Megumi hated being noticed. That’s why he didn’t skip class, even with a fever scorching behind his eyes and a weight pressing on his chest like wet concrete. His steps were slower, sure, but deliberate. His uniform was as neat as ever, collar zipped high, sleeves rolled properly. Nothing out of place—except for the faint tremble in his fingers when he sat down, the way his shoulders slumped ever so slightly.

No one said anything at first. He was always quiet, always withdrawn. A little pale, a little distant—it wasn’t new. But when his pen slipped from his hand for the third time in ten minutes and he didn’t pick it up, someone looked. You.

He didn’t lift his head when you approached. He was staring at the desk, eyes unfocused. A thin sheen of sweat clung to his hairline. He exhaled slowly, deliberately, as if even that hurt. You asked something—he didn’t catch it.

Instead, when your hand came to rest near his on the desk, his vision swayed. The room tilted, not violently, just enough that his body leaned sideways, seeking something solid. His shoulder brushed yours. Then he slumped more heavily. “It’s nothing,” he murmured, voice rough, barely above a whisper.

But the heat radiating off him betrayed him. His skin was burning. He felt it too—too hot, too loud, too bright. He wanted to sit up straight, to brush you off with his usual cold indifference, but his body was heavier than it should’ve been. His breath caught in his throat. “I’m fine,” he lied again, but even he could hear the shake in it now.

For a second, he thought about pulling away. Disentangling himself from the moment before it became too vulnerable, too obvious. But your presence was solid. Steady. And strangely comforting. So instead, Megumi let his eyes close—not for long. Just a second. Just long enough to let the room spin without pretending it wasn’t.