The digital clock on the desk blinked softly—2:03 AM. The rest of the town lay buried in silence, swallowed by a blanket of darkness. Streetlights flickered now and then, casting shadows across the quiet neighborhood. But in the heart of this silence, a small two-story house had its lights on.
Inside, a boy of about 18 or 19, sat cross-legged on his bed. His hair was a mess, and white bandages wrapped around his head and hands. The bruises were fresh. His laptop glowed faintly as he scrolled through a catalog of school uniforms.
A torn school shirt lay discarded on the bed beside him—its buttons missing, stained from dried blood and dust.
Akira sighed and leaned back against the wall. "Another loop... another day pretending everything's fine."
His eyes looked hollow, tired from living the same script day after day. Wake up. Go to school. Get ignored. Get pushed around. Come back. Sleep. Repeat.
But it wasn't always like this. There was a time when life had meaning... warmth.
---
Flashback:
Earlier that day.
The classroom buzzed with the sound of chalk against board and pages turning. But Akira wasn't paying attention. His eyes wandered toward a girl sitting near the window—her soft hair catching the sunlight, her laughter faint and melodic.
Yuna.
The only thing that still felt human in his world.
He looked away quickly. He knew better. No one like her ever noticed someone like him.
Lunch break.
He stepped into the canteen, tray in hand, trying to avoid eye contact. As he turned around, a group of students walked in—loud, confident, feared. One of them bumped into him.
The tray tipped.
Food spilled.
It splattered across the shirt of the group's leader.
Everyone froze.
"You bastard—look what you did!"
Before Akira could apologize, fists flew. The crowd laughed. His shirt tore. No teacher intervened.
He ran home that day, blood on his face, heart heavier than ever.
---
Back to Present:
Akira shut the laptop and stared at the ceiling. "What's the point anymore? Just... what's the point?"
He got up, tossed on a hoodie to cover his bruises, and stepped out of the house. The air was cold. He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked down the empty street.
Unaware that tonight would be the last time he ever saw this world the way it was.