"Chutter."
"Chutter."
"Chutter."
Hundreds — perhaps thousands — of voices chattered everywhere. The sound of laughter, the hum of arguments, the banter between friends; all mixed into one vibrant melody of life.
In this school, everything seemed to come together. Friends, siblings, and teachers — each had a role to fulfill. Every thought, every action, every conversation carried meaning within their small world.
But there was always an exception.
Someone who saw meaning as illusion — a hollow noise that only deepened the silence within.
"Today, I heard from another class that Ms. Oliver won't be coming to school!"
A cheerful voice broke through the air, full of energy, full of youth.
They smiled at each other, bright and warm… yet cried when no one could see them.
"Are you okay? You seem… off today," another voice asked softly.
"Oh, I'm fine. It's just… I kinda want to be alone for a while." He smiled, though his tone betrayed the truth he didn't want to explain.
They want to be understood — yet refuse to be known.
Why? Because to speak one's pain is to be judged.
Humanity judges others without judging themselves.
Some refuse to see their flaws because their ego blinds them.
Others drown in self-judgment because their ego has long since shattered.
A contradiction. A reflection. A paradox of the same creature.
That is humanity — objectivist in thought, subjectivist in act.
A hypocrite, nevertheless.
"What do you think of today, Kafka?"
A voice drifted behind him, casual yet curious.
Kafka turned his head slightly. Behind him stood his friend — perhaps one of the few who still tried to speak with him — flanked by four others, chatting idly.
"...It's fine," Kafka replied briefly, his gaze returning to the horizon.
"I see… Well, I'll be going now. See you later," the boy said with a laugh before walking away, laughter blending with the others'.
Kafka said nothing. He watched as clouds danced under the sunlight, doves gliding gracefully through the air — partners flying in harmony.
'What does it mean to exist miserably?' he thought. 'Is it to keep living until we stumble upon purpose… or to let purpose find us first?'
He turned his head.
On the right, groups of friends laughed loudly.
On the left, lovers whispered under the blue sky, wrapped in each other's warmth.
'I don't understand,' he thought, eyes heavy with quiet fatigue. 'Why do they need each other so desperately? Is it love? Desire? Comfort? Or just fear of being alone?'
"Love, look at those birds in the sky," a girl's voice cooed nearby. "They look like us — soaring together, meant to be."
"You're right," her boyfriend chuckled. "It feels like that."
They held each other close, oblivious to the world.
Yet from the right side, voices of envy broke through.
"Look at them, acting all sweet again. Don't they ever get tired?"
"Right? They literally fought yesterday, and now they're back to being lovey-dovey."
Their words were sharp, tinted with jealousy — aimed at lovers who had done nothing wrong.
'Aren't you two the same?' Kafka thought coldly. 'You argued yesterday because your friend refused to lend you money.'
His eyes flickered — not with anger, but with weary understanding.
'Humans… always pretending to rise above what they secretly despise.'
Kafka stopped listening to the noise around him. The laughter, the chatter, the distant echoes of life—all of it faded into a dull hum. He rested his head on the table, closing his eyes, shutting the door to the light, and letting the darkness creeping from his mind swallow everything else.
'The world will simply continue. It doesn't matter if you have the power to rule it, or if you're just a mediocre soul staring blankly at your phone.'
'What's the meaning of life when you're already living? How do you find purpose when misery has already found you first? How can they act so proudly when their actions are so empty...'
With that final thought, Kafka drifted into slumber—detached from the disappointing reality that never stopped spinning.
Or so he thought.
Because before he could sink deeper into the dream, she appeared.
"Why the hard face, Kafka?"
Her voice was soft—melodious, innocent, like the hum of a child who'd never known sorrow.
"Are you sad? Do you want me to sing you a lullaby? I can do that," she continued, her tone filled with an almost otherworldly gentleness as her hand brushed lightly through his hair.
"…Columbina," Kafka murmured. Slowly, he lifted his head to face her.
She stood there—draped in a white uniform tinted with faint hues of blue and pink. Her hair, dark at the roots and fading to soft rose at the tips, framed a serene face. A pair of delicate wing-shaped clips adorned the back of her hair.
But what unsettled him most were her eyes.
They were closed.
'How can I look into her eyes when they're shut… and how can she walk so effortlessly when she can't see?' he thought, his mind quietly unraveling the absurdity of it. No one else seemed to notice. No one found her strange. To them, it was as if she were perfectly ordinary.
Columbina was… peculiar. Too innocent, too serene—yet somehow unnervingly aware. Always humming lullabies, always surrounded by others, and yet she had the uncanny ability to provoke emotion in anyone she met.
"How can I not talk to you?" she said softly, her hand still gently patting his head. "You look weary. When I see you like that, I just want to sing for you."
"…You're weird," Kafka replied quietly.
He rested his head back on his arms, surrendering to the drowsiness again as Columbina's lips curved into a tender smile.
She heard no protest, so she began to hum—
a sweet, gentle lullaby that seeped into Kafka's fading consciousness,
pulling him deeper into a world where dreams and sorrow were one and the same.
It didn't take long for class to resume; lunch break had already ended.
Kafka stared blankly at the whiteboard as the teacher continued explaining geometry.
'I don't understand…' he thought.
No matter how much he tried to listen, the words refused to form meaning. The symbols on the board twisted and blurred together, like a language meant for everyone except him.
He stayed still, trying to grasp even a fragment of understanding—but it was useless.
The lesson dragged on as the minutes stretched endlessly. Kafka's eyes wandered across the room. Everyone else looked so focused, their gazes sharp and certain. He was the only one lost, the only one who couldn't follow.
'They're all so smart…' he thought, a faint twinge of envy in his chest.
But what could he do? Nothing.
His head lowered again, eyes fixed on the desk's smooth surface. The seconds passed quietly—until the lesson finally ended. Or so he thought.
When Kafka raised his head, the whiteboard had been wiped clean and replaced by ten geometry problems.
"Show the formula and your complete solution. You have twenty minutes."
The room filled with the soft sounds of pens scratching paper.
Kafka stared at his blank sheet, his hand frozen. Around him, his classmates were already on their third problem, their expressions calm and confident.
"…"
He sighed and set his pen down. Then he rested his head on the desk again.
Shame pressed heavily in his chest—but he couldn't move. He didn't even try to read the questions. Didn't ask for help. Didn't have the courage to attempt something he knew he'd fail at.
He simply gave up.
As the time stretched, twenty minutes had already passed. The bell rang loudly, echoing through the quiet room, and the sound of scribbling pens stopped one by one.
"Alright, pass your papers to the front. No noise, please—we'll check them today," the teacher said, standing and collecting the stack nearest to him.
Kafka looked down at his paper. Blank. Empty lines, untouched problems. It stared back at him like a mirror of his own uselessness.
He sighed—soft, almost soundless—and just then, a light tap brushed his shoulder. Turning slightly, he saw Columbina smiling at him, her eyes still closed, hands gently holding the bundle of papers.
Without a word, he nodded, placed his untouched sheet at the back and handed the pile forward.
As the papers left his hands, so did the faint weight of his effort—or rather, his lack of it.
"Thank you," Columbina whispered, her voice low, almost melodic. Kafka didn't reply. He just stared at the desk, tracing the faint scratches and pen marks carved by others who had sat there before him.
The teacher began speaking again, announcing something about scores and corrections, but Kafka wasn't listening. His mind drifted—back to the noise of the hallways, the laughter outside the window, and the sight of those birds still flying above the schoolyard.
'They move so freely,' he thought. 'Even when there's nowhere to go.'
Just then, his name echoed across the room. Someone had called him out.
Raising his head, Kafka met the teacher's sharp gaze. She stood by the desk, holding a single sheet of paper—his sheet. His blank sheet.
"Kafka. Blank."
Her voice carried through the quiet classroom, the word blank striking harder than he expected. A low murmur rippled across the room as eyes began turning toward him—staring, whispering, judging.
"Stand up," the teacher said coldly.
Kafka hesitated but obeyed. His legs felt heavy as he rose from his seat, feeling every pair of eyes burn into him.
"Look at this," she said, laying the empty paper flat on her desk. "Tell me, why is your paper blank?"
Kafka's throat tightened. His hands trembled slightly at his sides.
"I… I couldn't understand the problem, Miss…" he managed to say, his voice meek and unsteady. His heart pounded harder, like it wanted to escape.
The teacher crossed her arms, disappointment written all over her face. "You didn't even try?"
Kafka opened his mouth but no words came. What could he say? That he was too afraid of being wrong? That he didn't even know where to start?
The silence dragged.
And then—softly, from behind—
"Miss…" Columbina's voice broke through. "Kafka isn't feeling well today. Maybe that's why…"
The teacher turned slightly toward her, expression unreadable. "Is that so?"
Columbina nodded, her closed eyes still carrying that same calm innocence.
Kafka wanted to say something, to deny it, to say she didn't need to defend him… but he couldn't. The words wouldn't come.
"I see." The teacher's voice softened, her sternness fading. "Take your seat—and next time, don't hesitate to tell me if you're sick, or if you didn't understand the explanation. I'll gladly explain it to you again, as many times as it takes."
Kafka blinked, a little stunned by her gentleness. "…Yes. Thank you, Miss."
He sat down quietly, but the weight of the lingering stares pressed on him. He could still feel their eyes, still hear the whispers that faded just as quickly as they began.
"Alright, class," the teacher continued, her tone brightening, "you all managed to solve the problems, so give yourselves a round of applause!"
A chorus of clapping and cheers filled the room, voices full of energy and pride.
Kafka didn't move. His hands stayed on his lap, his gaze fixed on the desk. The sound of applause blurred into a dull hum in his ears—something distant, unreachable.
Inside, he thought, they deserve to clap… I didn't even try.
Just as they applauded, the bell rang, signaling the end of class. Kafka quietly packed his things, the faint scraping of chairs and laughter filling the air as his classmates rushed for the door.
Soon, the room fell silent. Only he remained—or so he thought.
"What's wrong, Kafka? You seem a little too… how should I say, tired?"
That voice. He turned slightly and saw Columbina, still seated at her desk behind him. Her head was tilted, her eyes—as always—closed, yet her expression carried a kind of calm that made it hard to look away.
"I'm fine," Kafka said after a pause. "Just not in the mood. How about you? Why are you still here?"
"Waiting for you, of course," Columbina replied, her tone light but unreadable.
"...You don't have to wait for me. You can go ahead."
"I could," she said softly, "but then you'd be alone again."
Kafka didn't answer. He looked down at his bag, then at the floor—words caught in his throat.
Columbina stood up quietly, the sound of her chair sliding back barely audible. "You think too much, Kafka. That's why you always look tired."
He looked at her again, unsure if she was teasing or just stating a fact. Her face, serene and distant, revealed nothing.
"Maybe," he muttered.
Columbina smiled faintly. "Come on. The air outside feels warmer than this place."
Kafka hesitated, then slung his bag over his shoulder and followed her out. The classroom door shut softly behind them, leaving only the echo of her faint humming in the hallway.
As they arrived at the elevator, Columbina pressed the button, and a faint ding echoed down the empty hallway. Both waited in silence—Kafka with his arms crossed, Columbina softly humming a tune that didn't seem to belong to this world.
Then came the sound of footsteps—several pairs—followed by lively voices that broke the quiet.
"Mei-senpai, look! I got twenty in philosophy!" a cheerful, childish voice echoed through the corridor, full of pride.
"Oh! That's amazing, Kiana," Mei said, her tone gentle and warm, the kind that made people feel at ease.
"That score is still inferior compared to Bronya's," another voice chimed in—flat, emotionless, yet carrying a faint trace of smugness.
The group's chatter filled the corridor with life—so different from Kafka's stillness.
Columbina tilted her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. "They sound lively," she murmured.
Kafka gave a soft exhale, his gaze briefly following the group as they passed by. "Yeah. Too lively."
The elevator doors slid open with a ding. Columbina stepped in first, her voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe that's what makes this world bearable."
Kafka didn't respond. He simply stepped in beside her as the doors closed, their reflections fading into the brushed steel surface—one smiling faintly, the other unreadable.
Moments later, the elevator finally arrived at the ground floor. Kafka and Columbina stepped out, their footsteps echoing softly against the marble floor as they headed toward the exit gate.
Columbina's faint hum lingered in the air, weaving through the rhythm of their steps. Kafka said nothing, only listening until the sound faded as they reached the gate.
"I should be going now," Kafka finally said, pausing by the entrance. "Thank you for… the lullaby."
"It was nothing, Kafka. I'm glad you liked it." Columbina's smile carried a warmth that didn't quite reach her closed eyes. She turned away, her figure gradually swallowed by the crowd outside.
Left alone, Kafka exhaled a quiet sigh. The hum of engines, the chatter of strangers, and the distant sound of traffic filled the silence she left behind.
He adjusted his bag and started walking—past the busy street, through the crowd of pedestrians, until his steps slowed at the bridge.
The sky above had already turned into a mix of gray and orange, the sun half-hidden behind distant buildings. The river below shimmered faintly, disturbed by ripples of wind.
Kafka leaned against the railing, eyes half-lidded. "Happy, huh…" he muttered, recalling the laughter from earlier. The word tasted strange on his tongue, like something distant he couldn't quite reach.
For a moment, he just stood there—watching the current flow beneath him, the reflection of the fading sky dancing in the water.
"I'm truly useless…" He said to himself, it was not an insult nor a complaint. It was simply the truth, and always will be.
[END]
A/n: author here, this is my new book without throwing any random bullshit go, just plain philosophical questions where Honkai impact exist in the real world but the problem is, no one knows, and certainly not even Kafka(mc). I've taken Franz Kafka as my inspiration to create this fanfiction right now, so don't hesitate to voice your thoughts about this story!
Ps: The mc as you read, likes to belittle himself just like Franz Kafka who think he's a failure despite his book being amazing.