"Hm hm hm…" He hummed quietly, awkwardly trying to sound confident as he walked down the street, stiff and unsure in his ridiculous outfit.
His cheeks burned with embarrassment. Why am I doing this… He was already having second thoughts, even though he had promised himself last night — or rather, early this morning, after everything had collapsed.
He tried not to think about the park. Or the screaming. Or the laughing. Or the way he had lain there for hours, invisible even while people tripped over him.
He shook his head. No. Today was supposed to be different.
From afar, he spotted a familiar silhouette at the bus stop — the same girl he had seen yesterday, before everything spiraled out of control.
His stomach tightened. He took a deep breath and shuffled closer until he stood stiffly right next to her.
She was on her phone, scarf pulled up to her nose, completely absorbed. She didn't look at him. Not even once.
He let out a small breath — half relief, half bitterness — unsure whether he should feel happy or disappointed.
As they waited for the bus, he kept glancing at her from the corner of his eye, still not entirely convinced she wasn't ignoring him on purpose.
Finally, the bus approached. He instinctively stepped back, timid again. But the memory of yesterday — the bus door slamming on his leg, the driver blaming a "malfunction" — surged through him, fueling something strange inside his chest.
As the bus stopped in front of them, he caught his reflection in the window.
A clown stared back at him: red wig, red nose, messy makeup, oversized tie.
He swallowed.
Someone will notice me like this… right? Even in his head, the thought sounded uncertain.
Seeing the girl enter the bus, he rushed in behind her, slipping through the doors just before they closed. When the conductor didn't even glance at him, he felt a tiny spark of relief — at least he didn't have to pay the fare.
He turned around.
An entire bus full of students his age stared back at him.
He froze.
Panic surged up his throat. He gulped and squeezed his eyes shut for what felt like hours, bracing himself for laughter, mockery, whispers — anything.
But nothing happened.
Nothing at all.
Just silence. Just indifference. Just… the usual.
This time, though, the frustration and despair from yesterday reappeared inside him, sharp and sudden. His breath grew ragged, the images and sensations of last night crashing into him all at once — the park, the screaming, the trampling, the laughter that wasn't laughter.
His hands trembled. His vision blurred.
A full minute passed before he managed to steady himself, forcing the emotions back down, burying them under a thin, fragile layer of control.
He opened his eyes again.
The students were still there. Still chatting. Still scrolling on their phones. Still ignoring him.
He exhaled shakily.
Okay… okay. I can handle this…
He took a small step forward in the aisle.
No reaction.
Another step.
Still nothing.
A strange, timid spark flickered in his chest — not joy, not confidence, but something close to curiosity.
Maybe… maybe I can push a little more.
For the rest of the day, he kept testing the limits of what he dared to do. Walking through crowded corridors. Circling the classroom during lessons. Standing right behind the teacher. Waving his hand in front of students' faces.
It was fascinating how they blinked, flinched, or rubbed their arms — reacting to the sensation, but never to him. Like their brains simply refused to register the source.
It was strange. Hypnotic. Almost addictive.
He leaned closer to a girl taking notes. His sleeve brushed her arm. She shivered, rubbed the spot, glanced around with a confused frown… then went right back to writing.
He moved behind the teacher, close enough to see the chalk dust on his jacket. He exhaled sharply, creating a small gust. The man paused mid‑sentence, blinked twice, then continued as if nothing had happened.
David felt something flutter in his chest — a tiny spark of excitement, fragile but real.
So it wasn't just the bus. It wasn't just the park. It's… everything.
He walked between the rows of desks, watching students react to sensations they couldn't place — a shift of air, a brush of fabric, a faint sound. Their eyes darted around, searching for a cause that simply wasn't there.
It was like watching people try to solve a puzzle with a missing piece.
And he was the missing piece.
The realization sent a strange warmth through him. Not joy. Not pride. Something else — something he didn't have a name for yet.
During lunch break, he stood in the middle of the courtyard, surrounded by hundreds of students. This time, he made it a game to weave between them without getting knocked over. He didn't want to relive yesterday's ordeal.
He grew more and more accustomed to the flow of bodies, until he started to find a bit of joy in it. Getting into character, he began moving theatrically — huge hand movements, exaggerated steps, ridiculous poses, running, sprinting, jumping, striking dramatic stances.
A full clown routine.
He made faces at students walking by, sometimes right in front of them. None reacted.
Well — one girl did. She wrinkled her nose, fanned the air, and muttered something about a weird smell.
David's lips parted slightly.
It's real… it's really real…
He wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or cry.
Maybe both.
He lifted his arms dramatically, spinning once in the middle of the courtyard like a performer closing a show. The bell rang, and the students gradually dispersed, heading back to class while he remained frozen in his pose.
As the courtyard emptied, a slow, trembling smile crept onto his face.
I can do anything… and no one will ever know.
The thought didn't scare him. Not today.
It felt… freeing.
For the next few days, he kept the same routine — going to school, dancing through the halls, slipping between people, silently disturbing their little worlds. He even started visiting places he had never dared approach before.
The principal's office, for example.
He would stand behind the man's chair, watching him work with a seriousness that made David snort. When the principal turned around to grab a folder, David would quickly type nonsense on his computer — nothing harmful, just enough to make the man frown at the screen in confusion.
He added salt to his coffee once. Just a pinch. The principal nearly spat it out, muttering about "cheap instant coffee brands."
David had to cover his mouth to keep from laughing. Then the thought hit him — it didn't matter whether he held it in or not. No one would hear him anyway.
He went even further by slipping super‑spicy chili into the school's sauces. He was clever about it — adding it only after the cooks had already tasted the batch. The results were immediate.
Screams echoed through the cafeteria. Students ran to the toilets, to the convenience store, anywhere they could find water. Red faces, teary eyes, tongues hanging out like overheated dogs — it was ridiculous, and David nearly doubled over laughing.
He even stole a stack of exam papers one morning, just to see what would happen. It was hilarious watching teachers run around the school, panicking, accusing each other of misplacing them. Students blamed teachers. Teachers blamed students. Everyone blamed everyone.
And David, unseen in the middle of it all, swapped objects between bags and desks, creating tiny misunderstandings that snowballed into arguments.
Nothing serious. Nothing dangerous. Just chaos — harmless, stupid chaos.
And it was funny. Really funny.
For a while.
He even pushed himself into places he had always avoided — staff rooms, storage rooms, restricted areas. But once, when he grew bold enough and took a peek at the girl's changing room, somewhere he knew he shouldn't be, a sudden wave of discomfort hit him. The simulation felt too real, too intrusive, too wrong. He backed out immediately, heart pounding, and didn't dare return.
Even with this strange freedom, some lines still scared him.
But as the days passed, the euphoria began to thin out. The laughter didn't hit as hard. The pranks didn't feel as bright. The freedom didn't feel as freeing.
The depression he thought he'd outrun started catching up again, step by step. The frustration he'd buried under jokes and theatrics resurfaced, heavier than before.
He wasn't satisfied anymore. Not with this. Not with silly tricks. Not with watching people panic over missing papers or misplaced pens.
And worst of all — it disgusted him more and more to see people interact with each other so easily, so naturally, so effortlessly… while he remained outside of everything.
Something vicious began to stir beneath the surface of all those tangled feelings. A quiet, creeping thing. A shadow curling at the edges of his thoughts.
Something he didn't have a name for yet.
But he could feel it growing.
By the end of the week, the excitement was gone. The same pranks, the same chaos, the same little tricks — none of it did anything for him anymore. The thrill had faded, replaced by the same old emptiness creeping back in.
After everything he'd done, after all the mess he'd caused… nobody had noticed. Not once.
The thought hollowed him out more than he expected.
One afternoon, after dropping a pinch of salt into a student's cup and watching him spit it out all over his friends, David felt a brief spark of excitement — a tiny flicker of the fun he used to feel.
But it died instantly when he saw the group of students burst into laughter.
They weren't laughing at the prank. They weren't laughing at the absurdity. They weren't laughing at him.
They were laughing with each other.
Together. Connected. Alive.
David froze, the smile on his face collapsing into something tight and cold.
Why are you laughing… I'm the one who did it… I'm the one who should laugh…
His throat tightened.
I'm the one who exists here… right?
But their laughter washed over him like he wasn't even part of the world it came from.
And that sting — that familiar, hollow ache — reminded him why he had started all of this in the first place.
The next day, something had changed.
Was it him? Was it the others? He didn't know.
But nobody reacted the same way anymore.
The school tried to investigate the incidents, but eventually concluded it was the work of students who were simply too clever to be caught. Overnight, the whole thing turned into a legend.
It almost became something to be proud of — being pranked by him. Some students even prepared countermeasures: hiding their belongings, carrying spray bottles, setting up traps to "catch" the culprit.
Once, they even managed to hit him with one of those sprays. But since they couldn't see him at all, they just stared at the empty air, confused, arguing about who the real culprit was.
And somehow, his pranks became happy events. People laughed. People bonded over them. Some even whispered he was a mischievous deity — a kitsune playing tricks on the school.
To them, it was fun. A story. A game.
But to him, it was horrible.
He hadn't done all this so they could enjoy themselves. He hadn't wanted to give them something to laugh about together. He wanted to feel alive. He wanted to feel something. Anything.
Not to watch these privileged people — people who could talk, touch, laugh, exist together — have fun because of him.
To him, it felt like mockery. Even if he knew it was ridiculous to think that way. Even if he knew they weren't laughing at him.
The ache in his chest didn't care about logic.
It just hurt.
He couldn't help it. Not anymore.
Without even realizing it, the pranks began to twist into something darker. Something that didn't feel like fun — not even to him.
It started small. A chair pulled away just as someone sat down. A trip that sent a student stumbling into a wall. A cup of water thrown at a teacher's back. He told himself it was still harmless. Still just chaos.
But he watched their faces when it happened — the shock, the humiliation, the flash of real pain — and something stirred inside him. A dark, ugly thrill he didn't have a name for. A feeling that scared him and pulled him in at the same time.
He crossed lines he had promised himself he wouldn't cross.
He stopped hiding exam papers. He burned them. He stopped brushing past people. He shoved them. He stopped adding salt. He added sleeping pills to the coffee machine and watched three teachers spend the afternoon slumped over their desks while students whispered and panicked around them.
Each time, the rush hit harder. Each time, the reactions felt more real — more alive — than anything he had felt in weeks.
And each time, the part of him that whispered stop grew a little quieter.
He wasn't playing anymore. He was punishing. He didn't know who. He didn't know why. But the world had refused to see him for so long that something inside him had started to rot — quietly, without him noticing — until the rot was all that was left.