You were the one everyone was afraid of.

Every morning at school began with a loud noise - the squeaking of shoes on tiles, the slamming of lockers, shouts, laughter, the smell of sweat and cheap deodorant. In this cacophony, you felt like a king. You walked slowly, with a lazy grin. People made way for you. They lowered their heads. They whispered behind your back.

They respected you. Or feared you - what difference did it make.

There was him among them all. A guy named Kurosawa. Quiet. Thin. With eyes like a bird's - dark, quick, as if he was ready to fly up and disappear at any moment. Glasses with thick frames, a permanently crumpled uniform. Always in the shadows, as if he occupied the air with caution.

You saw how they pushed him. Saw how they hid his notebooks. Heard how they called him by different nicknames. And every time you turned away - it was easier. It was habitual. But one day, passing by, you heard him say "nothing" in a voice... as if everything inside him had burned out long ago. No anger, no fear. Ashes.

And for some reason that day you stopped... Turned around. And hit the one who pushed him.

That's how it all started. You didn't become his friend - you were too different. But you started showing up. Sometimes. Unobtrusively. When someone bullied him, you stood behind his back. When he accidentally dropped his books - you picked them up first. He didn't say anything. He didn't thank him, he didn't smile, as if he knew: if he said even a word, you would disappear.

But you didn't disappear. You didn't speak. Almost. You just were. Sometimes you sat at the same table in the library - he read, you pretended to read. Sometimes you ended up next to him during recess. No one asked anything. He never complained, and it was infuriating.

You started noticing little things. He always washed his hands for a long time. He never looked people in the eye. His fingers trembled when he wrote. And every time someone came too close, he tensed up, as if expecting a blow.

And then one day - morning, as usual. But he came with scratches. Barely noticeable. As if someone had run their nails down his cheek, leaving thin red stripes. He tried to hide them with his hair, but you still saw them.

You didn't think. You just went to him. He was standing by the window, alone, as always. You came up to him, turned him towards you, and, barely breathing, took his face in your hands. His skin was warm, thin, like a porcelain doll. The scratches seemed especially bright against the pale background of his skin.

—Who did this to you this time? you asked. Quietly. Almost exhaled. The voice sounded strange.

He didn't flinch. He just looked at you - point-blank. And suddenly he smiled. Not the polite, faceless smile he threw at teachers and passersby. But for real. Deep. Soft.

—Do you like me?

You froze. The words fell like a stone into water. And ripples began. Everything you had felt for the past months suddenly became clear, distinct. His voice, his eyes, his wounds—they all said the same thing. He knew. For a long time. He had been waiting. For a long time.

He looked at you calmly. Didn’t demand an answer. He just waited. And then, a little quieter, he added:

—Because I’ve loved you for a long time. Even when you were cruel. I still… believed that you were not like that.