The rooftop was quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that seemed to stretch thin over everything, like plastic wrap over a wound.

  Kun lay on the cold tiles, arms folded beneath his head, watching wisps of cloud drift by. Beside him, Sai stood near the edge, one hand resting lightly on the rusted railing, staring out at the endless countryside. The breeze tugged at their uniforms. Kun’s eyes weren’t on the sky.

  They were on Sai.

  Something about the way he stood—too still, too calm—made Kun feel like the boy might blow away if the wind got just a little stronger.

  And then, like a ripple through calm water, a memory surfaced.

  That morning, they’d walked the hallway together. Kun remembered it clearly: the chatter of students, the slap of shoes on linoleum, the occasional "Good morning!" tossed in his direction.

  But not once—not once—did anyone greet Sai.

  Kun had frowned, glanced at the boy beside him, and asked, “Hey, Sai… why does everyone ignore you?”

  His tone was gentle, uncertain. He didn’t want to pry, but the silence around Sai had begun to feel unnatural.

  Sai smiled softly, as if he'd been waiting for the question. “I’m used to it,” he said. “Besides… why count the eyes that pass over me when you’re the one who actually sees me?”

  He looked at Kun then, and something in his gaze clung too tightly, too long. Like it was trying to crawl beneath his skin.

  Kun had looked away, unsettled. But the words stayed with him.

  Now, back on the rooftop, Kun sat up and walked over to him.

  “Let’s eat ramen again later?” he asked quietly.

  Sai turned to him with that same unreadable smile. “With you? I’d like that. I think… I’m getting used to eating with you.”

  Kun laughed, brushing his hair from his face. “Don’t you eat with your family?”

  There was a pause.

  Sai’s smile dimmed. He looked Kun straight in the eye. “No. We don’t eat together. Everyone’s always too busy. Too… loud. Or gone.”

  A longer pause. The wind sighed around them.

  “That’s why… when you shared food with me—it felt warm. Like I was allowed to be real for a moment.”

  He looked back out at the horizon. “I hope we’ll always be together.”

  Kun didn’t know what to say at first. Something in Sai’s tone was sweet—but a little too firm, like he was stating rather than hoping.

  Kun reached out and patted his shoulder. “Of course. Always,” he said lightly. “And when I go back to Tokyo, you’ll come too, right?”

  It was a joke. A harmless, passing thing.

  But Sai's smile twitched.

  “I’ll come with you,” he whispered. “To the end of the world, if I have to.”

  The words clung to the air like a curse.

  Kun forced a laugh. “Now that’s a creepy thing to say.”

  Sai tilted his head, grinning wider. “Is it? I thought it was romantic.”

  Later that day, they sat at a tiny ramen shop tucked beside the main road. Steam rose from the pots, and the scent of broth curled around them like a blanket.

  Kun raised a hand at the counter. “Uh… I ordered two bowls.”

  The vendor looked up, confused. “Huh? Looked like you were eating alone.” He scratched his head and blinked at Sai like he couldn’t quite focus on him. “Sorry about that. I’ll get another ready.”

  Kun frowned and pushed his own bowl toward Sai. “That’s weird. Yesterday he forgot yours too.”

  Sai took the bowl with a shrug and a crooked smile. “I guess I just have one of those faces.”

  He stirred the noodles slowly. “As long as I’m not invisible to you… that’s enough.”

  Kun didn’t reply. He watched Sai for a long moment, feeling the edges of something press against the back of his thoughts.

  Something cold.

  Something not quite human.

  When they finished eating, Kun stood and smiled. “See you tomorrow, Sai.”

  Sai looked at him, and this time his smile felt fragile. Like glass.

  “See you tomorrow, Kun.”

  Back home, the silence returned.

  The house was old, His mother was working late—again. He heated leftovers in the microwave, folded laundry, then settled into the living room with a textbook and a glass of water.

  The lights buzzed faintly.

  It was 9 PM.

  And then… the bulb above him flickered. Once. Twice. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to shift.

  Kun looked up.

  The flickering stopped. But in the far edge of his vision—just by the kitchen doorway—something moved.

  A dark shape.

  A figure. Gone when he turned his head.

  He sat very still.

  And then… a whisper. Close. Too close.

  “We’ll always be together.”

  His breath caught. The voice wasn’t in the room. It was in him. Like it had always been there.

  The house creaked softly.

  And somewhere beyond the reach of light, something watched him with a smile too wide for any human mouth.