The halls buzzed with the usual clamor—sneakers squeaking on polished floors, laughter echoing too loud, someone yelling about forgetting their lunch money. Riko moved through it like a phantom, polite smiles and quiet nods, offering greetings in soft tones that melted into the noise.
By the time she stepped into the classroom, she had already tucked away every piece of herself that might draw attention.
A few girls waved at her from their desks, already chattering about weekend plans. She waved back, slipping into her seat by the window. She liked this spot—the light was good, and no one sat directly behind her. Less chance of someone seeing her when her expression slipped. Staring out at the schoolyard. The wind stirred the dying leaves from trees just enough to send a few loose, like drifting thoughts she couldn't quite hold on to.
"Hey, Kai-chan," came a soft voice, pulling her attention up.
It was Himeko from the art club—petite, always with smudges of paint on her fingers even when she swore she hadn't touched a brush. Today her uniform was crisp, her bow perfectly tied. She looked too neat to be asking for anything, but Riko already knew the look in her eyes.
"I know it's last minute," Himeko began, clasping her hands behind her back. "But can you help me finish the banner for the Cultural Festival preview board? You did such an amazing job with the layout last time, and I... I really messed up the lettering."
Riko blinked. "Oh... uh, when do you need it done?"
"Tomorrow morning. Before homeroom. I was hoping you could help after school today?"
Riko felt the air tighten in her chest. She reached into her bag and pulled out her planner—the same little calendar she carried everywhere, color-coded tabs and neat notes in the margins.
Her eyes landed on the square for today.
Baking Booth Prep — 3:45-6:30 PM
Right. The charity sale with the Home Ec committee. She'd volunteered two weeks ago. They were counting on her to help prep cookie bags and decorate the table setup for the preview day.
Riko bit the inside of her cheek.
"I actually have something after school," she said carefully, finger tapping the page. "But maybe we could meet up tomorrow morning and do it then?
Himeko's smile faded just slightly, enough to notice. "It really needs to be done today... We were hoping to hang it up early. And, um, I'm kinda busy tomorrow morning."
"Oh," Riko said. "Could someone else—"
"I already asked around. Everyone's either busy or... well, you know how people are. You're always so organized, so I thought..."
Riko nodded before Himeko could finish the sentence.
Of course she did. Of course she thought Riko could make it work.
Everyone always did.
"Yeah," Riko said quickly. "It's okay. I'll figure it out."
Himeko's face brightened again. "Really? You're the best, Kai-chan! Thank you! I'll leave the banner and supplies in the art room for you."
And just like that, she skipped off.
Riko sat back in her chair, staring at the planner in front of her. The two giant task felt like anchors tied to her ankles. She could almost feel herself slipping under.
Her thoughts drifted, uninvited, to what Hoshina had said last night.
"I've seen how they smile and thank you — and then leave you to do everything alone. How many of them would stay for you, Kai? I'll tell you how many... none."
She stared down at her neat handwriting. At the checkboxes she drew beside each task. The illusion of control.
She wanted to prove him wrong.
She wanted to say someone would have helped if she'd just asked better. Smiled more. Asked sooner. But she had asked. And they hadn't. And that said something louder than she wanted to admit.
Riko closed the planner and smiled at no one in particular. She could figure it out. She always did.
The sun had barely dipped below the school walls by the time Riko finished folding the last cookie bag. Her fingers felt like they'd been dipped in syrup, the plastic wrapping sticky against her bandaged fingertip. She muttered a thank-you to the Home Ec rep as she slipped out of the supply room, arms hugging her books to her chest.
The sky outside was a dim watercolor of bruised purple and gray, clouds rolling in thick over the rooftops. She hadn't even touched the banner in the art room yet.
Her footsteps echoed too loud in the hallway as she pushed herself onward.
By the time she opened the door to the third-floor art room, the weariness had crawled beneath her skin like lead. She dropped her bag on a stool and stared down at the banner sprawled over the table like a patient in surgery—half-finished letters, wrong spacing, paint tubes scattered.
She didn't even know where to start.
"You look like hell."
The voice came from the doorway.
Riko flinched.
There he was again. Hoshina—bag slung over one shoulder, hair tousled like always, and that expression. Not smug. Not mocking. Just... observant. Like he'd seen through her bones.
She tried to chuckle. "Thanks. You really know how to compliment a girl."
He stepped into the room, eyes sweeping over the banner, then to her hands—red-stained fingertips, slightly shaking.
"You gonna cry again?"
Riko bristled, her shoulders straightening. "No."
A beat of silence. He leaned against a desk, arms crossed.
She went back to the banner, opening the wrong tube of paint and getting green across her palm. Her lip trembled—but she clenched her jaw before it could betray her.
"You didn't sleep," Hoshina said, watching her. "You're twitching. You didn't eat either, did you?"
"I'm fine," she muttered, pressing too hard with the brush and smearing one of the letters.
He exhaled sharply, more irritation than amusement now.
"Seriously, what's your deal?"
She looked at him sharply. "What do you mean?"
He stepped closer, voice dropping. "Why do you keep saying yes to everything? Everyone dumps their crap on you, and you just take it. Like some kind of doormat with a smile."
"I'm not—" her voice broke. She cleared her throat. "I'm not a doormat."
"You're trying to do two things at once, bleeding from your finger, probably running on fumes, and pretending like this is normal. It's not."
She glared at him, frustrated, cornered. "Why do you care?"
"I don't," he said flatly. Then added, "But it's pathetic to watch someone destroy themselves and call it kindness."
That landed harder than he probably meant it to. She turned away from him, brush trembling in her hand.
Hoshina didn't move, but his voice softened slightly.
"Look... I get it. You think holding everything together means you're strong. But there's a difference between being strong and being stupid."
She said nothing, staring at the messy letters in front of her.
"I didn't mean what I said before—about no one coming for you," he muttered. "You never give anyone the chance to."
She blinked, startled. That admission landed strangely. He scratched the back of his neck, looking away like he regretted saying it.
"I'll help with the banner," he muttered, already pulling over a stool. "But if you faint or start crying again, I'm leaving."
Her throat tightened. She nodded once, and they worked in silence. The banner slowly took shape.
And for the first time in what felt like days, she didn't feel completely alone.