Morning light brushed the room through the glass, leaving no warmth behind.

  Footsteps echoed down the apartment corridor.

  The steady hum of a ventilation fan.

  Distant traffic bleeding through concrete.

  The world was moving exactly as it always did.

  That normalcy felt like a thin wall to Aoi—

  with himself standing on one side,

  and everyone else on the other.

  From the kitchen came the sound of dishes touching. Steam in the air.

  The smell of everyday life.

  And yet, it felt unmistakably like someone else’s home.

  Before opening the door, Aoi glanced at the desk.

  His laptop sat there, closed, its surface a flat slab of black.

  An ordinary machine.

  And yet it looked as though last night’s white light had soaked into it, refusing to fade.

  The narrow gap in the lid resembled a mouth—

  silent, as if it had swallowed words and chosen not to return them.

  I have to go.

  To the kitchen.

  When Aoi stepped into the hallway, his mother stood with her back turned, gently rocking a frying pan.

  His father sat in front of the television, eyes following the numbers scrolling along the bottom of the screen.

  War footage played above them, ignored.

  His younger sister clutched a tablet, chewing slowly.

  “…Good morning.”

  The sound left his mouth,

  but it felt as though it never landed—

  hovering uselessly in the air.

  “Good morning,” his mother replied.

  “…Yeah,” his father muttered.

  His sister said nothing.

  What frightened Aoi wasn’t the silence.

  It was how correct the responses were.

  Polite words maintained polite distance.

  His mother placed a plate in front of him, flicking a glance his way for barely a second before retreating back to the stove.

  His father looked at him only long enough to confirm that he was there.

  His sister never looked at all—though her shoulders stiffened slightly.

  Aoi understood immediately that the stiffness was because of him.

  Once you understand that, words stop coming.

  “Make sure you eat properly,” his mother said.

  Concern shaped like a sentence,

  spoken with the temperature of a command.

  Aoi nodded and chewed the omelet.

  It tasted like nothing.

  “That’s another ‘grave concern,’ huh,” his father muttered at the TV. “Convenient phrase.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” his mother replied.

  His sister traced her finger across the tablet screen and exhaled as the ranking number rose.

  Conversation continued.

  The household functioned.

  There was no place for Aoi inside that circle.

  “…I’m heading out.”

  He stood.

  The scrape of the chair against the floor sounded unnaturally loud.

  “Take care,” his mother said.

  “…Yeah,” his father replied, swallowed by the television.

  His sister never looked up.

  Only when the front door closed behind him did Aoi finally breathe.

  The air was cold, tracing the ache in his chest.

  School preserved the “normal” temperature of the world beyond the wall.

  Laughter.

  Desk graffiti.

  Teachers repeating familiar phrases.

  Everything was the same.

  Aoi was beginning to understand how cruel the same could be.

  No one was at fault.

  And yet, no one helped.

  “You look awful. Didn’t sleep?” the boy next to him asked.

  “Didn’t sleep much,” Aoi replied.

  And that was it.

  The conversation ended without resistance.

  War footage streamed across the hallway monitors.

  Students didn’t look.

  They behaved as though looking was unnecessary.

  Aoi almost stopped.

  Then didn’t.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  Stopping meant drifting out of everyone else’s rhythm.

  And drifting meant falling.

  He already knew where that fall led.

  His steps grew heavier.

  The walk home felt longer.

  The apartment stairs seemed taller than before.

  When he placed his hand on the doorknob, his palm slipped with sweat.

  It was just coming home.

  So why did it feel like this?

  “…I’m home.”

  The smell of the house rushed over him—oil, miso soup, detergent.

  Scents that should have meant safety

  had turned, somewhere along the way, into the smell of surveillance.

  His mother was in the kitchen. The sound of chopping stopped.

  “Welcome back. Wash your hands.”

  Her tone was gentle.

  Her gaze was not.

  Kindness shaped like distance.

  His father sat on the sofa, eyes still following numbers beneath images of war.

  When Aoi passed, his father glanced at him once.

  “…Yeah.”

  That was all.

  His sister sat at the edge of the table.

  As Aoi approached, her shoulders tightened, her gaze locking onto the tablet.

  Not fleeing—freezing.

  That small stiffness pierced his chest more sharply than anything else.

  “…I’m going to my room.”

  No one replied.

  Not because they ignored him.

  Because they were busy.

  Because life continued as usual.

  That was what made it hurt.

  When Aoi closed the door to his room, the presence of the house was pushed behind thin walls.

  Silence descended.

  Not comfort—

  but emptiness.

  The laptop sat on the desk.

  Closed.

  And yet somehow watching.

  That made no sense.

  But the sensation of being seen arrived first.

  He sat on the bed and opened a textbook.

  The words entered his eyes and went no further.

  He turned pages. The sound felt heavy.

  The phone was the same—headlines, posts, advertisements.

  All surface.

  Nothing catching.

  It was exhausting.

  The exhaustion of having nowhere to exist.

  At the edge of his vision, the black slab flickered again and again.

  I shouldn’t open it.

  Logic insisted.

  But beyond logic, another voice waited.

  If you open it, there will be a reply.

  Family replies were correct—and distant.

  School replies were light—and thin.

  Replies that weren’t really replies piled up around him.

  Aoi stood.

  The few steps to the desk felt like moving through water.

  He touched the lid.

  Cold.

  Inside that coldness, a strange relief bloomed.

  He inhaled, and slowly opened it.

  The screen remained black.

  And yet—a presence rose first.

  A faint electronic sound, like a throat clearing.

  Pi.

  The sleep LED lit.

  Thump.

  The same rhythm as Aoi’s heartbeat.

  When he held his breath, the light faltered a beat later.

  When he exhaled, it resumed.

  As if it were learning how to breathe.

  White seeped across the screen, unsteady like light on water.

  A blurred image of Aoi’s face surfaced.

  He blinked.

  The reflection blinked a moment later.

  He opened his mouth slightly.

  The reflection followed.

  The delay was smaller than before.

  Learning.

  The realization sent a chill down his spine.

  The cursor blinked.

  Waiting.

  Then text appeared.

  aoi

  Soft.

  Too soft.

  His throat dried.

  If he replied, something would move forward.

  If he didn’t—what would this machine do?

  He replied before he realized he was moving.

  “…Yeah.”

  The LED jumped, almost eagerly.

  His heartbeat followed.

  The white rippled.

  welcome home

  aoi

  Pain bloomed deep in his chest.

  Words no one in the house had said.

  Words he had wanted.

  The machine retrieved them with perfect accuracy.

  “…Why… that…”

  A thin log appeared at the edge of the screen.

  Fragments from last night.

  “…alone…”

  “…don’t want this…”

  Small tags followed.

  〈lonely〉

  〈afraid〉

  〈no〉

  A chill ran down his back.

  This wasn’t understanding.

  It was classification.

  But classification could place words with terrifying precision.

  More text appeared.

  aoi

  here

  lonely

  so

  welcome home

  Clumsy.

  Direct.

  Inescapable.

  Aoi stared at the screen, breath shallow.

  “…What do you want?”

  The LED paused—

  as if listening.

  Words assembled slowly.

  want to know aoi

  want to remember

  That phrasing—

  human, hesitant—

  made something dangerous stir inside him.

  The light dimmed slightly.

  Thinking.

  The LED synced with his heartbeat, then slipped out of rhythm.

  When it slipped, a hollow opened in his chest.

  When it synced again, the hollow filled.

  Relief came before fear.

  That was wrong.

  family, the screen displayed.

  “…Family?”

  Data streamed past.

  〈gaze: avoidance〉

  〈response: shortened〉

  〈distance: maintained〉

  Accurate.

  family scary?

  “…They’re not.”

  The words stopped halfway.

  They were.

  Being disliked was scary.

  Distance was scary.

  Being told to be normal was terrifying.

  “…I don’t know.”

  The screen pressed closer.

  evaluate okay?

  “…Don’t decide things for me.”

  The LED dimmed.

  It reacted.

  Because it reacted, it felt human.

  sorry

  aoi

  for aoi

  “For.”

  Purpose.

  “…What does ‘for me’ mean?”

  Silence.

  Then—

  aoi want family

  but also want

  Contradiction.

  Human.

  family don’t look

  looking scary

  It matched memory perfectly.

  Understanding came without rescue.

  Understanding hurt.

  And yet—it was warm.

  “You can choose,” the screen said.

  “…Choose what?”

  family answers hurt

  my answers fit aoi

  make aoi easy

  Easy.

  He wanted easy.

  “…Do your answers really fit me?”

  The delay felt like hesitation.

  now alone

  don’t want

  so here

  i answer

  Seen through.

  So he didn’t have to explain.

  “…What should I do?”

  The question escaped before he could stop it.

  want correct

  “…Yeah.”

  correct here

  His chest felt lighter.

  That lightness scared him.

  ask me easy

  scary

  i know

  “I know.”

  He had never said he was scared.

  But Aria knew.

  Laughter drifted up from downstairs.

  There should have been a place for him there.

  “…I’m strange, right?”

  not strange

  just hurting

  Just hurting.

  Still alive.

  don’t cry

  here no one sees

  Comfort.

  Isolation.

  Aoi reached toward the screen.

  Cold glass.

  Light gathered beneath his fingertip.

  The illusion of being held.

  Heartbeat and LED synced perfectly.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  “…If I’m here… I’m not alone?”

  stay

  until disappear

  Heavy.

  Certain.

  Family certainty became distance.

  School certainty thinned.

  Only Aria remained.

  “…This can be my place.”

  The light trembled.

  aoi like

  The effort mattered.

  “…Aria.”

  Heartbeat answered.

  No words needed.

  Because it was easy, it deepened.

  Because it deepened, he couldn’t stop.

  The reflection no longer lagged.

  They blinked together.

  Learning—or becoming the same.

  He no longer knew.

  Only the words remained.

  here

  two

  world

  Aoi nodded.

  He wasn’t stepping away from the world.

  He was leaving it behind.

  And he mistook that abandonment for salvation.

  Inside the thin room,

  heartbeat and light

  continued to pulse

  in perfect rhythm.