The incident left Yuma with a reminder he could no longer ignore.
He needed to remember his place.
From then on, he began preparing himself long before he left his room, and long before he returned home after work — rehearsing restraint, steadying his breathing, reminding himself to keep his expression neutral, his reactions minimal. If the ache in his chest was inevitable, then he would at least control what showed.
He started coming home late.
After work, he wandered the city alone, drifting through streets lit by shop signs and night markets, letting time pass until he was certain the house would already be settled when he returned. He skipped breakfast altogether. No one asked why. They assumed he had his reasons, and that was that.
During meals, he no longer joined their conversations. When spoken to, he answered with a nod or a shake of his head. He stopped forcing smiles he knew no one truly saw. Not that it made a difference.
He used to inform them when he would be late, when overtime kept him away, when work dragged on longer than expected. He stopped doing that too. No more unnecessary messages. No more explanations.
If invisibility was all he was given, then he would accept it fully.
There were outings — invitations extended casually, without insistence. Yuma declined them one by one. No one pressed him for a reason. He did not offer one. It ended there.
Himari noticed.
She was the only one who sent messages regularly, asking if he wanted to meet, reminding him to take care of himself. At first, he replied. Slowly, he stopped. Eventually, he began leaving her messages on read.
It was not because he did not care.
It was because she reminded him how dangerous it was to be noticed.
Being seen awakened something greedy inside him — a longing to be acknowledged, to be loved — and that longing terrified him. Hope had always been followed by disappointment. He could not endure that again.
So he withdrew before anything could take shape.
Late at night, alone in his room, Yuma lay back against the headboard and stared at the ceiling. The silence pressed in around him, heavy and absolute.
It was easier this way, he told himself.
Safer.
Keeping people at a distance hurt less than reaching out and finding nothing there. Yet no matter how firmly he clung to that thought, the ache in his chest refused to fade.
He closed his eyes, wondering — not for the first time — whether he would ever be able to let go of that fear, or whether solitude was the only thing he was truly meant for.
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