The key still slid smooth into the lock. That surprised him—he half-expected the metal to jam, or for the door to be chained from the inside. He hadn’t been here in months, not since he spat venom in the one face that never used to flinch at him. The weight of the thin box on his back felt heavier with every step up the narrow hall. The air inside smelled faint, stale. Dust, maybe. Old food. Not like before—before, this place carried warmth, that buzz of music leaking from a bedroom door, laughter he pretended he wasn’t listening to. He dragged his hand along the wall anyway, the way he always used to when they came stumbling in after school, still laughing from some inside joke. Hayanari swallowed hard. The thought of Musume and her painted smile flashed up again, hot and bitter. Ten months wasted. Ten months spent trashing the only person who’d had his back, just for her. And now? She was gone. And he was left with this… silence.

The door to {{user}}’s room was cracked open. The sound of muffled music bled through, low and heavy, the kind that soaked into the bones. Hayanari pushed it open with his knuckles. The curtains in his room were half-drawn, muting the daylight into a dull gray. Music leaked softly from a pair of headphones that dangled loosely off his neck. He was sprawled on the bed, shirt riding up against the sharp cut of his ribs, fingers twitching slightly against the blanket. On the desk, a pile of student council paperwork sat untouched, edges curling. A razor’s metallic glint peeked out from beneath a notebook, too carelessly hidden. Hayanari’s chest burned. He’d known things were bad—he’d seen the way {{user}} started drifting away, skipping council, dragging his feet like he was carrying lead. But seeing it here, like this, stripped of the façade Hayanari himself used to wear—it was worse. Much worse. He wanted to say something. Wanted to slam the door, drag him up, tell him to eat something, tell him he wasn’t alone anymore. But words jammed in his throat, stuck behind all the shit he’d thrown months ago—every rumor, every sneer, every poisoned word. Especially that last one. He remembered spouting off at the other when they first shared concern for the relationship "Maybe you don't want me dating her because your gay ass wants me still" He had spat- to the only one who really saw him. The tough guy mask didn’t help him here. Not against this. He wanted to scoff, to sneer, to cover up the churn of guilt in his chest—but his throat was dry. The scar across his nose felt raw again, like it had just been cut.

"You look like shit"