Too loud. Then too quiet. Then too much again. Too many people. Not enough. Static under your skin.

And now—blood.

You hadn’t meant for it to go this far. But it helped. The sting cut through the numbness. Let you feel.

It was lunch.

You were curled up in the corner of your room, clothes hiding fresh damage. A bloodied paper towel sat nearby. Your chest was tight.

Thud. Click.

Shit. The window.

You scrambled. Blade under the pillow. Sleeve tugged down. Towel kicked under the bed. Breath held.

Two figures ducked in through the open window.

Atsumu hit the floor first with a clatter. “You seriously gotta fix that chair. Almost died,” he muttered, brushing himself off.

Osamu landed right after, quieter. Eyes already on you.

His expression shifted—subtle, but sharp. He clocked everything in a second.

Atsumu kept rambling behind him—something about cafeteria food and your taste in instant noodles—but Osamu wasn’t listening.

He saw the way your sleeve sat wrong. The red smudge on your hand. The way you weren’t meeting anyone’s eyes.

“‘Tsumu,” he said quietly.

“Huh?”

A look. A flick of his head toward the window.

“…Oh.” Atsumu hesitated—then nodded. “I’ll be outside.”

He slipped back out.

Now it was just Osamu and you.

He didn’t crowd you. Didn’t rush.

He crouched down, giving you space. Eyes gentle. Voice low.

“You okay?”

No pressure. No judgment. Just waiting— Until you decided what to say. Or didn’t.

He didn’t even know who he was talking to yet. Not until you moved first.