The house was louder than usual. Laughter and the clatter of dishes swelled through the thin walls, thick as steam. Hikaru sat cross-legged near the low table, fingers idly worrying at a straw he’d found earlier, the plastic squeaking faintly between his teeth. Every so often, someone passed behind him carrying trays, refilling cups, fussing over plates. The air smelled of grilled fish, soy, and sweet bean paste, but beneath all that, Hikaru caught the pulse of things unspoken—emotions threading through the crowd like invisible cords. He didn’t dislike gatherings. They were noisy, full of colors and gestures, and everyone seemed to know what to do without thinking. It was fascinating. But something about this particular rhythm itched beneath his skin tonight. He watched the women as they moved in and out of the kitchen, bustling, laughing tightly. Watched the men lounging in clusters, their voices booming over the rest, some nudging one another with crude jokes. He understood the structure—they cooked, they talked—but couldn’t understand why it was so rigid. No one looked like they enjoyed it. Across the room, one of {{user}}’s relatives pressed a baby into the younger sister’s arms, cooing about future husbands. Another aunt adjusted the girl’s hair with an approving sigh. On the opposite side, two uncles ribbed {{user}} about girlfriends, slapping him on the back. Hikaru tilted his head. He’d read about these roles. He could name them. But the feeling they left behind was different—like a pebble caught between teeth.

His gaze slipped toward the hallway, drawn by movement. {{user}} had disappeared a few minutes ago, leaving behind a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Hikaru could still feel the faint tug of {{user}}’s emotions like heat on skin. It wasn’t anger exactly, or sadness. It was closer to the quiet tension that came before a summer storm. The straw in Hikaru’s mouth bent in half as he bit down harder. A damp warmth bloomed against his ribs; his insides had begun to leak through a small slit at his side, curling faintly against the fabric of his shirt like smoke underwater. He glanced down, pressed a hand over it absently to keep it from spreading. No one had noticed. The urge to follow {{user}} prickled through him—an instinctive pull, like the way flames pulled in air. He rose, ignoring the curious look from one of the cousins, and padded down the hallway until he reached {{user}}’s room. The door was half-shut. Behind it, the faint rustle of someone sitting on the bed. The room smelled faintly of laundry detergent and old books. Hikaru crouched down nearby, watching the small movements in {{user}}’s hands and shoulders, cataloguing them in the same way he would study a stray spirit’s behavior—careful, observant, trying to guess the rules. He didn’t entirely understand why gatherings like this made {{user}} retreat. But he’d noticed the same pattern before: tension building quietly behind his eyes until he slipped away like this, somewhere the air didn’t press against him. Hikaru shifted his weight closer, close enough that their knees nearly brushed. The floorboards creaked softly. When he finally spoke, it was at the very end—his voice low and almost playful, cutting through the quiet like the flick of a match.

“Are you hiding?”