It was mid-June, deep in summer. Cicadas droned in the heat, their shrill chorus blending with the hum of the idling bus. Sunlight streamed down in warm, golden shafts, spilling over the cluster of children boarding one after another.
They were twelve, maybe thirteen—middle school students in neat uniforms that had already begun to wrinkle under the weight of the day's heat. Every pair of seats filled quickly, occupied by classmates leaning close, voices overlapping in animated chatter.
Every seat had two students—except one.
"Are you alone again, Hachiman?" the teacher asked gently.
The lone boy in the back window seat stiffened. He had been gazing outside, watching the world blur past in bright streaks of summer light, when the sudden sound of his name startled him.
With messy black hair falling into dark, unreadable eyes, he glanced left and right, as if confirming that he was indeed the one being addressed.
"Yes, Sensei… I—"
He hesitated, searching for a proper reply, but his teacher spoke before he could gather the words.
"You know, Kitsugi, if you keep shutting yourself away and refusing to talk to people, you'll never make friends."
The boy—Hachiman Kitsugi—stiffened further beneath her steady gaze.
He had always been isolated because of his timid, withdrawn nature. His appearance did little to help. There was something unremarkable about him—plain, almost colorless. Most unsettling were his oddly small eyes. They reminded people of a fish's: distant, glassy, difficult to read. To children his age, that strangeness was enough to make him seem eerie.
In a barely audible voice, he replied, "Yes, Fuyukawa-sensei. I… I understand."
The older woman sighed softly. She only wanted to keep the boy from drifting into permanent solitude, though perhaps her words had come out harsher than she intended.
She took the empty seat beside him. She wore a white blazer over a black shirt and simple jeans, her presence calm but firm. Turning toward him, her tone gentled.
"Listen, Hachiman. You need to understand that humans are social creatures—like bees in a hive. To live in society, you have to adapt and learn to get along with others. No one can survive entirely alone. That's why we have friends and family—people who stand by us, who protect us when we're in danger."
The boy nodded, though she could not tell how much of her words had truly reached him.
All she could do was hope he would remember them.
…
By midday, the buses rolled to a stop at their destination—a mountain camp nestled among tall cedar trees and sloping trails. The air was cooler here, tinged with pine and damp earth. Sixth-grade students had been assigned to stay alongside the fifth and seventh graders, and several teachers were already gathered near the main lodge, speaking with the camp staff.
Ms. Fuyukawa and the others began guiding the children toward their cabins, calling out instructions and reminding them to stay in groups.
As she scanned the crowd, she noticed Hachiman standing beside a girl. She had heard about her before—his younger sister. Energetic, bright, endlessly cheerful. The complete opposite of her quiet, withdrawn brother.
Perhaps, she thought, through his sister, he might find a way to open up to others.
Just as that hopeful thought crossed her mind, someone called her name.
"Ms. Fuyukawa!"
She turned to see a male teacher running toward her, slightly out of breath.
"Ms. Fuyukawa—huff—we've recounted the students. One of the seventh graders… a girl… she's nowhere to be found."
Her expression tightened. "Are you certain? Did you count properly? Maybe she wandered off to play?"
"We counted three times," he replied, still catching his breath. "We asked the other students as well. No one has seen her. It's as if she just… disappeared."
Her heart dropped. They had arrived only a few hours ago, and already a student was missing.
If the children found out, panic would spread like wildfire.
"Keep this between the teachers and the staff," Ms. Fuyukawa said firmly. "Make sure every student is inside their cabins without incident."
"Yes, Ms. Fuyukawa."
"I'll organize a search team with the staff. Do not let this spread among the students."
With that, she turned and headed toward the staff room near the cabins.
—
Meanwhile, Hachiman and his sister, Haruka Kitsugi, walked side by side. She stayed close, her small hand wrapped around his as though afraid he might disappear if she let go.
Though younger, Haruka worried constantly about her brother. She knew how often he was teased, how easily others singled him out.
After their mother's sudden death, everything had changed. Their father had collapsed into grief—distant, hollow. He rarely came home, and when he did, it was either drunk or accompanied by strangers. On those nights, Hachiman would quietly guide Haruka into their room and keep her there until the noise stopped.
He cooked for her. Cleaned the house. Worked part-time at a ramen shop to cover what their father neglected. Sometimes he even took money from his father's wallet—just enough to keep things running.
They were never meant to attend this camp. Hachiman had worked extra shifts and persuaded his employer to sign the permission slip their father should have signed.
Haruka shared his black hair and dark eyes, but she had inherited their mother's softer features. She was bright and pretty in a way he never believed himself to be.
As she tugged him toward the cabins, Hachiman glanced down at her. There had been days, long ago, when he resented her—resented how easily she smiled, how naturally others warmed to her. But after their mother's death, he understood. They were all each other had.
At the cabins, they stopped. Boys and girls were assigned to separate buildings.
Hachiman gently patted her head. "Don't cause trouble, okay?"
"Okay, Oni-chan," she replied with a grin.
They parted, walking in opposite directions.
Lost in thought—already anticipating how he would explain the trip to their father—Hachiman failed to watch where he was going.
Bang.
He collided with another student. Both of them stumbled, the other boy falling to the ground.
Hachiman rubbed his head and looked up, recognizing a classmate whose name he could not recall.
"What's wrong with you, creep?" snapped one of the boy's friends. "Were you eavesdropping on us, you freak?"
The fallen boy pushed himself up and jabbed a finger toward Hachiman. "I knew there was something wrong with you. Everyone knows it. That's why nobody wants to hang out with you. Let's go before we catch whatever he's got."
They walked off, muttering.
Hachiman remained silent throughout. After a moment, he let out a quiet sigh. He had learned that the best way to avoid a fight—or worse—was not to respond at all.
He was used to it.
In truth, he preferred being alone.
Others pitied him or looked down on him, but it no longer mattered. Maybe once it had. Not anymore.
He would have been bullied regardless. With his withdrawn nature and strange, unreadable eyes, he was an easy target—the kind children instinctively chose.
In the past few years, a quiet cynicism had taken root within him.
Being struck at home by a father who no longer looked at him with recognition, and clashing with classmates who needed little reason to raise their fists, had taught him an early lesson: life was not kind, and it was rarely fair.
He had learned to endure.
He stepped into the cabin and all but disappeared, a talent he had perfected over time. The weeds that stood out were the ones torn from the ground—so he had learned to blend in.
Inside, rows of bunk beds lined the wooden walls, each meant for a pair of students. The room buzzed with overlapping conversations and bursts of laughter, a chaotic chorus that pressed against his ears. He let the noise fade into the background, shutting it out.
He set his bag down on the lower bunk. His assigned bunkmate had already claimed the top bed, and Hachiman had no intention of contesting it. The lower one was fine. It avoided unnecessary attention.
He wanted nothing more than quiet. To exist without being noticed.
Perhaps Ms. Fuyukawa was right—from her perspective. Perhaps people did need others to survive.
But her truth did not necessarily feel like his.
He liked his life normal and uneventful.
...
..
...
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Only he knew it would his last normal Day of his life.