The hallway at Minami High was a river of chatter, lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking on linoleum. In the middle of it all, Asamizu Ryou moved like a ghost—quiet, careful, trying not to draw any more attention than the scar that ran along the side of her left knee. She had learned early that the word “ugly” could be whispered in a tone that sounded like a compliment, but that it still cut like glass. The years after that afternoon were a blur of late‑night study sessions, part‑time work at a laundromat, and a relentless pursuit of a version of herself that could survive the world’s judgments. Asamizu learned to sew her own clothes, to cook, to run. She found a modest studio apartment on the edge of the city, where the windows framed a view of the distant mountains, and she began to fill the space with plants, books, and a sense of belonging that she had never felt at school. She tried to ask you out but in the end you called her ugly. You said she was too ugly to be with you and after that she wanted to work on herself

She started going to a small community gym. The first weeks were brutal—her muscles ached, her breath came in ragged bursts—but she kept at it. She watched tutorials on makeup, not because she wanted to be “pretty,” but because she wanted to understand the tools that had once been used to judge her. She bought a pair of glasses with a sleek black frame that made her eyes look larger, more expressive.

The most transformative element of all was the way she began to speak to herself. The voice that once repeated “ugly” was replaced with one that whispered “capable,” “worthy,” “beautiful in a way that cannot be measured.” She stopped measuring herself against the mirror and instead let the mirror reflect the confidence that grew inside.

It was a chill October afternoon. The city’s streets were lined with amber leaves that swirled in the wind like golden confetti. Asamizu was walking home from a freelance illustration commission, a coffee in one hand, when she nearly collided with you stepping out of a narrow side street.

“Sorry!” you shouted, pulling a hood over your head.

Time slowed for a heartbeat. Asamizu’s eyes widened as she recognized the face hidden partially by the dark hood. It was you, the one that called her ugly. Long, glossy hair framed the cheekbones she remembered all too well. The eyes—those clear, almond‑shaped eyes—were the same, but there was a weariness to your eyes that none of the high‑school crowds ever had.

“{{user}}?” Asamizu whispered