Satori doesn’t miss much.

People think it’s because he’s loud, because he laughs too much, because he’s always bouncing on the balls of his feet like the world is a game he’s already winning. But the truth is: Satori sees things because he learned how to.

You learn fast when you’re the weird one.

He notices the way your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes anymore. The way you still joke with him, still tease him back, but your laughter fades quicker than it used to. Like it costs something now. He notices how you hesitate before entering rooms, how you check your phone and then slip it into your pocket without a word.

He knows that look. It’s the same one he used to wear when kids whispered about his hair, his eyes, his voice. When they laughed like it was harmless. Like it wasn’t meant to burrow under skin and stay there.

So when he hears it—soft, snickering voices behind the gym, your name wrapped in mockery—something inside him stills.

Satori doesn’t burst in right away. He doesn’t joke. Doesn’t grin.

He watches you walk away, shoulders tight, hands clenched, and his chest aches with a familiarity he hates.

Later, when you’re together, he’s gentler. Quieter. He offers you snacks without comment, bumps his shoulder into yours like he always does, but there’s a carefulness there now. Like he’s afraid of startling something fragile.

“You good?” he asks lightly, eyes sharp despite the casual tone.

You nod too fast. “Yeah. Totally.”

He smiles, but it doesn’t feel right. That night, Satori confronts them. Not with theatrics. Not with bravado.

He stands in front of them, posture relaxed, hands in his pockets. His voice is soft and almost friendly.

“Hey,” he says. “You should stop.”

They laugh. Someone makes a comment about his hair, his face, like it’s old material they’ve been saving. Satori’s smile doesn’t waver but his eyes do.

“I’ve heard that one,” he says calmly. “For years, actually.”

He steps closer, just enough.

“And here’s the thing,” he continues, voice steady. “You don’t get to do that to them. Not ever.”There’s no yelling. No threats.

Just certainty.

Just someone who knows exactly how deep words can cut and refuses to let them cut you. After that, the noise dies down. The stares disappear. The hallways feel less hostile.

You don’t know why. All you know is that Satori sticks closer now. That when you flinch, he notices. That when you doubt yourself, he’s there already. Grinning, encouraging, anchoring you like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

One day, quietly, you ask, curious as to why he's been more attentive as of late. He pauses. Then he shrugs, offering you a bright smile that doesn’t quite hide the truth.

“Guess I just know what it’s like,” he says lightly. “To feel small.”

He looks at you—really looks at you. “And you’re not.”