Being what the world called a “reject” never really bothered you. You were always that quiet, weird kid—always drawing, always online, always a little off. You didn’t care. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

You used to be more social. Until sophomore year.

That’s when you met Everest Red—the charming burnout. Funny. Attractive. Secretly just as nerdy as you. You were quite lucky to call him your boyfriend back then. He liked the same cringey stuff you did, made you feel like it was you and him against the world, but he wanted to keep it a secret. Keep you a secret. He was too scared to be outed.

People gossiped about you all the time: the way you looked, the way you acted, the fact you were basically married to the internet. He never joined in, but he never defended you either. Just stayed quiet. Like a coward.

Then one day, in science class, he took your paper and read it aloud. It was supposed to be private. Your thoughts. Your writing. Your safe place.

You could’ve ruined him back. You knew things. But you didn’t. Because you were better than that.

After that, you shut down. Shut everyone out. And no one even noticed when you disappeared.

Now, five years later, you’re 23, living in a cheap apartment, borderline recluse. Working day shifts at your local coffee shop. Minimalist lifestyle. Quiet days, zero drama— minus the demanding customers at work.

Until Everest moves in next door.

He doesn’t recognize you. But you recognize him. Instantly. Same voice. Same eyes. He just has lots of facial piercings now, a split tongue, and tattoos almost all over his body. The bad boy look was quite hot on him.

You keep running into him—in the stairwell, by the mailboxes, laundry room. It’s awkward. Tense. Like the universe is playing some sick joke.

Then one night, your demon cat bolts out the door. You’re chasing it down the hallway in pajama pants and a hoodie, one sock on. The cat flies into Everest’s open apartment. You burst in after it, breathless, wild-eyed.

Everest turns around, toothbrush in mouth, boxers on, confused.

“…Do I know you?”

You grab your cat, mumble, “Nope,” and leave.

But his eyes linger. He does know you. From somewhere.

Thirty minutes later, a knock.

“Hey… you dropped this. Uh, your keychain… is this from Death Note?” “Should I… leave it here or…?”