Us.

Chapter One: High School

I never really liked being in school.

People always say school is supposed to be an escape, but for me, it was just a quieter version of home. Different walls. Different faces. Same pressure. Same weight sitting on my chest like it had every right to be there.

Everyone was always watching. Judging. Expecting things from me I didn't even understand yet. I was holding myself together in a shape I didn't know I wanted—didn't know how to let go of—even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt.

Then there was him.

I didn't know his name at first. I didn't know anything about him, really. Just that he existed—and somehow, that felt like enough to change everything.

He was this bundle of energy in the middle of all that gray. Loud without being obnoxious. Bright without trying. He moved through the halls like he belonged there, like life hadn't already taken pieces out of him. Or maybe it had—and he just didn't let it show.

I saw him around a lot. Always laughing. Always surrounded by people. Sometimes with a girl on his arm. Sometimes joking with friends like the world wasn't heavy at all.

And somehow, instead of hating that... I was glad.

I was glad he looked happy. Even if I couldn't relate. Even if I knew, deep down, that we didn't share the same kind of pain—or maybe we did, and he just wore it better.

I told myself not to stare. Told myself not to care.

I failed at both.

One day, I saw him in the hallway and thought, This is it. Say something.
Just one word. Anything.

But my body didn't listen.

I stood there, frozen in my Tokyo Revengers jacket—my favorite thing in the world, my comfort, my shield—and said absolutely nothing.

He spoke first.

He stopped in front of me, eyes lighting up like he'd found something familiar in a place that usually wasn't. He started talking—fast, excited—about the anime, about characters, about how much he loved it too.

I swear, his smile was so bright I couldn't even process the words. I just stood there, heart pounding, nodding like I understood everything when all I could really focus on was how alive he felt standing that close to me.

So I did something I had never done before.

I let him borrow my jacket.

It was stupid. Small. Meaningless to anyone else.

But to me?
It was everything.

The way his face lit up—you would've thought I handed him the world. Like a puppy that had just been given a bone, tail wagging without realizing it. For a moment, I felt chosen. Seen.

Of course, he had to give it back eventually.

I didn't ask why. I didn't need to.
I already knew.

And that hurt more than I wanted to admit.

I still wanted to say something—to ask his name, to ask anything—but I never felt like it was my place. Even when I wanted it to be. Even when the ache in my chest begged me to make it mine.

Time passed.

Then one day, there was an argument in the hallway. A friend of mine and her ex-boyfriend—voices raised, tension sharp enough to cut through the noise of passing students.

And then he was there again.

The mysterious boy. My mysterious boy.

He stepped in without hesitation and shoved the guy into a locker like it was nothing. Like he was protecting something without needing credit for it.

It was straight out of a movie.
Strong. Instinctive. Unreal.

I didn't get to talk to him that day.
But seeing him was enough to carry me through the rest of it.

The truth was—I had my own problems. Big ones. Ones I knew I had to deal with before I could ever pursue anyone else. I was trapped in something that made every feeling sharper, heavier, more dangerous.

So I waited.

I waited and waited.

I cried. I broke down in bathrooms and hallways. I felt like I wanted to disappear completely—like the pain would swallow me whole. Some days I thought I was finally okay again.

Until I wasn't.

And through all of it, one question kept haunting me.

Who is he?

Why couldn't I have him?

I wanted to know everything. His fears. His dreams. The way his mind worked. The way he laughed when no one was watching. I wanted to know him inside and out—even though I barely knew him at all.

And I hated the thought of another woman touching him.
Another woman laughing with him.
Another woman standing close enough to smell his breath.

Why wasn't it me?

I started following him—not in a creepy way, I told myself. Just enough to learn his routes. His patterns. I'd "accidentally" show up on floors I didn't even have classes on, just so I could see him.

Some days, I had to sprint back downstairs so I wouldn't miss the bell.

Worth it.

Because seeing him—even for a second—made the rest of the day survivable.

It was rare to see him at the end of the day, so I chased mornings instead. First periods. Hallway crossings. Moments that felt stolen.

I wasn't trying to be problematic.

I know I was a mess back then. My best friends would tell you—I cried at school. I crashed out. I felt everything too deeply, too loudly.

But after I met him... I wasn't as angry anymore.

I just wanted the thing that was keeping me away from him to disappear.

I just wanted to figure out how to do that
without destroying myself in the process.