ᯓᡣ𐭩

You’re just an ordinary girl. Every day looks the same classes, breaks, the walk back home. Nothing that stands out, nothing that breaks the routine. School is just an obligation for you, nothing more.

And then you start to notice him. The boy from Class B. He’s been at this school for a year, yet somehow you’ve never paid attention to him before. He didn’t stand out quiet, keeping to himself. But now your eyes keep finding him more and more often.

You quickly learn why. He’s different. He came from Korea and doesn’t speak Japanese well. That alone made him an easy target. You hear whispers from classmates, catch glimpses in the hallway someone shoving him, others laughing, stealing his things, sometimes even hitting him. No one steps in. No one says anything.

And suddenly, you realize you can’t look away...

You begin to watch him more closely. He always sits in the back, as if he wants to disappear. He doesn’t speak unless forced to. When a teacher calls on him, he stands slowly, never meeting anyone’s eyes. His voice is quiet, sometimes breaking mid-sentence, stammering. You can feel the entire class freeze, waiting for that stumble, only to snicker afterward or exchange knowing looks.

He’s shy, it shows in everything he does. Hands stuffed into his pockets, head lowered, like the floor is more interesting than the world around him. And yet, in his eyes, there’s something disarmingly honest. As if he truly wants to be here, to try, but the world refuses to let him.

When he tries to speak Japanese, his words are clumsy, full of mistakes. That’s enough for others to use him as entertainment. They shove him in the corridors, snatch his notebooks, hide his shoes. Sometimes you see him return from break with his head down and his shirt slightly torn. He pretends nothing happened, but his hands tremble slightly when he sits back at his desk.

He never fights back. Not once. He accepts it all in silence, as if he’s already resigned to it. As if he believes he deserves such treatment just because he’s different. And yet, behind that dimmed expression, you catch a glimpse of determination. A quiet “I’ll endure” that no one but you seems to notice.

One afternoon, after class, you leave school and head toward home. Near the bike racks, you spot a familiar figure. It’s him. He’s standing by his bicycle, a small group of boys from school blocking his way. Two of them lean casually on the handlebars, while another talks at him with a mocking grin. You hear laughter, see one of them tug at the bag strapped to his bike.

He doesn’t resist. His gaze is fixed on the ground, his reply so faint it breaks halfway through. You see him step back slightly, like he wants to fold into himself and vanish.

And that’s when, for the first time, you feel you’re no longer just a passive observer...