(Aika's POV)
Morning never really felt peaceful in my house.
It was always loud — like the walls had learned how to argue too.
The first sound I hear every morning isn't my alarm. It's the sound of voices breaking.
Sometimes it's shouting. Sometimes it's silence.
But either way… it's loud enough to wake my heart before it wakes my eyes.
I woke up to the sound of plates clattering in the kitchen and my brother yelling
Riku: Miyu, stop using my charger again!
That was Riku, my older brother. Two years older, always dramatic, and convinced the world revolved around his phone battery.
Miyu: Then stop leaving it in the living room!
My sister Miyu snapped back. Her voice was sharp enough to cut the morning silence in half.
I stared at the ceiling for a few seconds, tracing the running crack above my bed that's shaped like lightning. I once tried to count how long it stretched, but it disappears into the corner near my desk.
That's how my life feels sometimes — a crack that never ends, just hides when I stop looking. My heart felt heavy — not sad exactly, just… tired. Like I was born into a storm that never ended.
Mom was already gone for her early shift. Dad hadn't come home since last night. I could still smell the faint trace of beer in the hallway.
I got up slowly, pressing my palm against my chest. I don't even know why I do that every morning — maybe to remind myself I'm still here.
When I entered the dining room, Miyu was tying her hair into a ponytail while scrolling on her phone.
She glanced at me briefly.
Miyu: You're late again.
Her tone wasn't cruel, just… distant. Like she had stopped expecting me to try.
Riku smirked.
Riku: Our little dreamer was probably writing her sad poems again.
He said it jokingly, but I could hear the little bit of truth behind it.
I just smiled weakly and poured some milk into my cup.
Aika: Maybe I was.
They both went silent for a second, and in that tiny pause, I could hear the fridge humming, the rain starting outside, the city slowly waking up.
Miyu finally sighed.
Miyu: You should talk to Mom more. She worries about you.
"Aika: I know (I whispered).
But she didn't hear me — or maybe she didn't want to.
We left for school together but walked in silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts. Tokyo mornings were beautiful in a way that didn't feel real — the smell of wet concrete, the sound of umbrellas opening, the sight of strangers who never looked at each other.
As we got closer to the train station, Riku spotted his friends and ran off with a grin. Miyu was on a call before we even crossed the street.
So it was just me — again.
I got into the train and after a few minutes, I was in school walking through the crowd like a ghost.
No one can see that my heart feels heavy, that my chest hurts for no reason.
It's not physical pain. It's that kind that sits behind your ribs, waiting.
The kind that whispers, "You're a burden. Don't let them see."
At school, everyone smiles.
"Morning, Aika!"
"You coming to the festival meeting later?"
I smiled back.
Always smiled.
Always nodded.
They call me friendly, easy to talk to. If only they knew that every smile I give takes something from me — a little bit of the energy I save for survival.
I sat down by the window. The sunlight hit my hair, and a classmate said,
"Your hair looks golden in the light. Lucky you."
Lucky me? If only she knew how much I hated standing out.
Then, I heard it — his voice.
Reo: Morning, Tsukishiro.
Reo Mizuhara slides into the seat beside me, the usual lazy grin on his face.
The sound of his voice feels like a pause button on the world.
It's gentle — like something the noise at home could never drown out.
Aika: Morning (I whispered).
He taps his pen on my desk — three short, one long.
Our code for "You okay?"
I tap back two short, two long.
"I will be."
Our secret language.
Our silent way of saying everything we can't say out loud.
For a second, everything feels light.
Like I could breathe again. Like maybe I wasn't just surviving.
But then, the bell rang, and the world moved on — leaving behind the sound of his laugh and the echo of my heartbeat.
My mind drifted to the first year of middle school. That was when I first saw him.
He was standing by the school gate, headphones around his neck, his uniform slightly messy but not in a careless way — more like he didn't care about pretending.
He looked up briefly, and our eyes met for less than a second. But something in his gaze… felt quiet. Not empty, just calm — the kind of calm that makes you forget about everything else for a moment.
He turned away before I could even look twice.
"Reo Mizuhara," someone called from behind me — a teacher, maybe.
That was when I first knew his name.
It echoed in my mind like a song I'd heard before.
Reo.
That was the first morning I didn't feel like the world was shouting at me.