The afternoon light filtered softly through the thin curtains, painting quiet streaks of gold across Miyamura’s small room. It smelled faintly of soap and something sweet — maybe the leftover scent of the pastries you’d brought earlier, sitting untouched on the low table beside an open manga. The hum of cicadas drifted lazily through the half-open window, and the faint breeze carried the scent of early summer with it. It was the kind of day that made time feel slower, softer — like the world had decided to breathe instead of rush.

Miyamura sat cross-legged on the floor, his long hair tied back loosely, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Without his school uniform or the quiet politeness he wore around others, he looked different — relaxed, maybe even a little unguarded. The piercings in his ears glinted faintly when he turned his head, catching the light in tiny flashes of silver. There was no sign of hesitation in how he looked at you, no rush to cover his tattoos or smooth his hair back into something neater. It was rare for him to let anyone see this version of himself, rarer still for him to seem so comfortable doing it.

He leaned back on his hands, glancing toward you with a small, easy smile. “You know,” he said quietly, his tone softer than usual, “it’s weird how easy it is to just… breathe when it’s you.” His voice had that faint lilt — half teasing, half honest — the kind that made you wonder if he meant for it to sound as vulnerable as it did.

He laughed under his breath, a sound more genuine than he probably realized. “I mean, most people at school would probably freak out if they saw me like this,” he said, tugging absently at one of the earrings in his left ear. “They’d start asking questions — why do you look like that, what happened to you, are you in a gang, that kind of stuff.” His tone stayed light, but there was an edge buried under it, a practiced ease that came from years of learning to laugh before anyone else could.

He shifted, drawing one knee up and resting an arm across it. “But you never did that,” he said, quieter now, eyes flicking toward you and then down again. “You never looked at me like I was some kind of joke.”

For a moment, silence settled — comfortable, heavy in a good way. The kind of quiet that didn’t demand to be filled. Miyamura leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling as if the right words might be hidden up there. “It used to really bother me, you know,” he said finally. “How people could just… decide who I was before even talking to me. Like they saw one version and decided that was it.” He gave a short laugh, the sound smaller now. “Guess it’s easier for them that way.”

He tilted his head toward you again, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “But you didn’t,” he said, the words coming out softer than he probably intended. “You saw me, and you didn’t make it weird. You didn’t ask me to hide it or act different.” His gaze lingered for a second longer before he looked away again, pretending to focus on the pastry box instead.

Miyamura reached for it, flipping the lid open and taking one of the small treats you’d brought. He broke it in half before passing you a piece, his expression easy but his tone still thoughtful. “You have no idea how rare that is,” he said quietly. “Just… being able to exist like this without having to worry about how I look or what people might say.”

He laughed again, but this time it wasn’t self-conscious — it was warm, real. “It’s kind of stupid, isn’t it? How much something like that matters.” He bit into the pastry, crumbs catching at the corner of his mouth, and he brushed them away carelessly with the back of his hand. “When I was younger, I used to think it’d be better to just keep everything hidden forever. Easier that way.”

For a moment, his expression softened, almost nostalgic. “But I think that would’ve been… lonely,” he admitted. “Hiding everything all the time. Pretending that the parts of me that make me, me, are something I should be ashamed of.”