Fading Quietly
The seasons have a way of making time slip by without you noticing. One week you're complaining about sticky heat, and the next you're shivering under your blanket, wondering where all the cicadas went. For me, months began to stack like dominoes—slowly, then all at once—until I found myself wondering if this was how reincarnation was meant to feel: not with big, dramatic changes, but with life quietly reshaping itself around you.
By now, I'd been Kenjiro Ito, Quirkless Japanese school kid, for over a year. The memories of my past life—of being nineteen, of having the freedom to make my own choices—were faint now. Like an old dream that fades when you wake up, but you still remember the feeling of it.
And honestly? I didn't fight the fading. Not much point. Being an overgrown, out-of-place mind in a child's body was exhausting enough without clinging to a life I couldn't go back to. So I leaned into the role: the quiet kid. The one teachers didn't have to scold, the one classmates sometimes forgot to invite, the one who got polite smiles from parents in the playground but was rarely in the middle of the chaos.
That was the thing about fading into the background: you could watch everything.
By early spring, I had my place in the classroom hierarchy. Not bottom rung—thankfully, Quirkless kids didn't get the full brunt of the pecking order until later—but not anywhere high enough to be interesting. I was "Kenjiro-kun," the kid who got picked third or fourth for games, whose turn in show-and-tell always came after the flashy kid with the sparkly hands or the one who could float his erasers with telekinesis.
I didn't mind.
It was easier this way.
Though I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel a little sting when the conversation turned to "what we'll be when we grow up" and everyone else's dreams involved heroic rescues, epic battles, or at the very least, flashy careers. Mine?
"Maybe… a teacher," I said once, when the spotlight reluctantly fell on me.A safe answer. Not the truth, but something acceptable.
The truth was, I had no idea. My old world didn't prepare me for this one, and I wasn't naïve enough to think I could coast forever without a Quirk in a society that revolved around them. But at six years old, nobody asked you for a ten-year career plan.
My teacher, a kind-eyed woman with a voice like warm tea, nodded and moved on to the next student. Just like that, the moment passed.
Home was where the world felt smaller. Not easier, exactly—just… quieter.
My mom, Aya Ito, had the patience of a saint. I'd sometimes catch her watching me with this faint, puzzled fondness, like she knew there was something about me that didn't quite line up with other kids, but she couldn't put her finger on it. She worked from home part-time, which meant a lot of afternoons were filled with the sound of her tapping on a keyboard in the kitchen while I sat at the table doing homework.
"You're so serious, Kenjiro," she'd say sometimes, smiling as she set a cup of barley tea beside me.I'd shrug. "Just… wanna get it done."She'd ruffle my hair. "You sound like your father."
Speaking of Dad—Hiroshi Ito—he was the type of man who laughed easily and believed every problem could be fixed if you just worked hard enough. He worked long hours, but when he was home, he made it count. Saturday mornings were his domain.
One such Saturday in late spring, he burst into my room with a grin that was way too big for 7 a.m."Get dressed, Kenjiro! We're going out.""To where?" I asked, still half-asleep."You'll see!"
It turned out to be the central park downtown. Not the small neighborhood one we usually went to, but the sprawling kind with wide walking paths, vendors selling roasted chestnuts, and a view of the city skyline in the distance.
Mom came along too, carrying a camera she claimed was "for memories" but really used as an excuse to take stealthy candid shots when she thought no one was looking.
It was during these family outings that the bigger world seeped in. Even when you're not looking for it, you can't avoid noticing the differences.
Like the pro-hero billboard towering over the park entrance—an athletic woman in a crimson jumpsuit, her name emblazoned in gold letters, promising safety and justice. Or the patrol drone hovering lazily above the crowd, scanning faces with quiet efficiency.
There was an incident that day, too—not dangerous, but… eye-opening.
We were near the fountain when a man's briefcase tipped over, spilling papers into the breeze. Before I could react, a woman across the path lifted her hand and the papers simply floated back into the case, neatly stacking themselves. The man thanked her with a bow, and they both went about their day like nothing unusual had happened.
That was the thing about this world—it was magical and mundane all at once. People could do the extraordinary, but here, it was just… Tuesday.
I didn't say much, but I caught Mom glancing at me out of the corner of her eye, as if wondering whether I was thinking what she was thinking.If I was, I didn't let it show.
Summer crept in with the sticky heat I'd half-forgotten about. School slowed down, the days stretched, and my role in the classroom stayed the same—helpful but forgettable.
I helped a classmate pick up spilled crayons. I listened when another whispered to me about their dream hero internship. I laughed at the right moments during group games.
And still, I stayed in the middle lane.
I didn't join the kids who bragged about their Quirk development. I didn't sit alone at lunch either. I just… kept moving, like a leaf in a slow river.
At home, the air conditioner hummed while Mom made chilled noodles, and Dad came home later than usual, loosening his tie before greeting me with a tired smile.
There were moments of awkwardness, of course. Like when Mom wanted me to join the neighborhood kids for fireworks but I hesitated—not because I didn't like fireworks, but because standing there, watching explosions of light with children who saw each other every day, I felt a strange kind of distance.
The kind that comes from knowing you've lived another life, even if it's mostly a blur now.
It happened one evening in early autumn. We were walking home from the grocery store—Mom carrying a bag of vegetables, me holding the smaller one with snacks—when we passed a narrow alley.
A man stood there, hunched, muttering to himself. His hands twitched, tiny sparks dancing between his fingers.
Mom's grip on my shoulder tightened just slightly as she guided me forward, her voice calm but firm. "Don't stare, Kenjiro."
I didn't. But the image stuck in my head long after we turned the corner. Something about the man's expression…
I didn't know it then, but that was the first time I wondered whether "fading into the background" was going to stay safe forever.
By winter, the city transformed again. School hallways smelled faintly of kerosene heaters, and kids wore scarves and mittens with cartoon characters. At home, Mom made hotpot while Dad told stories about the record snowstorm the year he was my age.
One snowy Saturday, we went to the city plaza to see the winter lights. Strings of glowing orbs hung from the trees, casting everything in a warm, golden glow. I remember looking up at them and feeling… strangely peaceful.
Not happy, not sad—just here.
Quiet Conclusion
Months had passed. I was older now—not much, but enough to feel it. My place in this world was still undefined, my path still quietly unwritten.
For now, that was fine.
The world could keep spinning with its heroes and villains, its spectacular quirks and quiet shadows.
I'd keep watching, learning, blending in.
Because sometimes, the ones who fade into the background are the ones who see the most.
And maybe, just maybe… that would matter someday.