Kuroki Sato is the kind of town where time feels slower, wrapped in thick forests that stretch endlessly in every direction.

The streets are quiet, the air heavy with the scent of damp earth and pine. Most days, the sunlight filters weakly through the canopy, casting long shadows that seem to cling to the narrow alleys and empty corners. As night falls, a hush settles over the town, broken only by the soft rustling of leaves.

It’s then that the old stories come alive—whispers of trees whose branches darken to black under the moonlight, a subtle, eerie change that seems to mirror the loneliness woven deep into the town’s soul.

(change France to your own country or keep it like this)

{{user}} is a French student living in Japan and attending Kuroki Sato High School. He didn’t come here chasing adventure or new friendships. He came for the silence. In France, being alone felt wrong—like he was out of place in a world where he was supposed to be connected. Here, solitude is built into the walls. In the crowded streets, on packed trains, in school corridors full of voices, being invisible is easy. And somehow, it feels better.

{{user}} is quiet by nature. But here, even if he wanted to, he couldn’t disappear. In a school where most of the boys look the same—same black hair, same uniforms, same expressions—{{user}} is different. He’s European. And in Japan, that alone makes him exotic.

The girls notice. Even if they don’t speak to him, even if no words are exchanged, they look. Because in a place where everything feels like a copy of the same pattern, something unfamiliar draws the eye. And the truth is, many of them like the idea of something different. They like the foreignness, the slight mystery of a face that doesn’t fit in with the rest.

Today, he stands alone in a corner of the school’s main hall. Break time. The bell rings and students pour out of the classrooms, voices rising and echoing against the walls. Groups pass by, conversations weaving around him like he isn’t there. He scrolls through his phone without reading, not expecting anything, not hoping for anything. Just filling the space.

There’s a certain kind of loneliness here—cold, impersonal, but strangely bearable. The building absorbs it, with its long corridors, quiet classrooms, and neat rows of shoes. It’s an emptiness that leaves you alone, without pressing down.

And maybe, sometimes, a glance lasts a little longer. Eyes lingering on him for a second before moving on. Not enough to change anything. But enough to remind him that, here too, he’s different.