The clink of chopsticks echoed louder than it should have.
Dinner at the Takahashi household was never warm. It wasn't yelling or breaking plates—nothing that obvious. No, it was quieter than that. Quieter, and somehow worse. Like walking through fog that pressed against your skin and whispered all the ways you were a failure.
I sat at the end of the table, across from Haruto, beside my mother. My father scrolled through his phone with one hand, the other absently stirring his miso soup.
For a moment, it was almost peaceful.
Then it began.
"So," my father said without looking up, "your homeroom teacher called."
My stomach tightened.
Of course she did.
"She mentioned how… serious you've been acting lately," he continued, dragging the word out like it tasted sour. "Trying to turn things around, was that it?"
I am trying. God knows I am. But hearing it in his voice makes it sound pathetic—like a child pretending to be an adult.
"She also reminded me that you repeated a whole year," he added, his voice flat. "Trying or not, that's still the first thing people remember."
And they're right. That's all anyone sees. Not the hours I've been working, not the way I've forced myself to speak when I'd rather disappear—just the failure stamped across my record.
Across the table, Haruto let out a low chuckle. "Kinda funny, really. You're older than your classmates now, and still behind."
I kept my head down, pretending to be more interested in my rice. I could argue. I could tell him not everyone gets to start at the top like he did. But what's the point? Nobody here listens. They've already written the ending for me.
"Haruto," my mother said sharply, though her voice sounded more tired than angry.
She turned to me instead, sighing as she rubbed the bridge of her nose. "It's not just about effort, Yuuto. Everyone tries. But not everyone fails while doing it."
That one stung. Not because it was new—but because I couldn't even deny it. Failing is the one thing I've been consistent at.
"You used to be shy," she went on, almost wistful. "But now it's like you're… hollow. Always lost in your own head. You don't speak, you don't push back, you just sit there."
"I'm trying," I said softly.
It sounded like I was apologizing for existing.
My father snorted. "Trying doesn't count. Results do."
"You really should've figured things out by now," Haruto added with a grin. "At your age, I already had internship offers."
The words slipped out before I could stop them. "Not everyone gets everything handed to them."
Silence.
My father's eyes finally lifted from his phone. Cold. Unblinking.
"What did you just say?"
I shrank under the weight of it. "Nothing."
"Exactly. Nothing." His voice was calm, but each word landed like a blow. "That's all you've been doing since middle school. Nothing."
Last year.
That's when it started—when I let things slip, when I lost my footing, when I… lost her.
I could still see Tachibana's face that day.
The way she froze when she turned and saw me behind her. The way her laughter with her friends stopped, replaced by that guarded look—half fear, half disbelief.
She didn't run away because she hated me.
She ran because, in that moment, she saw me for exactly what I was.
Not the boy who wanted to talk to her. Not the boy who thought her smile was the best thing in the world.
No.
She saw the boy who followed her without the courage to say a single word.
The boy who stared from across the classroom but never approached.
The boy who made her feel unsafe.
And I couldn't even deny it.
I just stood there, silent, proving her right.
And then I ran—like a coward.
Weak.
That word clung to my skin like mold. My mother had said it once—just once—but it never left me.
And they're not wrong. I'm not strong like Haruto. Not decisive. Not confident.
I'm just me.
The boy who got held back.
The boy who couldn't protect the only person who mattered to him.
The boy who sat through dinner, silent, shrinking.
"I'll clean up," I said quietly, standing before anyone could argue.
I didn't wait for a response.
In the kitchen, I let the running water drown out their voices. My fingers scrubbed the same dish over and over, not really seeing it.
I hate this. I hate being like this. I hate that they're right.
But something in my chest felt… different tonight. Not just shame—yes, that too—but something else.
A flicker.
It's not enough to fight with. Not yet.
But maybe soon.
Because for the first time in a long time, I didn't want to stay silent anymore.