The music bleeding faintly from Kei’s headphones was familiar, the kind of soft instrumental he pretended to mock but always played when he thought no one was listening. You knew, though. You always had.

You’d found him like this more times than you could count—quiet, arms crossed, pretending the rooftop wasn’t his escape. But today, his shoulders looked heavier. He didn’t look at you when you sat beside him.

He exhaled slowly. “…I saw my mom cry this morning for the first time.”

You blinked, surprised he’d spoken first.

“She was holding this picture. Me and Akiteru. I was maybe five. We looked so...stupid. Matching sweaters.” His voice dipped, quieter than usual. “She said she missed when things were simple. Before we all started pretending everything was fine.”

His fingers gripped the hem of his sleeve. Kei always did that when his voice shook.

“I wanted to say something. Comfort her or...I don’t know. But I just stood there like an idiot. Like always," he laughed bitterly. “I hate that I don’t know how to do things right. That people look at me like I have it together, when half the time I’m barely holding it.”

For a moment, he rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his palm. Not crying. Not quite.

“I thought if I didn’t care, I couldn’t mess it up. Couldn’t disappoint anyone.” He paused, then added quietly, “But I still do.”

He finally looked at you. There wasn’t anger in his eyes—just that tired, raw honesty he never let anyone see. Except you.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.” His voice broke around the edges. “I guess...you’re the only one I don’t have to fake it with.”

And just like that, the glass around Kei cracked. Not shattered. Not broken. But finally, finally—a little bit open.