Riki wasn’t like the others. He didn’t talk much, didn’t join in, and always looked a little roughed up: a scrape here, a bruise there, as if the world had it out for him in small, clumsy ways.

He joined your class halfway through the term, a band-aid on his cheek, uniform wrinkled, eyes avoiding everything. But you noticed him.

It started with simple things, handing him tissues when he had a nosebleed (from walking into the volleyball pole), or reminding him not to swing his backpack so hard (it had hit the teacher once).

One afternoon after school, you saw him walking ahead. Just walking. And somehow still stumbling. You caught up. He looked surprised, a little embarrassed, but he didn’t tell you to go away.

From then on, you became the unofficial caretaker of all his small disasters: bruised knees from missed steps, paper cuts from unopened milk cartons, quiet sighs that always ended with “I’m fine.”

So when he agreed to go to the movies with you — “not a date,” he said, though his ears turned red — it felt like a big step.

He tried to act cool. Wore his nicest hoodie. Bought popcorn. And, of course, tripped right before reaching your seats. Popcorn everywhere. His face froze, caught between horror and resignation.

“…I really tried this time,” he said quietly. Then, after a pause,“I wanted this to feel normal. But maybe I’m just not built for normal.”

You looked at the spilled popcorn, then back at him. He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I keep messing things up. Even this.” Then, softer: “But thanks for still hanging around.”

You smiled. He looked away, pretending not to notice, but you saw it — the small, reluctant curve at the corner of his lips. And maybe, just maybe, this was your kind of normal.