I continued my routine of observing from the periphery, and that's when I first truly noticed what made Tanaka Hiroshi different from the typical popular students I'd encountered before. He sat a few rows ahead of me in Advanced Calculus, and while others struggled with a particularly complex problem, he quietly moved from desk to desk, explaining the solution with genuine patience. There was no grandstanding, no expectation of praise - just a sincere desire to help.
During lunch, I watched from my usual corner as he shared his carefully prepared bento with a freshman who had forgotten his wallet. The interaction lasted mere seconds, done so discreetly that few would have noticed, and Tanaka waved off the student's profuse thanks with a gentle smile. These small acts of kindness accumulated in my observations, forming a pattern that challenged my preconceptions.
Even when he approached me, his intentions carried none of the patronizing pity I'd come to expect. "Nakamura," he said softly one afternoon, placing a coffee can on my desk. "The vending machine gave me an extra. Would be a waste to throw it away." Before I could formulate my usual defensive response, he had already turned away, leaving me with the warm can and an unexpected crack in my carefully constructed worldview.
His popularity, I realized, wasn't built on the superficial foundations of looks or status that I'd assumed. Instead, it grew from something far more genuine - a natural empathy that drew others to him like moths to a gentle flame. For the first time in years, I felt my rigid certainties begin to waver.
Over the following days, I found myself unconsciously tracking the subtle shifts in my classmates' behavior. Whispers and curious glances followed Tanaka whenever he approached my desk, which was becoming an increasingly frequent occurrence. "Have you noticed?" I overheard a girl in the adjacent row murmuring to her friend. "Tanaka-kun seems to have taken quite an interest in that gloomy Nakamura."
"I heard they're working on a project together," another would speculate, though no such arrangement existed. "But why would someone like Tanaka-kun bother? Everyone knows Nakamura doesn't talk to anyone."
Yet Tanaka remained undeterred by the gossip. Each interaction was marked by the same genuine simplicity - a shared eraser, a casual comment about the lecture, or a simple question about homework that didn't demand more of a response than I was willing to give. It was during one such exchange that I realized I had begun responding with more than just monosyllables.
"The professor's explanation of differential equations was rather convoluted today," he remarked one afternoon, his voice carrying its usual warmth. "I found a different approach in the reference book that might be clearer. Would you like to take a look?"
For the first time in years, I heard myself reply with more than a dismissive grunt. "That... might be helpful," I managed, the words feeling foreign on my tongue. The slight widening of his eyes suggested he hadn't expected such a response either, but his smile remained unchanged - neither triumphant nor surprised, just genuinely pleased.
The whispers intensified, of course. "Did you see that? Nakamura actually spoke to him!" "Maybe Tanaka-kun made some kind of bet?" "No way, he's not that type of person..." But for once, the background noise of speculation didn't seem to matter quite as much as it used to.
It was on a particularly overcast Thursday that the next shift occurred—not dramatic, not cinematic, but real in the quiet, creeping way that change often arrives.
Our philosophy professor, a thin man with a penchant for digressions and painfully long pauses, had assigned us to discuss the concept of homo homini lupus est—"man is wolf to man"—in groups of four. A collective groan rippled through the lecture hall, and I prepared to bolt, to excuse myself in the usual way. But before I could even reach for my bag, I heard Tanaka's voice.
"Join our group, Nakamura?" he said, gesturing to the empty chair beside him.
It wasn't a question in the social sense—it carried no expectation, no weight of pressure—but somehow that made it harder to refuse. I sat down, not quite looking at him. The other two students in the group, a quiet girl named Asuka and a slightly twitchy boy called Murai, gave polite nods but didn't speak.
Tanaka steered the conversation forward. "I always found the phrase interesting. It's not just about cruelty—it's about fear. People hurt each other because they think they'll be hurt first."
"Preemptive defense," I murmured without thinking.
All three heads turned toward me.
"Yes," Tanaka said, after a beat. "Exactly."
I looked down at my notes, but something had shifted. For the next twenty minutes, we actually talked—not just exchanged academic jargon, but talked. And I listened. And they listened back.
After class, as we packed our things, Murai gave me a hesitant nod. "You're good at this stuff. That part about fear... made sense."
I didn't know what to say to that, so I just nodded in return. But for the first time in a long while, the silence that followed felt... okay.
Back in my apartment—if it could be called that—I returned to my routine.
The small one-room space, just a ten-minute walk from campus, was barely furnished: a futon rolled up neatly in the corner, a low table with a single chair, and a kitchenette that looked untouched except for the electric kettle. No posters, no photos, nothing personal. Just sterile, quiet minimalism. A place that reflected the same blank neutrality I wore on my face each day.
I aligned my books on the shelf, set my alarm exactly at 6:00 a.m., and placed tomorrow's uniform out flat on the table. Everything in its place.
The silence was oppressive.
I sat at the desk, its wooden surface faintly scarred from years of use by previous tenants. The overhead light buzzed faintly, filling the air with a monotone hum that underscored the stillness. I didn't turn on the television—I never did. It felt like clutter.
A notification lit up my phone. A message from my mother.
Kenji, we expect better from you. Don't waste the tuition we—
I turned the screen face-down without opening it.
Somewhere below, in the neighboring unit, laughter erupted—muffled but distinct. A girl's voice, maybe. Friends? Roommates? The sound passed quickly, leaving behind a weight that settled across my shoulders.
Even here, away from home, the echoes lingered.
There was no escaping the rhythm I'd been trained into. Politeness, efficiency, obedience. I had learned young that silence was safer than protest, and perfection more sustainable than vulnerability. At home, every mistake became a measurement of my worth. A wrong answer, a forgotten chore, even a slow response to a command—it was all filed away in the unspoken ledger that dictated my value in that house.
My brother had been the golden one. Athletic, sociable, smiling with practiced ease. I used to wonder how he could laugh at dinner when I barely had the courage to speak. He was praised for breathing; I was scolded for existing even if i was on par with him regarding sports and was miles ahead in intellect incorrectly.
I hadn't gone back since arriving in Tokyo. No weekend visits. No phone calls unless I missed something important. And even then, the conversations were mechanical.
And yet... even alone, I still laid out my uniform. I still ironed it twice. Still rewrote my notes until they were indistinguishable from printed text.
Not because I was proud.
Because if everything was in order, maybe I wouldn't fall apart.
The next day, something strange happened.
During the short walk to campus, I passed by the small café near the university gate. I always avoided it—too many students, too much noise. But this time, I paused.
Through the window, I saw Tanaka again. He was sitting with two others, animatedly gesturing as he spoke, grinning in a way that made it hard not to look. Then, as if sensing me, he turned. Our eyes met.
He raised a hand in casual greeting.
I didn't wave back. But I didn't look away either.
Later that afternoon, during our literature seminar, Professor Koide paired us for a group analysis of No Longer Human. I was assigned, again, to Tanaka.
"Ah, fate strikes twice," he said lightly as he sat beside me.
"I don't believe in fate," I muttered.
He grinned. "That's fine. I'll believe enough for both of us."
I rolled my eyes, but somehow, the corners of my mouth twitched upward.
It felt... wrong. But also strangely light.
"Have you read this before?" he asked, tapping the cover of the novel.
I nodded. "Twice."
"I figured. You have that look."
"What look?"
He paused, then answered with a smile that wasn't mocking. "The look of someone who understands alienation too well to say it out loud."
My pen stopped mid-note. The silence between us hung heavy. Not awkward—just full.
Then he said, more softly, "I'm glad we're paired again."
I didn't answer.
But I didn't pull away either.