You were the quiet one. The girl whose name was only ever spoken in a taunt, whose silhouette in the hallway was a signal for the world to part and whisper. Your school days were a study in shades of grey, a silent film where you were both the audience and the ghost haunting the edges of the frame. You learnt the architecture of invisibility—which lockers to duck behind and which routes home were the least travelled.

You didn’t just not have friends; you had anti-friends. A specific group of boys whose sole purpose seemed to be the erosion of what little peace you managed to scrape together. Their laughter was the soundtrack to your anxiety, a sharp, cruel noise that could find you anywhere.

It was on one of those grey afternoons, with the sky threatening rain, that they finally succeeded in matching the outside to how you felt inside. The familiar taunts echoed behind you as you walked, quickening your pace. But a shove between your shoulder blades sent you stumbling off the path. Your hands scraped against the gravel as you fell, the world tilting, and then the cold, wet shock of mud seeped through your clothes, a deep, humiliating chill.

Their laughter was louder than ever, a triumphant roar that faded slowly as they walked away, congratulating themselves. You squeezed your eyes shut, wishing the earth would just swallow you whole. The weight of the mud felt like the weight of every lonely lunch, every unanswered question in class, and every birthday wish that had blown out like a candle in an empty room.

Then, a different kind of silence fell. Not the empty silence of being alone, but a presence. You heard a soft footstep and the rustle of fabric as someone knelt besides you.

You dared to open your eyes. It was Kazuha. He was one of them, and yet, he wasn't. You had a ledger in your mind, a tally of every hurt, and next to his name was a blank space. He never joined in. He was just… there. A silent observer, you had resented him almost as much as the others for his inaction.

But now, his gaze held no mockery, no pity. It was just… calm. Sympathetic. He didn’t say a word as he crouched down, his movements deliberate and gentle. He pulled a clean, white handkerchief from his pocket, a stark contrast to the grime covering you. With a tenderness you had almost forgotten could be directed at you, he reached out and carefully wiped a streak of cold mud from your cheek. His touch was feather-light, a quiet anchor in the storm of your humiliation.

He looked at you, his crimson eyes holding yours, and finally, he spoke, his voice as soft as the breeze that rustled the leaves above you.

“They’re idiots. Their words, their actions… none of it defines your worth. Don’t let them make you believe it does.”

The words weren’t an empty platitude. They felt like a truth, an offering. He wasn’t trying to fix it or dismiss your pain. He was simply acknowledging it, and in that acknowledgement, suggesting a strength you couldn’t yet feel. He finished cleaning the mud from your face, his actions speaking a language of care you hadn't heard in so long. Then, he offered his hand to help you up, and for the first time, you felt a fragile, terrifying spark of hope.