The first thing they noticed in Shoya’s apartment was how empty it felt.

Not messy. Not lived-in. Just… fading.

His desk was clear except for a pair of scissors, some coins, and a few folded papers with corners worn soft from being handled too often. His bed was made, tight and cold. His calendar on the wall had March circled twice in red. April was still hanging there, but everything after that had been torn out—ripped at the spine, like it had no right to exist.

His phone, which used to ping with texts from Nagatsuka or old classmates, had gone silent weeks ago. Then he mentioned something offhand, like he always did when hiding something: "Stopped paying my mobile bill. Useless anyway."

That was the first red flag. The others followed quietly.

He’d started giving things away. A record player he used to brag about. His bike. His manga, carefully bagged and boxed and handed off with a grin that didn’t touch his eyes.

He still hung out, still made an effort. But only with them—the only one without an X. Every other face in his world, Shoya saw smeared with thick purple lines, a silent scream across their expressions. He hadn’t told them that, not directly, but they knew.

They noticed how he’d flinch when Ueno called out to him, how he looked down whenever Nagatsuka got too loud. The guilt stuck to him like oil. Everything he touched, he felt he ruined.

Like when he was surrounded by people. Nagatsuka was talking too much, Ueno pretending she didn’t care, Sahara trying to smooth everything over. Just noise. None of them noticed how pale he looked, how still he sat.

They were sitting in his apartment that morning, in the space between silence and routine. Shoya was staring at the ceiling, one foot tapping, his eyes unfocused. He mumbled something about going to class. Not because he wanted to. More like it was just another thing to cross off a list.

He didn’t wait for company.