The morning sun filtered through the thin gray curtains of my room, casting a warm glow over the scattered notebooks and crumpled drafts on my desk. My sanctuary—a place of sketches, stories, and dreams—felt strangely alien this morning. The thought of leaving its safety for the unknown halls of Sakuranomiya High filled my stomach with knots.
I stood in front of the mirror, taking a long look at myself. My white hair, bleached to a snowy shade that felt like a quiet rebellion, stuck up in stubborn tufts no matter how many times I smoothed it down. My sharp blue eyes, the color of a summer sky, stared back at me, betraying the nerves I tried to suppress. My pale skin, unmarred but for a faint scar on my left cheek, seemed almost too delicate for someone as tall as I was—178 centimeters—a height that only added to my awkwardness. The freshly ironed uniform hung on my lean frame, its blue-and-white neatness feeling almost performative, like I was playing a role I didn’t fully understand.
“Tanaka Izumi, first-year student,” I muttered to myself, as if repeating it would make it feel real. The words tasted foreign, like they belonged to someone braver, someone who didn’t dread stepping into a classroom full of strangers.
My desk, crammed with colorful pens, half-finished manuscripts, and a small figurine of a fantasy hero wielding a broadsword, stared back at me. This was where I felt most like myself—a creator of worlds, where my voice flowed easily through ink on paper. Out there, in the real world, it was different.
A knock at my door pulled me from my thoughts. My younger sister, Yuki, poked her head in, her dark hair bouncing around her shoulders, framed her round face. Her wide brown eyes sparkled with excitement, and her fair skin had a soft, healthy glow. At thirteen years old, she was already brimming with confidence, her petite frame always in motion. Yuki was the heart of our family, bursting with enthusiasm and a knack for brightening even the darkest days. Her playful teasing and boundless energy could sometimes be overwhelming, but her sincerity and warmth made her impossible not to love. “Morning, Zoomie! Ready for your big debut?” Her grin was wide, her excitement contagious.I sighed, unable to share her enthusiasm. “Yeah, sure. Big debut.”
“Come on, you’ll be great,” she said, bounding into the room. She tugged at the sleeve of my blazer. “This looks good on you! You’re so tall and cool-looking; everyone’s going to love you.”
I wanted to believe her, but I couldn’t ignore the unease twisting in my chest. “Thanks, Yuki. Let’s hope you’re right.”
She gave me a quick hug, then skipped out, her energy trailing behind her like a comet’s tail. The scent of her lavender shampoo lingered, a small comfort as I grabbed my bag and headed downstairs.
The kitchen smelled of miso soup and rice, comforting and familiar. My mother moved with practiced efficiency, her pristine posture and spotless apron giving her the appearance of someone always in control. Her sleek black hair was streaked with silver and pulled into a tight bun. Her tanned skin was flawless, her features sharp and graceful, though her demeanor often carried a certain reserved detachment. She looked younger than her forty-five years, though the quiet lines around her eyes hinted at her weariness.
Mom was the steady anchor of the household, always reliable and precise, but rarely expressive. Our conversations were polite and functional, and while I knew she cared deeply for us, her love often came through in actions rather than words. She glanced at me briefly as I sat down, offering a polite smile that felt like a habitual gesture rather than genuine warmth.“Morning, Izumi. Breakfast is ready.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled, settling into my usual seat. She placed a bowl in front of me without a word, her presence both soothing and distant. I wanted to say something more, to thank her for the effort she always put into meals, but the words felt stuck.
My sisters, Aiko and Hana, were already mid-conversation at the table. Aiko, the eldest, wore her usual calm, no-nonsense expression. At twenty-two, she exuded professionalism. Her long, straight black hair was always neatly pulled back, and her tall, slender frame was dressed impeccably in a beige blouse and navy skirt, even for breakfast. Her deep brown eyes held an analytical sharpness that matched her serious demeanor. Once, Aiko and I had been close; she’d read my stories and encouraged my dreams. But over the years, our bond had faded. Her focus shifted to academics and stability, leaving little room for the creative worlds I cared about. I respected her drive, but sometimes, I missed the warmth we’d once shared.
Hana, on the other hand, was a whirlwind of color. At nineteen, she had a creative flair that extended to everything she did. Her short blond hair, dyed with streaks of vibrant blue, framed her expressive face. Her skin had a warm, sun-kissed tone, and her piercing blue eyes, the same color as mine, sparkled with mischief as she gestured wildly about her latest art project. She wore a loose, paint-splattered t-shirt and ripped jeans, a testament to her free-spirited nature. Unlike Aiko, Hana and I were still close. She often encouraged me to dream big and never hold back in my writing. Her energy was infectious, and her unwavering support made me feel understood in a way few others could. She saw my creative struggles not as weaknesses but as signs of potential.
“It’s about expressing truth,” Hana said passionately, waving a chopstick for emphasis. “Art isn’t just pretty pictures; it’s about telling a story that words can’t capture.”
Aiko raised an eyebrow. “And how does that translate to a stable career? Passion doesn’t pay the bills, Hana.”
Hana rolled her eyes. “You sound like Dad. Why does everything have to be about money?”
“Because stability matters,” Aiko replied evenly, sipping her tea. “Not everyone can afford to chase dreams without a plan.”
Their arguments were as familiar as the scent of breakfast. I focused on my miso soup, letting their voices fade into the background. Hana eventually turned her attention to me, her expression softening.
“Izumi, how’s your story coming along?” she asked, her eyes lighting up with genuine curiosity.
“It’s... okay,” I said, glancing up at her. “Still working out some of the characters.”
“I can’t wait to read it,” she said, leaning forward. “Let me know if you need any illustrations. I’ve got some new brushes that would be perfect for your style.”
“Thanks,” I said, her encouragement lifting my spirits slightly. Hana always had a way of making me feel seen.
Dad entered the kitchen, his presence commanding without a word. He took his seat, unfolding the morning newspaper with a practiced snap. His salt-and-pepper hair was always meticulously groomed, and his stern expression made him look like he belonged in a boardroom rather than at our cluttered breakfast table. Our family''s blue eyes, inherited from his mother—an American woman—were somehow so different from mine and Hana’s. Hana’s blond hair, which also came from my Grandma, stood out even more against the darker tones of the rest of our family. His cold blue eyes, set deep against his pale complexion, rarely softened, scanning the headlines with a practiced focus that seemed to block out everything else. At forty-nine, he was as rigid and controlled as his appearance suggested, his charcoal gray suit perfectly tailored even on a weekday morning.
I often wondered if his insistence on not standing out stemmed from being half-American in Japan. He never talked about it, but something about the way he emphasized discipline and blending in made me think it had shaped him more than he cared to admit. Sometimes, I thought his strictness toward us was his way of ensuring we avoided the kind of scrutiny he might have faced growing up.
My relationship with Dad was complicated. He wasn’t cruel, but he was distant, demanding, and controlling. His natural authority could be overbearing, and his need for discipline often felt suffocating. This only worsened when he drank, which thankfully wasn’t every day, but often enough that it left its mark on our family dynamic. He spoke to me as though I were one of his employees, measuring my worth by achievements rather than who I was. Writing, to him, was frivolous—a “waste of time” that distracted from “important things.” I’d long stopped seeking his approval, but his words still carried weight, leaving a knot in my stomach every time he dismissed my passions. Despite all of this, I was certain he loved us. He just didn’t know how to show it often, and his affection, when it came, was buried beneath his rigidity and harsh expectations. A small part of me still wished he could see value in what I loved.
“Remember,” he said, his voice firm, “high school is a time to build your future. Focus on things that matter. No more wasting time with... distractions.” His eyes flicked briefly to my notebooks.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
“Yes, sir,” I said automatically, my stomach tightening. My writing, my stories—they weren’t distractions to me, but I knew better than to argue.
The walk to school was mercifully short. The streets buzzed with students in crisp uniforms, their chatter blending with the hum of traffic. Sakuranomiya High stood tall ahead, its clean white walls framed by cherry blossom trees. The sight was almost picturesque, but my nerves drowned out any sense of appreciation.
Inside, the school was a maze of polished floors and bustling hallways. I clutched my schedule like a lifeline, scanning for my classroom. When I finally found it, I slipped into a seat near the back, hoping to avoid attention. The room filled quickly, voices blending into a chaotic symphony.
At 8:00 sharp, the door swung open, and a tall woman with sharp features and thick glasses strode in. Her presence silenced the room instantly. Her dark hair was tied back in a severe bun, and her crisp blazer and skirt gave her an air of authority.
“Good morning,” her voice commanded attention. “I am Nakamura-sensei, your homeroom teacher for this year.” The seriousness in her demeanor made the students straighten in their seats. “Let’s begin roll-call now. Please respond when I call your name and share something about yourself.”
Running through the situation in my head, I rehearsed how I would introduce myself confidently when called upon. “Okay, Izumi, this is it. Stand up straight, look confident, and say it with conviction. ‘Tanaka Izumi, pleased to meet you all. I enjoy writing, reading, and tabletop RPGs.’” I mentally pumped myself up, imagining applause and maybe a few impressed looks.
When Nakamura-sensei reached my name, my heart raced. I hesitated for a moment before raising my hand.
“Here,” I managed to say, my voice barely above a whisper.
A few students glanced my way before turning back to their own thoughts. I slouched lower in my seat, the imaginary applause fading as quickly as it had come.
“Nailed it.”
As the introductions continued around the room, my eyes drifted to the boy sitting next to me. He was the exact opposite of me—relaxed, confident, and completely at ease. His short, neatly combed brown hair caught the light, and his tanned skin made him look like he spent every weekend outdoors. Tall and broad-shouldered, he carried himself like he had already been crowned the King of High School. When he stood to introduce himself, it was like the atmosphere shifted.
“Hey everyone! I’m Sato Haruki. Captain of the soccer team and lover of all sports! Looking forward to an awesome year!”
His voice was so loud and cheerful that it drew a few laughs and even a quiet cheer from the back of the room. I shrank a little in my seat, wishing I could borrow just a fraction of his confidence.
When the introductions wrapped up and we had time to socialize before the first period, Haruki turned to me with a bright, easygoing smile.
“Hey, you’re Izumi, right? Nice to meet you!”
“Uh, yes, I’m Izumi,” I replied, stumbling over my words. His casual use of my first name threw me off balance. Was it normal to be this friendly?
“Nice to meet you too,” I added quickly, my face warming under his friendly gaze.
“So, uh, what do you like to do again?” Haruki asked, scratching his head like he was genuinely trying to remember, knowing full well that I had botched that part of the introductions.
“Well, uhh, I like writing and reading,” I said, feeling the words tumble out awkwardly, “And I’m really into tabletop roleplaying games.”
Haruki’s eyes widened with genuine interest. “Whoa, that’s awesome! RPGs, right? I’ve never tried those, but they sound fun. Maybe you can teach me sometime?”
“Sure,” I said, startled by his openness. My voice wavered slightly, caught between excitement and disbelief. How was someone this cool so easy to talk to? “I’d be happy to.”
As the first period began, the hum of conversation died down, replaced by the droning explanations of Nakamura-sensei. I tried to focus, but my mind kept wandering. The classroom felt both vast and suffocating, every sound amplified: the scrape of chairs, the soft rustle of pages, the occasional suppressed cough. My own awkwardness made me hyper-aware of every movement, every glance.
Haruki, however, seemed completely at ease. He leaned back in his chair, occasionally glancing out the window. Even the way he absentmindedly spun his pen on his fingers seemed effortlessly cool, as if he belonged here in a way I never would. He answered questions Nakamura-sensei posed with a laid-back confidence that earned a few admiring murmurs from our classmates. Watching him, I wondered what it must feel like to carry that kind of presence—to walk into a room and own it without even trying.
Meanwhile, I scribbled notes furiously, not so much because I needed them but because it gave my hands something to do. I kept my head down, praying that Nakamura-sensei wouldn’t call on me. When she did glance in my direction, I pretended to be deep in thought, my heart racing until her gaze moved on.
The hours crawled by, the weight of the new environment pressing on me. I caught snippets of conversations from the students around me, the words blurring together into a mixture of laughter, whispers, and the occasional stifled giggle. Everyone else seemed to know exactly where they fit—or at least how to fake it.
By the time lunch rolled around, I was exhausted. I clutched my bento and made my way to the courtyard, where the cherry blossoms provided a welcome reprieve from the crowded hallways. I found a quiet spot complete with table and chairs beneath a tree, hoping to spend the break lost in my notebook, crafting a world where I felt more in control. But, as I would soon find out, solitude wasn’t in the cards.
“Hey, mind if we sit here?”
Looking up, I saw Haruki and a girl with spiky black hair and glasses. Her green eyes sparkled with curiosity. Her skin was fair, with a hint of freckles across her nose, and her petite frame was dressed in a slightly loose uniform, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. She balanced a tray of food effortlessly on one hand while gesturing toward the open space beside me.
“Go ahead,” I said, scooting over, already feeling nervous about the sudden intrusion.
“I’m Minami Miki,” the girl said, setting her tray down with a confident thud. Her voice had a lively, slightly teasing edge. “Haruki told me you’re into RPGs.”
I blinked, surprised. “Uh, yeah. Do you play?”
Her eyes lit up. “Are you kidding? I run a campaign every Saturday. You should join us sometime.”
I nodded, feeling a small smile tug at my lips. “I’d love to.”
Haruki sat down on the other side of me, stretching his legs out in front of him like he owned the place. He grinned at me and then at Miki. “Told you guys would get along. Miki’s a total RPG nerd.”
“Alright jerk, who are you calling a nerd?” she shot back, sticking her tongue out at him. “Besides, you’re the one who dragged me over here. What happened to your usual ‘too cool for nerd stuff’ attitude?”
“Hey, I’m just broadening my horizons,” Haruki said with mock seriousness. He leaned back, balancing precariously on the back legs of his chair, and gave her a smug grin. “Plus, Izumi here seems cool. Gotta look out for my new friend.”
The word “friend” caught me off guard, and I felt my face warm. Haruki barely knew me, but his easygoing nature made it seem like we’d been talking for ages. I stole a glance at him—his relaxed posture, the effortless way he made even balancing on a chair seem cool—and then at Miki, who was now digging into her food with the enthusiasm of someone who had no time for formalities.
Miki suddenly paused, blinking at Haruki. “Wait, you’re calling him by his first name?” she asked, her voice curious but hesitant. She turned to me, her expression slightly sheepish. “Would you rather I call you Tanaka-san?”
I hesitated, feeling the weight of her question. “It’s fine,” I said quickly. “There are so many people with the surname Tanaka, it’d get confusing. You can just call me Izumi, if you want.”
Her cheeks flushed faintly, and she nodded. “O-Okay. But only if you call me Miki,” she added, her tone gaining a playful edge to mask her shyness.
“Deal,” I said with a small smile, feeling a strange sense of accomplishment at the exchange. It was as if I’d passed some unspoken test.
“Miki it is,” Haruki chimed in, giving her a thumbs up. “See? We’re all friends now. No need to be formal.”
“So, Izumi,” Miki said between bites. “What kind of characters do you usually play?”
“Oh, um,” I stammered, caught off guard by her directness. “I like making characters with deep backstories. The kind that—”
“The kind that cry a lot and have mysterious scars?” Haruki interjected, winking.
“Not exactly,” I said, laughing nervously. “More like the kind with hidden layers. Characters that grow as the story goes on.”
Miki’s face lit up. “Yes! That’s the best kind. It’s all about the storytelling.” She jabbed her chopsticks at Haruki. “See? This is why you should give RPGs a shot. It’s not just about rolling dice—it’s about creating something together.”
Haruki held up his hands defensively. “Hey, I never said I wouldn’t. I’m just saying, if I play, my character’s going to have a sword and be ridiculously overpowered.”
“Figures,” Miki said, rolling her eyes. “You would totally be that guy.”
I couldn’t help but laugh, the tension in my chest easing with each passing moment. Watching them banter was like watching a scene from one of those high-energy slice-of-life anime shows—Haruki’s easygoing charm bouncing perfectly off Miki’s sharp wit. Their conversations flowed effortlessly, like they’d been best friends for years instead of just meeting. Haruki had this ability to make everyone feel at ease, his grin infectious and his laugh loud enough to draw attention without ever feeling overbearing. Miki, on the other hand, had this quick, clever way of talking that made it impossible not to hang onto her every word. She could tease Haruki one moment and then spin a brilliant idea for an RPG campaign the next.
Despite all their teasing, there was something genuine beneath it—a warmth that made me wonder what it would feel like to have that kind of connection with someone. I’d always struggled to make friends, always felt like I was one step behind everyone else. Watching them, I found myself wishing, for the first time, that I could somehow belong to that dynamic.
By the time lunch was over, my notebook lay forgotten beside me. We’d spent the entire break swapping stories. Haruki told us exaggerated, over-the-top tales of his soccer victories, complete with sound effects and dramatic poses, while Miki and I geeked out over RPG campaigns, trading ideas about character backstories and plot twists. Every time Haruki threw in a playful comment, Miki would roll her eyes and try to one-up him, and somehow, it made everything feel lighter, easier.
For the first time that day, I didn’t feel like an outsider. As we walked back to class together, Haruki’s booming laugh rising above the chatter of other students, I realized I might have found something I hadn’t even been looking for: friends.