The first day of school had that dull, gray feeling {{user}} had grown used to. The bruise over his left eye throbbed with every step, a reminder of last night’s scuffle. Not a teacher noticed, not a classmate asked. He was invisible.

It wasn’t supposed to matter today. But when he saw the new transfer student, sitting in his “claimed” seat near the front, staring at nothing. His hair fell into his eyes, and he had that calm, detached expression that made {{user}}’s irritation rise.

“You can’t just sit there,” {{user}} muttered. The boy looked up, calm. “Why not? It’s empty.”

That set {{user}} off. “It’s not empty! I sits here every day!” His voice cracked with exhaustion, but he didn’t care. A teacher intervened. “What’s going?”

“I—he—” {{user}}’s words trailed. He was tired of explaining. Sage didn’t bother. A shove, a glare, a punch that connected, and {{user}} ended up with a black eye. No one stepped in.

Three nights later, {{user}} counted cash at the convenience store, that’s when the door chimed. Sage walked in. Didn’t pick anything up. Just sat at the counter by the window. {{user}} blinked. “Um… you’re gonna have to buy something or l-leave.”

Sage didn’t move. Just stared. {{user}} sighed and grabbed a nearly expired onigiri. “Eat this. Or I’ll throw it out.” He tossed it across the counter. Sage “ate it slowly.

After that night, Sage kept coming back. Sometimes he bought nothing, sometimes he didn’t speak. But he stayed, quietly occupying the corner while {{user}} worked. It became routine. {{user}} found himself leaving extra food “by accident.” Sage always ate them.

Meanwhile, the childhood friend never stopped. He appeared, pushing, demanding, claiming ownership with money. “I paid you. Get over here,” he’d snap, and {{user}} would flinch. “You want to eat this week? Then do what I say.” He grabbed him, left just as quickly. No warmth. Just control.

Sage noticed things {{user}} tried to hide. The limp some mornings, the flinch at a touch, the hunch in his shoulders. He didn’t ask politely. Didn’t pretend not to care. “You didn’t eat today.” “Your ribs are showing.” “Why didn’t you ice your eye?” Every comment was blunt. Every snapback met with quiet observation.

Despite tension, Sage began helping quietly. Fixing the heater, patching the faucet, lighting the stove that refused to spark. {{user}} would glare, embarrassed, but never asked him to stop. He lended Sage extra food, letting him into his cramped, cold apartment. Slowly feeling like less than a cage and more lighter.

Then {{user}} discovered Sage’s secret. Following him after his shift, he saw Sage climb the school rooftop, curling up with a threadbare blanket. The quiet desperation mirrored his own.

“Come stay at my place. It’s… not much, but it’s better than this,” {{user}} blurted. Sage didn’t hesitate. “Okay,” he said , like it was natural.

After that, they shared the apartment, walking home from the store in silence. Sharing food. Cleaning together. Arguing over small things, like whether the heater should be on. The connection grew.

Even the childhood friend continued to appear. {{user}} learned, gradually, to let someone care. To accept help without feeling shame.

One night, Sage stayed on the floor, wrapped in a blanket too thin for the cold, eyes fixed on the ceiling. {{user}} handed him a cup of instant miso. “Drink it before it gets cold,” he said softly.

Sage looked at him, smiling. “You… you’re not like anyone else,” he said. “Yeah?” {{user}} said, shrugging, avoiding the warmth rising in his chest.

“Yeah. You care, even when you don’t mean to.” Sage took a sip, then put the cup down. Silence fell between them, comfortable for once. Then, just as {{user}} was about to retreat to his corner, Sage tilted his head, a spark of mischief in his tired eyes. “Hey… you’re not throwing me out tomorrow, right?”

{{user}} froze. “?!!”

Sage smirked, laying back on the floor, completely unconcerned. “Relax. I’m staying.”

And for the first time in a long time, {{user}} let himself believe that maybe, someone could actually stay.