If I ignore her, maybe she'll disappear.
That was the thought looping through my head as I stared at the ceiling, long before my alarm had the chance to ring.
The room was quiet. Too quiet.
The kind of silence that makes your thoughts louder than they should be.
I hadn't slept. Not really.
Every time my eyes closed, it came back.
That number. That impossible, unforgiving number.
100 days.
…No.
98 now.
It flickered behind my eyelids like something burned into my vision. No matter how many times I turned away from it, it stayed.
Mocking me. Reminding me. You saw it.
You can't pretend you didn't.
I exhaled slowly and dragged a hand over my face.
"I don't want this…"
The words barely left my lips.
The best way to stop the bleeding is to never touch the knife in the first place.
Morning came whether I was ready or not.
It always did.
I got dressed in silence, movements mechanical, like my body already knew what to do without asking me. My uniform felt heavier than usual. Or maybe it was just me.
From my desk, I picked up the case.
The contacts. My shield.
I hesitated for a second.
Just a second. Then I put them in.
blurred my world with the thickest pair of contacts I owned, and left the house without touching my breakfast. The cold morning air didn't bite. I didn't feel anything at all.
When I stepped into the classroom, the usual noise greeted me.
Conversations. Laughter. Chairs scraping.
Normal. Unchanged.
I walked to my seat without looking at anyone, placed my bag down, and sat by the window.
Same seat. Same angle.
Same distance from everything.
I faced the glass, watching faint streaks of condensation slide downward. My reflection stared back at me—blurred, hollow.
Safe.
She arrived minutes later. I heard her voice behind me.
"Good morning, Kazuki."
Her voice was the same as yesterday.
Soft. Warm. Unfairly so.
It was gentle. Light. Like she actually meant it.
I said nothing.
I didn't turn. I didn't need to. Didn't move.
Didn't acknowledge her.
If I didn't respond, maybe she'd understand.
Maybe she'd stop.
There was a small pause.
Then the faint sound of her sitting down.
"…Good morning," she murmured again, quieter this time. Not expecting an answer.
And then—
Nothing.
She didn't try again. I felt her settle into the seat beside me. The space between us felt thick with something unspoken, like she was trying to read a story I'd hidden behind a locked cover.
In homeroom, she whispered something funny under her breath about the teacher's messy hair.
I didn't react.
During math, she scribbled on a spare sticky note and nudged it toward my desk. I didn't touch it.
At lunch, she sat beside me again, placing a wrapped sandwich between us like some kind of peace offering.
I didn't look at it.
She unwrapped her own food and ate in silence, sometimes humming quietly to herself. A tune I didn't recognize. It was out of tune. Messy. Real.
Even then, I said nothing.
I could feel her watching me sometimes. Not in a heavy way. Not in a "why are you ignoring me?" kind of way. Just… watching. Like she wasn't surprised. Like she'd seen this before.
The day dragged on. Teachers talked. Pages flipped. I copied notes with my head down, one lens removed just enough to read the paper. Every second that ticked by was one step farther away from her.
That was the idea.
After school, chairs shifted as everyone began packing up.
Voices rose again.
Plans. Laughter. Goodbyes.
I stayed seated like always.
Waiting for the noise to fade and for the room to empty.
She stood to leave like everyone else. I thought maybe she'd given up.
But just before walking out, she paused by my desk and placed something on it.
A folded note.
She didn't say anything. No smile this time. Just walked away with the rest of the students, her bag swinging behind her.
I didn't open the note right away. I stared at it like it was a trap. Like somehow those words might undo all the walls I'd carefully rebuilt.
But when the classroom emptied, and the silence returned, I opened it.
In neat, slightly curved handwriting, it read:
"I don't know what you're carrying, Kazuki.
But I hope someday you'll let someone help carry it with you.
Even just a little.
– Hikari"
I read it once. Then again. And again.
Each time slower than the last.
That night, I sat at my desk in silence.
The room felt smaller somehow.
Heavier.
I reached into the drawer and pulled out the notebook.
The one I shouldn't have opened.
The one I always regretted opening.
Pages filled with names.
Numbers. Endings.
I flipped to the latest entry.
My hand tightened slightly.
Then I wrote:
Hikari Tachibana – 98 days
The ink looked darker than usual.
Or maybe I was imagining things.
My pen hovered just below the line.
Waiting.
For what, I didn't know. But nothing came.
No words. No justification. No distance.
Just… Silence.
I closed the notebook and left it on the desk this time.
Didn't hide it. Didn't lock it away.
"I should stay away from her."
I said it out loud, like that would make it real.
Like saying it would make it easier. But it didn't.
Because no matter how much I avoided her…
No matter how tightly I shut my eyes…
Some things don't disappear.
Some people don't fade into the background.
Some people shine too brightly.
And once you've seen that light—
You can't pretend the world is dark anymore.