After that day, something in Akari changed.
She no longer smiled. Not even the fake one she mastered that used to reassure the world she was fine. It had vanished completely, like dust blown off an old photograph. What remained was a quiet coldness, so still and sharp it almost hurt to look at her.
She stopped pretending.
At first, the shift was subtle. Fewer words. A steady, glassy look in her eyes. But soon, that silence thickened, like a fog curling between desks and hallways. When she walked into the classroom, conversations died mid-sentence. People avoided her eyes. They didn't know why, but their instincts screamed not to touch her, not to ask.
She moved through the halls like a shadow present, yet untouchable. Her uniform perfectly pressed, her footsteps always soft. But something was wrong. Her classmates couldn't name it at first. They only knew that being near her felt like stepping into a room with no air.
Even the teachers began to notice. Not because she disrupted class, Akari never made a scene. but because her presence felt like a warning. As if the silence she carried was louder than any scream.
Then, strange things began to happen.
One morning, the classroom windows were cracked perfectly symmetrical lines like spiderwebs radiating outward. A soft toy someone kept on their desk was found ripped open, its cotton insides drifting across the floor like snow. And Akari… sat in the middle of it all. Her hands folded neatly in her lap. As if nothing had changed.
But everything had.
She didn't deny anything.
She didn't admit anything either.
No one saw her do it, even no one ever saw her do anything, but everyone felt the quiet threat. There was no outburst, no tantrum. Just quiet malice, as if her grief had decayed into something darker.
Akari touching broken glass with a strange calm, as though the shards told her stories. Akari whispering to her reflection in the bathroom mirror not words, but sounds that didn't belong in a school hallway.
Haruko was the last to leave her.
At first, she had tried to understand and tolerate with her. even the silence, the broken things, the occasional scratching sounds in the middle of the night. Haruko told herself Akari was just going through something. But when she found her notebooks torn, her perfume spilled, and Akari sitting still on the floor, staring at the ceiling. Haruko couldn't stay anymore to bear with her things and decided to leaved the room.
She packed up in silence.
No goodbyes. No confrontation. Just left.
And just like that, Akari was alone again.
Akari finally thought that, "she will be happy without anyone around her."
but, the things went wrong. she is all alone, even she is staying in the school of girls, but no one ever talked to her.
Now, it was her final year in the school. not only in school, even in hostel.
Only six months remained until graduation, yet it didn't feel like an ending—more like a pause in someone else's story. Akari sat alone at her desk, the same desk she'd used for the past few years. Everything looked the same, but she wasn't..
But lately… there was something shifting inside her.
Maybe it was the way sunlight fell across the empty courtyard. Maybe it was the quiet laughter of girls planning their future. Or maybe… just maybe… it was the loneliness beginning to ache a little louder than the silence.
For once, Akari didn't want to be invisible.
She didn't want to be feared, or whispered about, or avoided. She didn't care if it was fake or fleeting—she just wanted to feel it. Friendship. Laughter. A moment where the cold around her could melt, even if it was only pretend.
And so, she looked for it. Not with words, but through quiet gestures. Sitting near others during lunch. Passing someone a dropped pen. Small things. Soft things.
That's when she noticed Mai again. the one cheerful girl, who want to befriend with Akari. but, Akari thought, "she is also like them, she will leave leave me one day definitely."
but now, she realized. that, "nothing is permanent in this world."
Mai wasn't loud or popular, but she smiled often and genuinely. The kind of smile that didn't feel like it was forced. She had seen Mai glance her way a few times. Not with fear. Not with curiosity. Just… something that felt almost pure.
Akari didn't know what it was yet.
But in her lost year, with only six months left, she was willing to reach out.
Even if it meant pretending nothing had ever broken.
Akari didn't have the courage to break again.
She knew what that place felt like the hollow, the stillness, the cold that clung to her skin like frost. She had wandered too long in it. Let herself sink too deep. And now, the idea of returning to that place terrified her more than the loneliness itself.
So, she did what she knew best.
She decided to smile again.
Not the radiant kind that once came naturally. Not the innocent kind that made people feel warm. This one was carefully crafted, measured, practiced, a little stiff at the edges. But it was a start. A barrier. A bridge.
No one commented on it.
But they noticed.
The teachers stopped avoiding eye contact. A few classmates nodded at her in the hallway. Some even returned her smile, hesitant but not unkind.
She felt like a ghost learning to be human again.
It was exhausting.
Pretending was always harder when you remembered what it felt like to be real. But Akari clung to the mask, not because it hid her, but because it gave her a shape in a world she no longer knew how to live in.
She caught Mai looking at her during literature class one day—curious, maybe cautious, but not afraid.
And Akari smiled again.
Softer this time.
And Mai… smiled back.
Just a little.
It wasn't a friendship.
Not yet.
But it was enough for Akari to stay upright. To keep walking. To believe, for just one more day, that maybe this final year wouldn't end in silence.
Maybe it could end with something... almost warm.
The next day, Akari waited by the door after class, pretending to look for something in her bag.
Mai was usually the last to leave, always taking time to pack her books carefully. She didn't speak much, but Akari noticed the quiet confidence in the way she carried herself, the way she never flinched from silence.
When Mai finally stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder, Akari looked up and smiled again.
"Hey… Mai-chan," Akari called over.
Mai paused, surprised and said, "Yeah? what happened?"
Akari hesitated, she hadn't planned what to say next. She hadn't spoken casually to anyone in so long, her words felt like borrowed ones.
"Do you… wanna walk together?" Akari asked. "Just to the gate."
Mai blinked. There was a beat of silence, just enough to make Akari's heart sink. But then—
"Sure." Mai replied.
They walked slowly, footsteps echoing down the near-empty corridor. The sky outside was overcast, and the wind tugged at the edge of their uniforms. Neither said much, but the silence between them felt different from the silence Akari was used to.
Not heavy. Not hostile.
"Thanks," Akari said as they reached the gate.
"For what?" Mai asked.
Akari thought for a moment. "For not turning away."
Mai gave her a look—subtle, unreadable—but then nodded. "You're trying, right?"
Akari's throat tightened. She nodded.
Mai didn't say anything else, just started walking again. But Akari stood there for a while, watching her disappear down the street.
For the first time in a long while, she felt like maybe this version of herself—this broken, stitched-together thing—might still be allowed to reach out.
Even if her hands were trembling.
Even if the smile wasn't real yet.
It could be. One day..
The following days, Akari found herself walking beside Mai more often. It wasn't planned, but it became a quiet routine, one neither of them acknowledged, yet neither broke.
They didn't talk much at first. A few words here and there. Weather. Classes. Silences filled the space in between, but this time, Akari didn't mind them.
One afternoon, as they sat on the edge of the school courtyard, watching the wind tug at the sakura trees, Mai suddenly asked, "You used to smile a lot, didn't you?"
Akari froze.
She hadn't expected that.
"…Yeah," Akari answered softly. "It used to be easier."
Mai looked at her, her voice even. "It still looks like it hurts."
Akari let out a weak laugh. "That obvious?"
"Kind of," Mai said. "But it doesn't have to be perfect, you know. Smiles aren't made to be armor. but, from that time I tried to talk with you, and wanted to ask you what has happened to you? why you have to pretend to smile?"
Akari lowered her eyes, picking at the edge of her sleeve.
"Maybe," Akari said, "but mine are. If I don't wear them, I might fall apart again. And I… I can't afford to break anymore. and also what has happened has happen, I don't want to share with anyone about this"
Mai didn't push. She just nodded. "Okay. Then let's not talk about this. but, I'm really happy that you finally wanted to talk with me."
Akari blinked with shyness. "What then?"
Mai gave a small, almost mischievous smile. "Let's eat lunch together from tomorrow onwards. I'm tired of eating alone."
Akari felt something stir—a flicker of something she hadn't felt in years.
"Hope."
"Okay," Akari whispered. "Lunch sounds nice."
That night, Akari stood before her mirror again. Her reflection stared back—not haunted, not hollow, but still tired. Still fighting.
She smiled at the mirror, just a little. This time, it didn't hurt as much.
And maybe… that was enough for now.
Mai wasn't like the others.
She didn't try to pry or pretend to understand. She didn't ask about Akari's past, or why her roommate had left, or why her desk used to be avoided like a cursed object. She just… existed beside her. Calm. Blunt sometimes, but never cruel.
Mai loved novels and rain. She never raised her hand in class, but her grades were perfect. When she laughed, it was rare but real. And when she spoke, her words stayed with you, echoing long after.
It was comforting. And dangerous.
Because Akari was beginning to feel it again, the weightlessness of not being invisible.
People started to notice the change, in whispers and side glances. The girl who used to sit alone was talking now. Smiling, sometimes. Even laughing, once, when Mai told a dry joke about their literature teacher's coffee addiction.
It wasn't much. But it was enough to rattle the stillness she had once built around herself like walls.
Yet at night, doubt crept in.
She would stare at her ceiling and wonder, how long would this last? Could she really pretend long enough to belong again?
even until now, every morning, she placed that soft smile on her face like makeup. And when she sat beside Mai, when she heard her name spoken without venom or pity, it almost felt real.
"Almost."
from then on, she tried her best to show her true self.