Xenon shut the door behind him with a soft thud and leaned his back against it.
A long, quiet sigh escaped his lips, the kind that came not from fatigue but from the weight of thoughts too big for someone his age.
"Who said I didn't want to have fun," he muttered under his breath, glancing toward the faint sound of laughter drifting through the window.
Outside, the other children were still chasing the worn-out ball, their shouts blending with the wind in uneven rhythm. Someone yelled his name, telling him to come back and play. He didn't answer. He didn't even move.
Of course he wanted to join them. He wanted to laugh until his stomach hurt, scrape his knees in the dirt, and pretend the world was simple. But for him, pretending came with a price.
He could still remember the last time he tried.
It had been an ordinary day, the kind that started with warmth and ended with something else—something darker. He'd been running with the others, feeling light, almost free, until a strange feeling started to creep through his chest. Not fear, not excitement… something emptier.
It grew heavier with every heartbeat, swallowing sound, light, even color, until everything felt distant—muted. He remembered gasping, the air thick, his hands trembling as if he'd touched something that shouldn't exist.
That feeling—
that emptiness—
it wasn't human.
It had moved inside him like a sentient shadow, stretching, twisting, yearning for release.
He didn't know what it was. He didn't even have the words to describe it. But his instincts screamed, sharp and certain:
> The day he lets it out will be the day everything ends.
He didn't know what "everything" meant.
But he knew better than to test it.
So, he stayed apart. He didn't play, didn't laugh too loudly, didn't get too happy. Because somewhere inside him, something waited—and it didn't like happiness.
---
He pushed away from the door and crossed the small room.
It wasn't much—just a bed, a low desk, and a window that looked out toward the dusty field. The faint smell of porridge still hung in the air, clinging to his clothes.
Sitting down on the bed, he ran a hand through his dark hair and sighed again, softer this time. "Maybe I am strange," he whispered.
He reached for the drawer beside his bed and pulled it open. Inside lay a battered notepad, its edges bent and cover smudged with charcoal. To anyone else, it was just an old sketchbook. To him, it was something closer to a memory vault—an archive of things that didn't belong in this world.
He flipped through the pages slowly, one by one.
The first drawing was rough, uneven, but detailed enough to unsettle anyone who looked too long. A creature with the wings of a crow, claws like knives, and eyes that didn't match—one human, one serpentine.
The next page revealed a human shape with seven eyes and no mouth, its face blank yet somehow expressive, like it was screaming silently through the paper.
Another showed something he couldn't name—a beast whose body was covered in mirrors, each reflecting a different image of himself.
Each page told a story he couldn't remember writing. Each one felt like a piece of a dream he never woke up from.
He paused, flipping further.
Some drawings were faint, as though he'd stopped midway through them. Others were almost violent, lines pressed deep into the paper as if carved by desperation.
He couldn't help but smile a little. It wasn't the kind of smile you gave when happy, but the kind that came when you accepted something strange about yourself.
"They'd call these nightmares," he murmured. "I call them friends."
He chuckled quietly at his own words. It wasn't true—not really—but it felt easier to say it that way.
Finally, he reached the last page.
Unlike the others, it was mostly blank. No monsters. No lines. Just faint pencil marks near the center—two pupils.
Not eyes, just pupils. Empty circles that floated in white space, too perfect, too deliberate. And yet, when he stared at them, they seemed to stare back.
For a long moment, Xenon didn't move.
There was something in those two small shapes that drew him in. They weren't just dots on paper; they carried weight, like the calm gaze of something that understood too much.
He leaned closer. The air in the room felt heavier.
The emptiness stirred again.
That same cold ripple spread through his chest, faint but undeniable, like invisible fingers pressing against the inside of his ribs. He inhaled sharply, forcing it back down.
Then, as if to cover his own unease, he let out a small laugh. "Pupils," he said quietly. "That's what I'll call you."
The name felt right in a way that frightened him.
He closed the notepad and held it against his chest for a moment. The silence that followed seemed thicker, heavier, as though the air itself was listening.
His heart thudded once—twice—before settling again.
The strange pressure faded, but it didn't disappear. It never really did.
"Maybe I should've gone outside," he muttered. "At least then, I'd have a reason to feel weird."
He set the notepad on his nightstand and lay back on the bed, eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling.
The sunlight slipping through the window touched his face, soft and golden, but it didn't feel warm. Not really.
For a while, he just listened—to the faint laughter outside, to the wind brushing against the shutters, to the quiet heartbeat echoing in his own chest.
Somewhere deep down, he wondered if he was cursed.
Then again, maybe he was just different.
That thought didn't comfort him.
His gaze drifted toward the drawer again.
Somehow, he could still feel those two ghostly pupils staring through the wood.
Watching.
Waiting.
And though he didn't know why, Xenon smiled faintly.
"Guess we're both waiting for something," he whispered.
The silence seemed to hum in response.