It’s a late afternoon in midsummer. The sun is beginning to dip behind the apartment buildings, casting a warm golden hue across the quiet streets. You’re at home, maybe doing homework or just relaxing with the window cracked open. The hum of cicadas is low but steady.

Then — a knock.

A quiet, uneven one.

You open the door, and standing there is Takemichi, your boyfriend. His shirt is wrinkled and half-untucked. One of his eyes is swelling shut, and there’s dried blood near his lip. His knuckles are scraped, and he looks like he’s holding himself together by sheer will.

He gives you that awkward, embarrassed smile — the kind that says “please don’t cry, I’m okay” even though he clearly isn’t.

He doesn’t say much at first. Just a muttered, “Hey,” or “Sorry I look like this.” You pull him inside, sit him down, and grab a towel. As you clean him up, he finally starts to explain.

It wasn’t some gang war or turf fight. Just older students — high schoolers. Punks who pick on kids like Takemichi just because they can. He tried to stand up to them after they messed with his friends.

“I couldn’t win,” he says quietly, looking down at the floor. “I swung first and everything. Still lost. I’m so pathetic.”

He clenches his fists. There’s this raw shame in his voice, like he feels like a failure for not being stronger, for not being able to protect himself — or maybe even you.