The alarm shrieked at six-thirty, rattling against the chipped paint of his nightstand. His hand shot out before thought, slapping it into silence. The noise cut off, leaving only the hum of the refrigerator through the thin wall and the faint rush of water in the pipes above. He hadn't slept more than a handful of minutes at a time, but he was already awake when it went off. He was always awake.
The boy rose from the floor, joints popping. The blanket clung damp to his legs, and he peeled it off with the precision of someone handling a wound dressing. He stood and stretched in increments, careful, like his body belonged to someone else and he was only renting it.
The bathroom mirror was crueler than the one by the door. Fluorescent light bleached the hollows under his eyes purple-blue, turned the cracks in his lips into wounds. He leaned close, inspected the split along his cheekbone where his fingernail had raked in the night. He touched it and hissed, then smiled at the sound, teeth flashing in the empty bathroom. He practiced that smile for another ten seconds until it looked right.
Shower. Toothbrush. Razor. Soap. Each step mechanical, rehearsed. The sting of water over half-healed cuts, the taste of blood from brushing too hard—small reminders of the body's presence. When he was done, the reflection in the glass was passable. Clean. Polished. Almost charming.
The mask was ready.
By the time he stepped onto campus, he was someone else entirely.
Students crossed the courtyard in pairs and groups, voices weaving into the morning air. The boy walked easily, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, posture relaxed, expression open. Heads turned. They always did. A cluster of girls glanced over, whispering into sleeves. A pair of boys nodded at him as he passed, casual but deferential.
"Yo!" A tall boy—captain of the basketball team—waved him over. The grin on his face was eager, genuine. "Man, you coming Friday? We need you there."
"Wouldn't miss it," the boy answered smoothly. The words were warm, accompanied by that flawless smile he had practiced in the bathroom. His voice carried the right weight: confident, but not arrogant; friendly, but not overeager.
Laughter rippled. Shoulders relaxed around him. The group absorbed him instantly, as though he were their center of gravity.
Inside his skull, another voice whispered: They don't want you. They want what you pretend to be. They want the reflection. Not the rot.
He chuckled at a joke one of them made. The sound was bright, effortless. He lifted his hand, gave a playful shove to the boy beside him. Perfectly timed. Perfectly convincing.
Every movement was an act. And everyone believed it.
The cafeteria smelled of bleach and reheated oil. Plastic trays clattered against metal rails. His friends fanned out toward their usual table, laughter trailing in their wake. He followed halfway, then slowed.
That was when he noticed her.
She sat alone at the far table. The cafeteria buzz seemed to bend around her, skipping over her presence. Her tray was untouched. A sandwich wrapped in plastic. A small carton of milk. Both sat neatly before her, like offerings she didn't dare disturb.
Her hair was dark, falling forward to veil most of her face. The sleeves of her sweater swallowed her wrists. Shoulders hunched, she stared at the table as if she could sink through it. She did not glance around. Did not fidget. She was a statue carved from silence.
The boy paused mid-step, tray balanced in his hand. He tilted his head slightly.
Damaged goods. The thought struck immediately, cold and sharp. Just like me. Hollowed out. Unsellable. Bruised where no one can see.
Outwardly, his expression softened. He gave a small nod to his friends, motioning them ahead, and peeled away from the pack. He crossed the room with the kind of grace people noticed—shoulders back, stride steady, a faint smile hovering on his lips. Eyes followed him, curious.
He stopped at her table, standing over her for a beat too long. "Mind if I sit?" His tone was light, warm, kind.
She didn't move. Didn't lift her head.
He slid the chair back anyway and set his tray down. The scrape of metal legs on linoleum drew glances from nearby tables. He didn't care. His smile widened fractionally as he lowered himself into the seat across from her.
"You're new," he said, folding his hands loosely on the table. "I would've noticed you before."
She blinked but gave no reply. Her finger traced the rim of her milk carton, circling it over and over.
"I'm Itami." He rested his chin on one hand, posture casual. "Don't worry, I don't bite."
Don't answer. Don't give me a piece of yourself. If you do, I'll only ruin it.
She stayed still.
"That's fine," he said softly, as if she had spoken. "First days are always a lot. No rush."
Inside, his voice twisted: You won't talk. You're smart. Stay closed. Stay hidden. If you open up, I'll only drag you into the pit with me.
The noise of the cafeteria pressed in—shouts, laughter, the clatter of trays. He tuned it out, watching her instead. The way she hunched smaller, sleeves swallowing her hands. The way her jaw clenched every time someone at a nearby table laughed. The way her hair curtained her eyes.
She was a mirror. He saw the fracture lines in her the way other people saw eye color. He didn't need her to speak. He already knew.
"You from around here?" he asked after a pause, voice still gentle.
Her hand stilled on the milk carton. She didn't look up.
"Not much of a talker, huh?" His grin tilted playfully. "That's cool. I can talk enough for both of us."
Please don't speak. I can't stand hearing the sound of someone else broken the same way I am. It'll prove it's real. It'll prove I'm not just imagining the rot.
Her fingers clenched suddenly. The carton buckled under her grip. Milk burst through the top, spilling across the tray and table in a thin white stream. She jerked back, eyes flying up for the first time—wide, startled, rimmed with panic.
The boy moved instantly, napkin already in hand. "Hey, no worries." His voice was calm, reassuring. "Happens to everyone."
Inside: Pathetic. Even a milk carton defeats you. Just like me. Weak. Fragile. Unfit for the world.
She blinked once, twice, then dropped her gaze again.
He dabbed the table clean with practiced motions, balling the wet napkins in his fist. His smile never faltered. "See? Good as new."
Her hands disappeared into her sleeves. She didn't look up again.
The bell rang. Chairs scraped across the floor as students rose, chatter rising to a sharper pitch. His friends waved at him from the door. He lifted a hand in return, smiling, but didn't move yet.
"Guess I'll see you around," he said softly to the girl. He let his smile linger, warm and steady, before standing and sliding his chair neatly back under the table.
As he walked away, whispers trailed after him."Of course he sat with her.""He's so nice.""He helps everyone."
Idiots. They think kindness is effortless for me. They don't see the rot. They don't see that I only sat there because she looked like a reflection. Two broken mirrors staring into each other's cracks.
He stepped into the hallway, mask still flawless, and the day marched on.