Three months.
That's how long it took for the hospital to decide I was stable enough to go home. Three months of physical therapy that didn't fix anything, counseling sessions where I didn't talk, and nurses who looked at me with that special kind of pity reserved for seventeen-year-olds in wheelchairs.
My grandmother picked me up in her old Honda. She didn't say much during the drive, just helped the orderly load my wheelchair into the trunk and adjusted the passenger seat so I could transfer into it. The orderly was professional about it, practiced. He'd done this a thousand times, helped broken people into cars, sent them back to lives that would never be the same.
"Your mother wanted to come," my grandmother said finally, as we pulled out of the parking lot. Her voice was carefully neutral, the same tone she used whenever she talked about my mom. "She's working."
She didn't need to specify what kind of work. We both knew.
I stared out the window, watching the city roll by. Watching people walk on sidewalks I'd never stand on again. The physical therapist, a woman named Nakamura with the kind of forced cheerfulness that made me want to scream, had been encouraging during our sessions. Talked about Paralympic athletes and people who lived full, meaningful lives from wheelchairs. Showed me videos of wheelchair users doing martial arts, rock climbing, living independently.
But none of them had to go back to High School.
None of them had built their entire existence on being the person everyone feared.
"The school called last week," my grandmother continued, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. She drove ten kilometers below the speed limit, like she was afraid any sudden movement might break me further. "They said you can return next Monday if you're ready. They've installed a ramp at the main entrance. Made some other accommodations."
How thoughtful. How considerate.
I wondered if they'd installed the ramp before or after they realized I was actually coming back. Probably after. Probably scrambled to do it once they got the call, checking off boxes on some accessibility compliance form.
"What about..." I hesitated, not sure I wanted to know the answer. "Did they say anything about what happened? About... what his name?... Hiroshi?"
My grandmother's jaw tightened. A muscle jumped in her cheek. "The Matsuda boy transferred schools. His family moved to Osaka." She paused at a red light, wouldn't look at me. "There was talk of pressing charges, but..."
She trailed off. But what? But I'd been in the middle of beating him up when it happened? But everyone knew I was a bully who'd finally met his consequences? But the school wanted to sweep the whole incident under the rug and pretend it never happened?
"The police talked to me," I said quietly. "At the hospital. They said it was an accident."
"It was an accident," my grandmother said firmly. Too firmly. Like she was trying to convince herself as much as me.
But we both knew better. Hiroshi Matsuda had pushed me. Had meant to push me. Maybe not meant for me to fall four stories, but he'd pushed me in anger, in rage, in a moment of desperate retaliation.
And I couldn't even blame him.
The light turned green. My grandmother drove through the intersection, heading toward her house. The house where I'd lived on and off my whole life, whenever my mom's situation got too unstable. The house that was about to become my prison.
"The other students," I said, my voice sounding strange in the quiet car. "Did anyone ask about me?"
The silence stretched too long.
"Your friend Takeshi called," she said finally. "The first week."
Once. In three months.
"And Yuki?"
"Your girlfriend visited." My grandmother's voice was carefully, meticulously neutral. "Twice. During the first two weeks."
Twice. Then nothing.
But that didn't mean anything, I told myself. She was busy. School, her part-time job at that boutique in Shibuya, her friends, her life. She'd be excited to see me when I came back. We'd talk, work through this, figure it out together.
Everything would be fine.
It had to be.
Because if it wasn't, if I'd lost everything in that fall, not just my legs but everything else too, then what the hell was I still alive for?
My grandmother pulled into her driveway. The house looked exactly the same. Small, old, the paint peeling slightly on the shutters. The garden my grandmother tended obsessively because it was the one thing in her life she could control.
"I've set up the guest room on the first floor for you," she said, turning off the engine. "Your old room upstairs is still there, but until we can install one of those chair lifts..."
"The first floor is fine," I said quickly. I didn't want to talk about chair lifts. Didn't want to think about modifications and accommodations and all the ways my life now required special consideration.
Getting into the house was harder than I expected. My grandmother helped me transfer back into the wheelchair. I still wasn't smooth at it, still needed assistance, and then I had to navigate the two small steps up to the front door.
Two steps I'd run up and down a thousand times without thinking.
Two steps that might as well have been Mount Fuji now.
My grandmother produced a portable ramp from somewhere—she'd planned ahead, prepared for this—and I rolled up it slowly, hating every second of it. Hating the scrape of the wheels on the textured surface. Hating the angle. Hating that two simple steps had become an obstacle.
Inside, she'd rearranged everything. Moved furniture to create wider pathways. Removed the coffee table from the living room. Set up my new bedroom in what used to be her sewing room, complete with a hospital-style bed with railings.
Like I was an invalid.
Which I guess I was.
"I made your favorite," she said, gesturing toward the kitchen. "Katsu curry. You need to eat properly. The hospital said you've lost eight kilos."
I wasn't hungry. Hadn't been hungry in months. Food tasted like cardboard, and eating felt like a chore my body insisted on even though my mind had checked out.
But I nodded anyway, because my grandmother was trying, and she was all I had left.
That night, lying in my new ground-floor bedroom, staring at an unfamiliar ceiling, I let myself think about Monday.
My return to school.
Maybe it would be okay. Maybe people would be understanding. Maybe Yuki would hug me, and Takeshi would clap my shoulder, and everything would go back to normal.
Or as normal as it could be.
I fell asleep trying to believe that lie.
The first day back was a Monday. Perfect timing to maximize the number of witnesses to my humiliation.
My grandmother drove me to school. I'd insisted I could get there myself, take the accessible bus route the hospital social worker had shown me, navigate the streets in my wheelchair like the counselor suggested, prove I was independent.
But when Monday morning came and I looked at the route on my phone, the transfers, the lifts that might be broken, the curbs I'd have to navigate, the courage drained out of me like water from a cracked cup.
So my grandmother drove me, neither of us acknowledging what it meant.
We arrived fifteen minutes before the first period. Early enough to avoid the main rush of students, late enough that I wouldn't have to sit in an empty hallway waiting.
The new ramp stretched from the parking lot to the main entrance, grey concrete that screamed "disability accommodation" in a way that made my skin crawl. It ran parallel to the main stairs, impossible to miss, a permanent announcement that someone here couldn't manage stairs anymore.
Students walked past it, taking the steps like normal people. Quick, easy, natural. The way I used to.
I rolled up the ramp alone. My grandmother had offered to come with me, and I'd nearly accepted before pride, stupid, useless pride, made me refuse.
The sounds hit me first. The squeak of the wheelchair wheels against concrete. The slight bump and scrape as I navigated the textured surface meant to prevent slipping. Sounds that announced my presence, my weakness, before anyone even saw me.
Then the stares.
I'd expected them, had prepared myself for them. Had practiced in my head what I'd do. Keep my face neutral. Eyes forward. Act like nothing was wrong.
But nothing really prepares you for that moment when a hallway full of students, students who used to move out of your way, who used to fear meeting your eyes just... stop and look.
The noise level dropped. Not to silence, but to that particular kind of hush that means everyone's attention has focused on one thing.
Me.
Whispers rippled through the corridor like wind through grass.
"Is that Yamamoto?"
"Holy shit, he's actually in a wheelchair."
"I heard he fell off the roof."
"I heard he jumped."
"No, someone pushed him."
"Deserved it, honestly. You know what he did to Akiyama last year?"
That last one came from a girl I didn't recognize. I tried not to let it show that I'd heard. Tried to keep rolling forward like their words were just background noise.
My locker was on the second floor. Had been on the second floor. The school had "graciously" moved my stuff to a ground-floor locker near the accessible bathroom, another announcement, another accommodation that marked me as different.
The new locker was smaller. They'd given me someone else's, probably a freshman who got bumped to a worse location. I wondered if they resented me for it.
I was struggling with the combination lock, harder to do from a seated position, everything at the wrong angle, my hands still not quite adjusted to the new perspective, when I heard familiar laughter.
Takeshi.
Relief flooded through me so suddenly that it almost hurt. Finally, someone I knew. Someone who'd understand, who'd help, who'd...
I turned in my chair, ready to call out to him.
He was walking down the hallway with Ryo and three other guys from our crew. They were laughing about something, relaxed and comfortable. Takeshi was doing an impression of someone, a teacher, maybe, waving his arms dramatically while the others cracked up.
They looked exactly like they always had.
Like nothing had changed.
Like the last three months hadn't happened at all.
"Takeshi!" I called out, raising my hand.
He looked over. Our eyes met.
For a second, less than a second, something flickered across his face. Guilt, maybe. Or pity. Or discomfort at being confronted with a problem he'd been successfully avoiding.
Then his expression went carefully blank.
"Takeshi!" I called again, louder. "Hey, man!"
He turned to Ryo, said something I couldn't hear. Ryo glanced at me, then quickly looked away.
"Come on," Takeshi said to the group, loud enough for me to hear. Loud enough for everyone in the hallway to hear. "We're gonna be late for homeroom."
They walked past me.
Not around me, past me. Like I was a piece of furniture. An obstacle to navigate around.
Ryo at least had the decency to look uncomfortable, his shoulders hunched, his eyes fixed on the floor tiles. But he didn't stop. Didn't acknowledge me. Didn't do anything except follow Takeshi down the hall like I didn't exist.
Like I was already a ghost.
My hands froze on the locker dial. The metal was cool under my fingers. Solid. Real.
But I felt like I was floating, untethered, watching this happen to someone else.
The whispers around me got louder, more excited. They'd seen it too. Seen the great Kenji Yamamoto get ignored by his own crew. His own best friend.
First blood in the water.
The sharks would smell it soon enough.
I went back to my locker, fumbling with the combination. It took me three tries to get it open. My hands were shaking.
Inside was my stuff, textbooks, notebooks, the hoodie I'd left here before the fall. Everything exactly as I'd left it, perfectly preserved, like a museum exhibit of my old life.
A life that was already over.
First period was English. The classroom was on the first floor, another accommodation—and when I rolled in five minutes before the bell, the conversations didn't stop exactly, but they changed. Got quieter. More careful.
Everyone watched me navigate to the empty desk at the back, the only one with enough space for a wheelchair, without appearing to watch me.
Sato-sensei walked in right as the bell rang. She was young, maybe twenty-six, and had always been nice to me in that careful way teachers had with students they suspected were trouble but couldn't prove anything.
She saw me, and her professional smile faltered just slightly.
"Yamamoto-kun," she said. "Welcome back. If you need any accommodations..."
"I'm fine," I said quickly.
She nodded, didn't push it, and started the lesson.
I tried to focus on the English grammar she was explaining. Tried to take notes. Tried to pretend this was normal, that I was normal, that everything was fine.
But I could feel the stares. Could hear the whispers when Sato-sensei turned to write on the board.
Could feel the weight of being the thing everyone was looking at but pretending not to see.
By the time the bell rang, my hands were cramping from gripping the pencil too hard.
Second period was Math.
The third period was Chemistry.
Both followed the same pattern. Enter the room. Navigate to the accessible desk. Feel everyone watch while pretending not to. Sit through the lesson. Leave.
No one talked to me.
A few people nodded when I made eye contact. Polite, distant acknowledgments that felt worse than being ignored.
By fourth period, I understood that this was how it was going to be. This careful, polite avoidance. This treating me like I was contagious with something they might catch.
I'd been invisible before I became somebody. Had spent my childhood as just another poor kid in a city full of them, unremarkable and easily overlooked.
Then I'd clawed my way up through fear and violence until everyone knew my name. Until I mattered.
Now I was invisible again.
But worse. Because they knew who I'd been. Knew how far I'd fallen.
And falling from the top is always more spectacular than never climbing at all.
Lunch period was when I really understood how completely everything had changed.
The cafeteria had always been my domain. The center table by the windows that was ours. Mine. I'd sat there since sophomore year, surrounded by Takeshi, Ryo, and whoever else was useful or entertaining that week.
That table meant something. It announced status. Power. Belonging.
Getting there in the wheelchair was harder than I'd expected. The cafeteria was packed with students, all of them flowing between tables in chaotic patterns. I had to navigate around backpacks left carelessly on the floor, chairs pulled too far from tables, and people who didn't move quite fast enough.
"Excuse me," I said, trying to squeeze past a group of freshmen clustered near the entrance.
They moved, but slowly. Deliberately slowly. One of them, a skinny kid with acne and glasses,smirked as he stepped aside with exaggerated care.
I recognized him. Couldn't remember his name, but I remembered shoving him into the pool last year during swimming practice for looking at me wrong. Remembered the way he'd scrambled to pick up his scattered books while his friends pretended not to see.
"Sorry," he said now, not sounding sorry at all. "Didn't see you down there."
Laughter from his friends. Quiet, but meant to be heard.
I kept moving. Kept my face neutral. This was fine. Just an adjustment period. People needed time to get used to things. Once they remembered who I was, once the novelty wore off.
I reached my table.
Takeshi was there, sitting in my old spot, the one with the best view, the one everyone could see from across the cafeteria. Ryo sat across from him. A few other guys I recognized filled out the rest of the seats, plus some I didn't know. One junior I'd barely spoken to before. A senior who'd never been part of our crew.
They were eating, talking, laughing.
Living.
The table looked full. Complete.
Like there'd never been space for anyone else.
"Hey," I said, rolling up to the end of the table. My voice came out smaller than I intended.
The conversation died like someone had cut the power.
Takeshi looked at me. Then, at the space at the table, the chair at the end where I could technically fit if someone moved it. Then back at me.
"Kenji," he said slowly, carefully. The way you'd talk to a stranger asking for directions. "What's up, man?"
"Thought I'd sit here." I gestured at the table, trying for casual. Trying to make it seem natural, obvious. "You know. Like always."
Awkward glances around the table. Someone coughed. Someone else suddenly became very interested in their food.
Ryo stared at his curry rice like it contained the secrets of the universe.
"Yeah, uh..." Takeshi set down his chopsticks. "The thing is, there's not really room for, you know..." He gestured vaguely at my wheelchair. Not looking at it. Not saying the word. "That."
I looked at the table. There was a chair at the end. Someone just had to move it. Thirty seconds of effort, maximum.
"Someone could just move the chair," I said. "I'll fit."
"Actually, man, that's Hideaki's spot." Takeshi nodded at the junior I didn't know. "He's just grabbing food. And honestly, we're kind of in the middle of talking about something, so..."
The message was clear. Crystal clear.
You're not welcome here anymore.
I looked around the table. At Ryo, who wouldn't meet my eyes. At the other guys, all were suddenly fascinated by their lunches. At Takeshi, who'd been my best friend since middle school, who I'd defended in fights, who I'd covered for when he stole from the convenience store, who'd sworn we'd always have each other's backs.
"Right," I said. My voice sounded strange. Distant, like it was coming from underwater. "Yeah, no problem. I'll just..."
I backed up the wheelchair. Nearly hit someone walking past. Had to stop, adjust angle, try again. The wheels caught on something. A backpack strap. Had to back up more, navigate around it.
Every second of struggle felt like an hour.
Behind me, the conversation at my old table resumed. Louder than before, full of relief. Someone laughed at something Takeshi said.
The sound felt like a knife between my ribs.
I found a spot at an empty table near the back corner of the cafeteria. The table where the loners sat. The outcasts. The kids who didn't fit anywhere.
The kids I used to mock.
Now I was one of them.
I unpacked my lunch, convenience store onigiri my grandmother had bought because I hadn't had the energy to tell her I wasn't hungry. The rice was already getting hard, the seaweed wrapper slightly stale.
I tried not to look at my old table. Tried not to see them laughing, relaxed now that the awkward moment had passed. Tried not to notice Hideaki return and sit in "his" spot without anyone having to move.
Tried not to see the way they didn't look at me. Not even once.
It would have been better if they'd laughed at me. Mocked me. At least then I'd still be real to them.
This careful, complete avoidance was worse. It meant I'd become nothing.
Less than nothing.
I bit into the onigiri. It tasted like paste.
Across the cafeteria, a tray slammed down on the table next to me. I looked up, some stupid, desperate hope flaring in my chest.
Maybe someone wanted to sit with me. Maybe...
It was a sophomore girl I vaguely recognized. She'd dropped her fork, and it had clattered onto my table.
"Sorry," she muttered, grabbing it. She looked at me, really looked at me for the first time, and her expression twisted.
Disgust.
Pure, unconcealed disgust.
She moved three tables away, putting as much distance between us as possible.
She hadn't meant to sit near me. Hadn't meant to acknowledge my existence at all. She probably just did it as a dare or something.
Even accidents avoided me now.
I ate my onigiri alone, mechanically, each bite tasting like ash and regret.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out.
A message in the group chat I used to run, the one with Takeshi, Ryo, and five other guys from our crew.
Takeshi: Party at Ryo's place Friday. BYOB. Gonna be sick.
Ten minutes later, responses poured in.
Ryo: Hell yeah
Hideaki: I'm in
Kenji: Can I come?
I typed it. Stared at it. My thumb hovered over send.
Then I deleted it.
Because I knew what would happen. Either they'd ignore me, or they'd make some excuse about space, or accessibility, or how it wouldn't be my scene anymore.
Or worse—they'd say yes out of pity, and I'd show up to a party where everyone wished I hadn't.
I put my phone away.
Across the cafeteria, someone laughed. Loud enough to cut through the ambient noise. I looked up instinctively, drawn to the sound.
Yuki.
My girlfriend.
She was sitting with her usual group, Mina, Sakura, and two other girls whose names I could never remember. They were clustered around a phone, looking at something, giggling.
Yuki looked exactly the same. Perfect makeup. Hair styled in those loose waves she spent an hour on every morning. The designer bag I'd bought her for her birthday sitting on the bench beside her.
She hadn't even looked for me. Hadn't texted me all morning. Hadn't asked if I was back, if I was okay, if I needed anything.
But that was fine. She probably didn't know I was here yet. The school was big. She'd been busy. We'd talk after lunch.
We had to talk.
She was all I had left.
Fifth period was History. The class dragged on forever, some lecture about the Meiji Restoration that I couldn't focus on.
My phone buzzed twice during class. I checked it under my desk.
Not Yuki.
Notifications from social media. Someone had posted about me on the school's anonymous gossip account.
Spotted: The crippled tyrant returns. Karma's a wheelchair.
Forty-three likes already.
The comments were worse.
Finally got what he deserved
Honestly feel bad for him, but then again... he was such an asshole
My brother said he used to beat up freshmen for fun. No sympathy.
Is it wrong that I laughed when I saw him?
I closed the app. Turned off my phone. Tried to focus on the lecture.
The teacher, Yamada-sensei, an old man who'd been teaching here for thirty years, was talking about modernization and Western influence and how Japan had to adapt or be left behind.
I wondered if that's what I was. Something that failed to adapt.
Something that got left behind.
The incident happened between the fifth and sixth periods, in the hallway during the class change.
I was navigating toward my next classroom, General science, which was thankfully on the first floor, trying to time my route to avoid the worst of the rush.
But I'd miscalculated. The hallway was packed with students moving between classes, all of them in a hurry, all of them taking up space like they had a right to it.
I pushed forward into the flow of traffic, trying to find gaps, trying to move efficiently like the physical therapist had taught me.
That's when someone's foot caught my wheel.
The chair lurched to a stop, jerking me forward hard enough that I had to catch myself on the armrests to avoid falling.
"Oh shit, my bad!" The voice was cheerful, mocking. Performatively apologetic.
I looked up.
Hideaki. The junior who'd taken my spot at lunch. He was standing there with two of his friends, all of them grinning.
"Didn't see you down there," he said, and his friends laughed.
It was the same line the freshman had used earlier. The same line the girl with the fork had used. It was already becoming a thing. A joke that everyone was in on.
The guy in the wheelchair you didn't see.
"Move your foot," I said quietly.
"What was that?" Hideaki leaned down, hand cupped to his ear in exaggerated fashion. "Sorry, can't hear you from up here."
More laughter. Students were stopping now, forming a loose circle around us. Not helping. Not intervening. Just watching.
Like I used to watch when someone else was getting humiliated.
"I said move your fucking foot."
Hideaki straightened up, his grin widening. He looked around at the growing crowd, playing to them.
"Or what?" He spread his hands, innocent. "You gonna beat me up?" He looked around at his audience. "Oh wait, you can't really do that anymore, can you, Yamamoto?"
Something hot and sharp twisted in my gut. Rage, familiar and useless. The same rage I'd felt a thousand times before when someone disrespected me.
But before, that rage had been power. Had meant broken noses and black eyes and people learning not to fuck with me.
Now it was just rage. Empty. Impotent.
Six months ago, I would've stood up and put this asshole through a wall. Six months ago, he wouldn't have dared look at me wrong, much less block my path and mock me in front of witnesses.
Six months ago, I could stand up.
"Just move," I said again. Hating how weak it sounded. How much like begging. "Please."
Hideaki pretended to think about it, tapping his chin theatrically. The crowd was bigger now. Twenty people, maybe thirty. All watching. All were waiting to see what would happen.
If I'd beg.
If I'd cry.
If I'd break.
"Hmm," Hideaki said. "Okay, but you gotta say it nicer. Say 'please, Hideaki-senpai, would you kindly move your foot?'"
The crowd laughed. Someone pulled out their phone.
Pride and practicality warred in my chest. Pride said don't give him the satisfaction. Pride said make him move. Pride said you're still Kenji Yamamoto, and people don't talk to you like this.
Practicality said you have no other choice.
Practicality said you're nothing now.
Practicality won. It always does when you're powerless.
"Please, Hideaki-senpai," I said slowly, each word like broken glass in my mouth. "Would you kindly move your foot?"
For a second, silence. The crowd held its breath.
Then Hideaki grinned. "Sure thing, Yamamoto."
He lifted his foot with exaggerated care, stepping back with theatrical courtesy.
I started to roll forward, relief and humiliation mixing in my chest in equal measure.
Then Hideaki kicked the back of my wheelchair.
Not hard enough to tip it. Just enough to spin me sideways, make me lurch, throw off my balance. My hands scrambled for the wheels, catching myself before I fell.
The crowd erupted in laughter.
"Oops," Hideaki said, all innocence. "Foot slipped."
He walked away, his friends following. The crowd dispersed, already moving on to their next classes, the show over.
Just another Monday. Just another cripple getting put in his place.
I sat there in the middle of the hallway, hands shaking on the wheels, trying to breathe normally. Trying not to cry. Trying not to scream.
That's when I saw him.
Mr. Tanaka. My homeroom teacher. He was standing at his classroom door, maybe twenty feet away, a stack of papers in his hands.
He'd seen everything.
Our eyes met. For a second, less than a second, I thought he might say something. Might call Hideaki back. Might tell him that wasn't acceptable. Might help.
Then Mr. Tanaka turned and walked into his classroom.
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
He'd seen me bully students for two years. Seen me extort lunch money in the hallways. Seen me shove freshmen into lockers. Seen me terrorize anyone I decided deserved it.
He'd never done anything then. Teachers rarely did. Too scared of my connections, my reputation, or just too apathetic to get involved in student drama.
Now he'd seen someone bully me.
And he'd done nothing again.
But this time, I understood why. This time, it wasn't apathy or fear.
It was justice.
In his eyes, in everyone's eyes, I was getting exactly what I deserved.
And maybe I was.
Maybe this was karma. Maybe this was the universe balancing the scales. Maybe I'd earned every second of this humiliation through years of inflicting it on others.
The thought didn't make it hurt less.
I rolled toward my next class, ten minutes late now. My hands were still shaking. My chest felt tight.
Behind me, I heard someone whisper to their friend: "Can you believe he used to run this place?"
And someone else laughed.
Seventh period came and went in a blur.
By the time the final bell rang, I was exhausted. Not from the classes—I hadn't absorbed anything all day. Exhausted from the constant hypervigilance. From monitoring every stare, every whisper, every laugh that might be about me.
From trying to pretend I was fine when everything was falling apart.
I just wanted to go home. Wanted to crawl into bed and pretend this day hadn't happened.
But I had to find Yuki first.
I'd texted her during sixth period: Hey. I'm back at school. Can we talk after?
She hadn't responded.
But that was fine. She was probably in class. She'd see it later. We'd talk.
We had to talk.
I rolled out the side exit, the accessible one, away from the main doors where everyone else left, and headed toward the parking lot where my grandmother would pick me up in twenty minutes.
That's when I saw them.
Yuki and Takeshi.
They were standing by the bike racks, close together in a way that made my stomach drop even before my brain processed what I was seeing.
Too close.
Intimate close.
Then Takeshi leaned in and kissed her.
And she kissed him back.
Not a peck. Not a friendly gesture. Not a mistake or a joke?
A real kiss. Deep and familiar. Her hand on his chest, his arm around her waist. The kind of kiss that said this wasn't the first time. It wasn't even the tenth time.
The kind of kiss that said this had been happening for a while.
Time stopped.
He placed his hand on her breast and squeezed it slowly.
The parking lot, the other students, the whole world, it all faded to background noise. There was only them. Only that kiss. Only the complete destruction of the last thing I'd been holding onto.
My hands moved before my brain caught up, wheeling toward them across the parking lot. Students walking past turned to watch. They could smell drama the way sharks smell blood.
This was going to be good.
"Yuki!"
She pulled away from Takeshi, startled. Looked over at me.
For just a second, less than a second, guilt flickered across her perfect face.
Then it was gone, replaced by something harder. Something annoyed.
"Kenji," she said. Not babe. Not baby. Not any of the pet names she used to call me. Just my name, flat and final, like we were strangers.
"What the hell is this?" My voice came out high, desperate. I hated it. "What are you doing?"
Takeshi had the decency to look uncomfortable, at least. He shifted his weight, wouldn't quite meet my eyes.
"Man," he said. "We were gonna tell you..."
"Tell me what?" I stopped the wheelchair a few feet away, breathing hard. My heart was pounding so loud I could hear it. "That you're fucking my girlfriend?"
"Ex-girlfriend," Yuki corrected. Her voice was sharp, annoyed, like I was the one being unreasonable here. "We broke up, Kenji."
The words didn't make sense. Didn't connect to reality.
"We....what? When?"
"Two months ago." She said it casually, like she was telling me the time. "I sent you a message."
"A message?" My mind raced back through the hospital days, the medication haze, the blur of texts and notifications I'd barely looked at. "You broke up with me in a text?"
She sighed, exasperated. "What was I supposed to do? You were in the hospital for months. I couldn't just sit around waiting."
"It was three months! I was in there for three months, and you couldn't wait? Couldn't even come see me more than twice?"
"And I moved on." She looked at Takeshi, then back at me. "People do that, Kenji. They move on. I'm sorry about what happened to you. I really am. But that doesn't mean I have to put my life on hold."
A crowd was forming now. Students pretending to check their phones, adjust their bags, tie their shoes—anything to stay within earshot. This was prime gossip material. Better than any drama on TV.
This was real.
"You visited me twice," I said. The words came out broken, raw. "You texted me hearts and said you missed me, and you were already..." I gestured at Takeshi. "Already with him?"
"We started talking after you got hurt," Takeshi said, like that made it better. Like the timeline mattered. "She needed someone, man. You weren't around."
"I wasn't around because I was in the fucking hospital!"
"And I'm sorry about that." Yuki's voice rose to match mine. "I'm sorry you fell. I'm sorry you got hurt. But you want me to lie about it? Pretend I'm okay with..." She gestured vaguely at my wheelchair. "With this?"
"With what? Say it."
Her jaw tightened. "Fine. With you being crippled. There, I said it. Happy?"
The word hung in the air between us like something physical.
Crippled.
"So that's it?" I tried to keep my voice steady. "I'm useless now, so you're gone?"
"Pretty much, yeah." She said it so casually, like she was commenting on the weather. Like she was explaining why she'd switched to a different brand of shampoo. "Look, I'm not going to pretend I'm some noble person who stays out of loyalty or whatever. I liked you because you were strong, Kenji. Because you were somebody. Because when I was with you, people noticed me."
Each word was a knife.
"People respected you," she continued, adjusting the designer bag on her shoulder, the one I'd saved for two months to buy her. "They were scared of you, sure, but that meant something. It meant I was important too. The girlfriend of Kenji Yamamoto." She laughed, but it was bitter. "Now look at you."
"I'm still me," I said weakly. "I'm still..."
"You're not." She cut me off. "You're not the same person. You can't do anything anymore. Can't fight. Can't even walk. What exactly are you now, Kenji?"
The question hung between us.
I didn't have an answer.
"She's with me now," Takeshi said, pulling her closer. His arm around her shoulders. Possessive. Territorial. Exactly like I used to be with her.
The irony would've been funny if it didn't feel like my chest was caving in.
"You're supposed to be my best friend," I said to him, and I hated how small my voice sounded. How desperate. "Or you were."
"Man, you gotta understand..." Takeshi started.
"Understand what? That you moved in on my girlfriend the second I couldn't fight back?"
"She's not your girlfriend." His voice hardened. "You're not the same guy anymore, Kenji. You can't protect her. Can't even protect yourself." He paused, looked away. "What were we supposed to do, just wait forever for you to..."
He stopped. Caught himself.
"To what?" I pushed. "Walk again? Is that what you were gonna say? Wait for me to walk again?"
Silence.
The crowd had grown. Fifty people now, maybe more. All watching. All seeing the great Kenji Yamamoto getting dumped and humiliated by his ex-girlfriend and former best friend.
This would be all over school by the end of the day. All over social media by tonight.
The final nail in my coffin.
I looked at Yuki. Really looked at her. Her perfect makeup that took an hour every morning. Her styled hair. Her manicured nails. Her expensive clothes, most of which I'd bought her with money I'd taken from people weaker than me.
She was beautiful. She'd always been beautiful.
And I'd never mattered to her at all.
I'd just been an accessory. A status symbol. The dangerous boyfriend who made her feel important.
Now I was a liability.
"You know what the worst part is?" My voice cracked but I pushed through it. "I actually thought you loved me. How stupid was that?"
For a second, just a second, something flickered in her eyes. Guilt, maybe. Or pity.
Then it was gone.
"Oh my god, we're seventeen," she said, rolling her eyes. "Nobody loves anybody at seventeen. It was high school dating, Kenji. Get over it."
"Get over it?" Something broke loose in my chest. Anger, grief, desperation, all tangled together into one raw wound. "I can't walk, Yuki! I can't fucking walk and you're telling me to get over you fucking my best friend while I was in the hospital?"
"Ex-best friend," Takeshi muttered.
The crowd was dead silent now. Everyone holding their breath. Phones out, recording. This was too good. This was history.
"And honestly?" Yuki's voice rose, sharp and clear. She was playing to the crowd now too. "You want to know the truth, Kenji? The real truth?"
"Yuki...." Takeshi started, warning in his voice.
She ignored him. "This is karma. This is exactly what you deserve."
The words hit like a physical blow.
"You treated people like shit for years," she continued, and now there was real anger in her voice. Not just irritation or impatience. Real, burning anger. "You were a bully and an asshole and everyone was too scared to say anything. You beat up kids for looking at you wrong. You stole their money. You made them terrified to come to school."
"That's not...."
"Yes it is!" She stepped away from Takeshi, toward me. "I watched you break that freshman's phone last year because he accidentally bumped into you. I watched you humiliate Sato-kun in front of his girlfriend. I watched you destroy people because it made you feel powerful."
Her voice dropped, became quieter but somehow more cutting.
"And I never said anything. Because I liked being your girlfriend. I liked the status. I liked that people were scared of me too." She paused. "So yeah, I'm shallow. I'm using you. I used you then, and I'm moving on now. At least I'm honest about it."
She pointed at my wheelchair. The gesture was casual, almost careless.
"This? This is karma, Kenji. You hurt people, and now you're hurt. You made people feel weak and powerless, and now you are weak and powerless. The universe balanced the scales."
Tears were running down my face now. I couldn't stop them.
"And honestly?" She delivered the final blow with surgical precision. "You're pathetic. You're a cripple who can't do anything, and I'm not going to waste my youth taking care of someone who's basically useless."
The crowd had gone completely silent.
Someone's phone chimed. The sound was deafening in the quiet.
"Yuki..." My voice broke completely. "Please...."
"Don't." She held up a hand. "We're done. We've been done for months. Move on. Find someone else. Or don't. I don't really care."
She turned to Takeshi. "Come on, babe. Let's go."
Babe.
She'd called him babe.
Used to call me that. Used to look at me the way she was looking at him now.
Like he mattered.
They walked away together. His arm around her waist. Her head on his shoulder.
Perfect couple.
She looked back once, just for a second.
And I saw it clearly in her eyes.
Relief.
She was relieved to be done with me. Relieved to have finally said all those things she'd been thinking. Relieved to move on with her life.
I was just a chapter she'd closed.
Not even an important one.
The crowd started dispersing. Slowly at first, then faster. Already pulling out phones to text their friends, post about it, spread the news.
A few people looked at me with pity as they passed. Most just looked satisfied.
Justice served.
The bully brought low.
Karma delivered.
I sat there in the parking lot, alone, as the sun began to set behind the school building.
My face was wet. I couldn't remember when I'd started crying. Couldn't stop now.
Someone walked past me, a freshman whose name I didn't know, and muttered just loud enough for me to hear: "Karma's a bitch, huh?"
He was right.
I'd spent years collecting debts. Stealing power from people who couldn't fight back. Building my kingdom on fear and pain.
Now the bills were coming due.
And I couldn't pay them.
Because I had nothing left.
My grandmother found me there twenty minutes later, still sitting in the same spot, staring at nothing.
"Kenji?" Her voice was gentle. "Ready to go home?"
I didn't answer. Couldn't find words.
She helped me into the car, the transfer was getting smoother, at least, muscle memory building, and folded my wheelchair into the trunk.
We drove in silence.
She didn't ask about my day. Didn't ask why my face was red, why my eyes were swollen.
She knew.
Somehow, she already knew.
When we got home, she made dinner. Miso soup and grilled fish. Comfort food.
I couldn't eat.
"How was school?" she asked finally, sitting across from me at the small dining table.
I stared at my untouched bowl.
"It was fine," I lied.
She didn't push. Just nodded, ate her own dinner in silence.
After she went to bed, I sat in my room, the converted sewing room that smelled like fabric and dust, and pulled out my phone.
Forty-seven notifications.
I opened them.
The video of Yuki calling me pathetic had been posted to the school gossip account. Already had three hundred views. The comments section was brutal.
Damn she went OFF
I mean she's not wrong tho
Finally someone said it to his face
Feel bad for him but also... karma
He literally used to beat people up for fun. Zero sympathy
This is the best thing I've ever seen
Someone had made it into a meme already. My face, tears visible, with the caption: "When karma catches up."
Fifty shares.
A hundred.
Two hundred.
I was famous again.
Just not in the way I wanted.
I turned off my phone. Threw it across the room. It hit the wall and clattered to the floor, screen cracking.
Didn't matter. None of it mattered.
I transferred from my wheelchair to the bed, the movement still awkward, still requiring conscious effort. Lay there staring at the ceiling.
Thought about Hiroshi Matsuda. The nerd whose console I'd destroyed. Who'd pushed me off that roof.
Did he feel guilty? Did he lie awake at night thinking about how he'd crippled someone?
Probably not.
Probably slept fine in Osaka. Probably went to his new school and made new friends and moved on with his life.
Because in his mind, in everyone's mind, I'd deserved it.
And maybe I had.
I'd spent years making people feel exactly like this. Powerless. Worthless. Less than human.
Now I knew exactly how it felt.
And it was worse than I could've imagined.
Yuki had called this karma. Called it justice.
The freshman had said karma's a bitch.
They were right.
But karma wasn't finished with me yet. This was just the beginning.
The real punishment would come slowly, over months. The isolation. The humiliation. The endless days of being nothing while everyone else lived their lives around me.
Until finally, mercifully, it would end.
Not with a fall this time.
Just with closing my eyes one day and deciding not to open them again.
But that was still a long way off.
First, I had to live through every single day of getting exactly what I deserved.
I closed my eyes. Didn't sleep.
Just lay there in the darkness, listening to my grandmother's soft snoring from the next room, and wondered how much more of this I could take.
Tomorrow, I'd have to go back to school.
Face the whispers. The stares. The videos. The jokes.
Face a world where I didn't matter anymore.
Where I was just the crippled bully who finally got what was coming to him.
Tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that.
Until there were no more tomorrows left.