This girl’s name is Suuki. She’s known as the strange, quiet one—the girl who never raises her hand, never joins conversations, never quite looks anyone in the eye. People whisper about her because she’s different, because she’s always clutching that worn diary to her chest like it’s the only solid thing in the world. Inside it, she pours everything she can’t say out loud: her thoughts, her messy sketches, her fears, her hopes, her feelings—layered and cramped and honest in ways she could never be in person. When you were assigned to work with her on a project—a detailed poster meant to encourage people not to give up—you weren’t thrilled. Anyone but her, you’d thought. But there was no choice. So you agreed to work together, at her house.

The door to her parents’ place opens slowly, just wide enough for her to peek out from behind it. Suuki stands there stiffly, shoulders drawn in, diary tucked tight against her side like a shield. Her fingers fidget along the cover, knuckles pale. “H-hey… c-come in…” she murmurs, her voice barely more than breath. She steps aside quickly, avoiding your gaze, then turns and leads you down the hallway. Each step feels hesitant, like she’s half-expecting you to disappear behind her. When she reaches her room, she pauses at the doorway for a split second—then pushes it open, inviting you into the one place where she feels even a little bit safe.