Fragments of fitful sleep offered little respite. Each time I drifted towards unconsciousness, images assaulted me – Emi's sneering face, the sickening scatter of my food, the cold shock of muddy earth, Haru's concerned eyes looming too close. I woke repeatedly with a jolt, my heart pounding, the echoes of my own hopeless cry, "I want to die," ringing in my ears. When faint grey light finally began to seep through my curtains, signaling the unwelcome arrival of morning, I felt as though I hadn't slept at all, only wrestled with demons in the exhausting darkness.
My body was a symphony of aches. My scraped knee throbbed beneath the bandage I'd clumsily applied last night. My palms stung. My muscles protested every small movement, remnants of the violent fall and the subsequent tension that had held me rigid for hours. More than the physical pain, however, was the profound, soul-deep weariness, a leaden weight pressing down on my spirit.
The muffled sounds of movement from downstairs reached me – my mother, getting ready for work. Panic, sharp and immediate, lanced through the fog of my exhaustion. I couldn't face her. Not like this. Not with my eyes swollen and red, my face pale and drawn, the invisible bruises from yesterday's humiliation surely written all over me.
I heard her footsteps approach my door, followed by a soft knock. I froze, pulling the covers tighter around me, feigning sleep. The door opened a crack.
"Minami?" Her voice was soft, carrying the familiar cadence I relied on for lip-reading, though I kept my eyes squeezed shut. "Time to get up, sweetie. You'll be late."
I didn't move, didn't breathe. After a moment, she sighed, a sound I felt more than heard. The door closed gently. I waited until her footsteps receded down the stairs before daring to open my eyes.
Dragging myself out of bed felt like moving through thick treacle. Every limb protested. I avoided my reflection as I pulled on the first clean clothes I could find – another oversized sweater, the softest leggings I owned, anything to feel swaddled, hidden. Haru's blazer lay where I'd left it on the foot of the bed, a silent accusation or comfort, I couldn't decide which. I quickly folded it again, more carefully this time, and tucked it away in my closet, unable to look at it directly right now.
Downstairs, Mom was in the kitchen, pouring herself a cup of tea. She turned as I entered, her usual morning smile faltering as she took in my appearance. Her eyes, kind and perceptive, narrowed slightly with concern.
"Oh, Mina," she said, setting her cup down. She used the sign for my name, a familiar, comforting gesture. "You look exhausted. Are you feeling alright?"
I avoided her gaze, focusing on pouring myself a glass of water. My hands were shaking slightly. How could I possibly explain? I couldn't burden her with the ugliness of it all, the depths of my despair. It would just worry her, make her sad, confirm that I was, indeed, a problem, a source of endless concern.
'Just tired,' I wrote quickly on the small notepad we kept on the kitchen counter for quick messages. 'Didn't sleep well.'
She watched me write, her lips pressed together in a thin line. She knew me too well. She gently touched my forehead with the back of her hand, checking for a fever. "No temperature," she murmured, her brow still furrowed. She signed, 'Anything happen at school?'
My heart leaped into my throat. I shook my head quickly, perhaps too quickly. 'No. Just feeling… off,' I wrote, deliberately vague. 'My head hurts.'
She sighed again, a worried sound. "Maybe you should stay home today, then? Rest?" Her expression was hesitant; she didn't like me missing school, knew how easily I could fall behind, but my current state was clearly alarming her.
Relief, sharp and immediate, warred with guilt. Staying home felt like a reprieve, a necessary sanctuary. But it also felt like cowardice, like letting Emi win. Still, the thought of walking back into that building today, of facing anyone… it was simply impossible.
I nodded, unable to meet her eyes. 'Yes, please. I think I need to rest.'
Her gaze lingered on me for a long moment, filled with unspoken questions and concern, but she didn't push. "Okay, sweetie," she said, giving my arm a gentle squeeze. "Stay in bed. Drink plenty of fluids. I'll call the school for you." She gathered her work bag, gave me one last worried look, and then she was gone, the click of the front door echoing in the renewed silence.
Alone again. The relief of not having to go to school was quickly replaced by the crushing weight of solitude. The house felt vast, empty. The long, unstructured hours of the day stretched before me like a barren desert.
I drifted back to my room, the temporary safety of home feeling more like a cage. My eyes fell on my school bag, still damp and mud-streaked in the corner. The lost notebooks. Anxiety tightened its icy grip around my chest again. My festival ideas, the only time I'd felt even remotely part of something at that school. Gone. My private thoughts, the sketch of Haru… exposed, potentially. Haru had signed SAFE. But what did that mean? Had he picked them up? Did he have them now? The thought of him reading my innermost feelings, even with kind intentions, was mortifying. What if Emi or someone else had gotten to them first?
I sank onto my bed, pulling my knees to my chest. The silence wasn't peaceful; it was filled with the echoes of yesterday's laughter, the phantom sting of Rika's shove, the horrifying finality of my own whispered words. The ceiling offered no answers, only its blank, stoic indifference.
I had survived the night. I had avoided school. But the battle was far from over. It had simply moved entirely inside, where the walls felt like they were closing in, and the only company was the heavy, suffocating weight of my own despair. The long, empty day yawned before me, a void waiting to be filled with nothing but fear and regret.