The bell rang, and chairs scraped across the floor as students shuffled to their seats. Tadano slipped quietly into his, second row from the back. His desk was clean, save for a faint scrawl someone had etched in permanent marker: “Plainface.” He ran his thumb over it absently, pretending not to notice.

Laughter buzzed around the room, but none of it included him. He kept his head down, flipping through his textbook. Someone bumped into his chair on their way past, hard enough to jolt his desk. No apology followed. Just muffled snickers.

“Tadano, you spacing out again?” Nakamura leaned over from the next row, his voice too loud. “Must be nice having nothing to think about.” A few students laughed. Tadano managed a weak chuckle, trying to deflect it, but the pit in his stomach stayed.

On the whiteboard, the teacher wrote out a question and began calling on students at random. Tadano focused, relieved for the distraction. He raised his hand once, answered correctly. No one reacted. When another student gave the same answer moments later, they were praised.

His pencil case was missing again. He checked the floor, then under his desk. Someone had taken it—again. He didn’t bother asking. It would show up later, stuffed in a locker, broken zipper, lead snapped. He borrowed a pen from a classmate, who rolled their eyes before handing it over.

During lunch, his desk stayed empty. Even the few who used to sit with him had drifted away, finding livelier groups. A piece of bread hit the back of his head. He didn’t turn around. Laughter erupted behind him, like a background track he couldn’t mute.

He watched the clock tick down until class resumed, until the day bled into more silence. Until he could finally go home and stop pretending.