There are words people like to hear, and words people need to hear.
I learned early on that the second kind costs more.
The back corner seat of the classroom is the safest place to exist. From here, I can observe without participating, listen without responding, and think without consequence. It's a position earned through experience—not preference.
I used to speak more.
That was before I learned what honesty could do to people.
"Aizawa."
The teacher's voice cuts through the room. I look up slowly, already regretting it.
"Your thoughts?"
A familiar question. One I hate.
Everyone turns. Curious. Expectant. Like they want me to say the thing they're avoiding.
I pause.
"The problem isn't the argument," I say carefully. "It's that neither side trusts the other anymore."
Silence.
Someone exhales sharply. Someone else clicks their tongue. The teacher nods, satisfied, as if I've contributed something useful.
I sink back into my seat.
They don't hear the part I don't say.
That this will end badly no matter what you do.
Lunch break arrives like an escape bell. While most students flood the cafeteria, I head the opposite direction—up the stairwell no one bothers using.
The rooftop isn't officially open. That's what makes it perfect.
The wind is gentle. The noise from below fades into something distant and harmless. I sit against the fence, bag under my head, eyes half-closed.
This is my place.
No expectations.
No honesty required.
I don't hear the door open.
I only realize I'm not alone when a shadow falls across the concrete.
I open one eye.
Mio Tachibana stands a few steps away, holding her lunch, looking just as surprised as I feel.
"…Sorry," she says softly. "I didn't know anyone was here."
"You can stay," I reply before thinking. "It's not reserved."
She hesitates, then sits on the opposite side, careful to leave space between us.
Silence settles.
It isn't uncomfortable.
That's what bothers me.
She eats quietly. I stare at the sky, pretending not to notice the way she glances over every so often.
"Do you come here often?" she asks.
"Only when I want to avoid people."
She nods, like that answer makes sense.
"I like quiet places too."
Of course you do, I think. People who choose silence always do.
When the bell rings, she stands first.
"I'll… see you," she says, uncertain.
I nod.
When she leaves, the rooftop feels louder than before.
Back in class, the teacher stops me before I can sit.
"Aizawa. Stay behind."
Figures.
She waits until the room empties, then slides a paper across the desk.
Student Volunteer & Outreach Club
"You'll be joining," she says. "Starting today."
"I didn't apply."
"That's precisely why I chose you."
She lists the members.
Mio Tachibana.
Ayane Fujimoto.
Sora Minase.
Hana Okabe.
A carefully assembled contradiction.
"You meet after school," she adds. "Participation is mandatory."
As I leave the classroom, a familiar weight settles in my chest.
Putting people with social problem together doesn't create understanding.
It just makes the damage easier to see.
And for the first time in a while, I wonder if silence will be enough to protect anyone.