've learned the hard way that people only try to connect when they want something from you. I don't have anything left to give.

Yuuto's sitting a few seats ahead of me, laughing with his friends, the same group of people he's always hung out with. They look at me every now and then, but Yuuto doesn't acknowledge me. Not that I expect him to. It's like we were never friends, like the years of shared history don't matter.

Then there's Emi, sitting near the window, talking animatedly with a few other girls. Her voice is loud, trying to make herself heard above the others. I can't quite tell if she's trying to make me notice her or if she's too wrapped up in her own world to care about anyone else.

Ryuuji is somewhere across the room, talking to a few other guys. He stands with that same arrogant posture, like he owns the room. The same guy who's probably already sizing me up, trying to figure out where I fit into whatever social hierarchy they're trying to build.

I'm not part of their world. I don't need to be.

The class drags on, but I'm not really paying attention. I'm lost in my thoughts, in the cold distance I've created between myself and everyone else. It's easier this way. Less painful. If I keep my head down, if I keep to myself, they won't be able to hurt me again.

The bell rings, signaling the end of the class, and everyone rushes out, eager to get to the next period. I stay behind for a few moments, gathering my things slowly, not in any hurry to leave, but not wanting to stay either.

As I step into the hallway, I move quickly, my eyes scanning the space. I try to blend in, to keep to the shadows. No one's looking at me, and that's just fine. I don't need to be noticed.

But as I pass by, I feel something. A glance, maybe? Someone watching me. I don't look back. If I don't acknowledge it, it'll go away.

I make my way toward the library, the one place where I can just... be. Where I can shut everything out and lose myself in a world that doesn't demand anything from me.

The school day ends, and while most students head straight for home or to hang out with their friends, I head in the opposite direction. I don't have anywhere to go, not really—not any place I want to be.

My job is at a small, quiet bookstore a few blocks from school. It's not glamorous, but it's enough. Enough to keep me occupied, enough to make sure I don't have to deal with the chaos that is high school for too long. The owner, Mr. Takahashi, is a quiet man, older but with a kindness that doesn't require words. He doesn't ask too many questions. He just lets me do my job and go home when it's over.

The bookstore is tucked away in an alley, almost hidden if you don't know it's there. It's not a popular place—there are no bright signs, no flashy displays. It's just rows and rows of old books, a quiet haven away from the noise of the world. Sometimes, that's exactly what I need. The air smells like paper, ink, and the faint scent of coffee from the small machine in the corner. It's peaceful.

I walk inside, and the bell above the door rings softly. Mr. Takahashi looks up from behind the counter, nodding at me. I wave, not saying much. Words aren't necessary here.

The work is simple—stocking shelves, dusting off old books, helping customers when they come in. Most of the time, no one bothers me. The regulars are quiet, bookish people who don't ask questions or talk much. I prefer it that way. The silence wraps around me like a comfort.

Today, it's a slow afternoon. The few customers that come in are absorbed in their own worlds, browsing the shelves with a focus that makes me wonder if they're running from something, too. I don't know why I think that. Maybe it's just that the bookstore feels like a refuge for all of us—those who don't quite fit in, those who don't have anywhere else to go.

I make my way to the back, where the newest arrivals are stacked. The job is simple, but it's a relief not to have to think about school, not to have to pretend I care. Here, I can just exist.

The clock ticks slowly. The light outside dims, casting shadows across the store. I'm almost finished with my shift when I hear the bell ring again. A customer enters, a man in his late forties, wearing a suit. He doesn't look like the usual crowd—too out of place in a bookstore like this. But he walks right up to the counter, scanning the room quickly, then makes his way over to a section I can't quite see.

I don't think much of it. I'm too focused on finishing my work.

Eventually, my shift ends. I don't say goodbye to Mr. Takahashi; there's no need. I grab my things, step out into the cool evening air, and start the walk home.

The streets are quieter now, the rush of the day fading into a dull hum in the background. I walk with my head down, trying not to draw attention, my footsteps echoing against the empty sidewalk.

The apartment I found is small, but it's mine. It's not much—just a single room, a small kitchen and a bathroom, but it's quiet. It's a place where no one asks questions, where I don't have to pretend I'm someone I'm not. I keep it neat, but I don't bother making it anything special. It doesn't need to be.

I rarely talk to my parents . Since that day, I can count how many time I have talked with them in one hand and honestly, I don't care. I know they probably think I'm just angry, that I'll come crawling back eventually, but I won't. I don't need them, not after everything.

When I get home, I throw my bag on the floor and sit down at the small desk by the window. The city outside is noisy, but I block it out. I don't need anything but the silence around me. I pull out the book I've been reading, my one constant. The only thing that keeps me from losing myself completely.

There's no one here to tell me what to do or how to feel. There's just me, the pages, and the never-ending hum of the city outside. It's always been this way—school, work, home, and then back again. Each day a mirror of the last. It's easier that way. Less complicated. Less painful.

The world outside might change, but for me, nothing ever does. And maybe that's the way it should be.