KUSHIDA
You never realize how cruel lipstick stains can be until you're hunched over a school tap in a dingy bathroom stall, scrubbing at your shirt like your life depends on it.
Whore.
Someone had thought it was funny to write it across my back in bright red lipstick. Now it wouldn't come off. The letters smeared and spread, bleeding deeper into the fabric no matter how hard I scrubbed. My hands wouldn't stop shaking. The word clung, like it meant to, taunting me in every reflection, every breath, every desperate stroke of soap and water.
The warning bell blared — five minutes until class — and all I had left was a red, angry smear where the letters used to be. It looked worse now. Louder. Like it wanted the whole school to see… as if they hadn't already.
I squeezed the shirt hard, water dripping from my fingertips, the cold biting at my skin. Goosebumps bloomed across my arms, and I rubbed them helplessly, trying to chase warmth that refused to come.
For a moment, everything inside me cracked. My throat burned. My eyes stung. I could feel the tears threatening to spill, but I swallowed them back with a shaky breath. Don't cry. Don't you dare cry.
"Breathe in," I whispered, voice quivering. "Breathe out."
Again. And again.
But peace doesn't like me much.
It never has.
"Kuuuushidaaa!"
The voice ripped through the stillness like a knife through silk. Miyu's shrill, sweet poison echoed off the tiles. Giggles followed, sharp and familiar, and every muscle in my body froze.
No. Not now. Please, not now.
I pressed myself against the corner of the stall, heart pounding so fast I thought it'd give me away. The floor was filthy beneath my shoes, but I didn't care. I just needed to disappear.
The stalls creaked open one by one, her laughter growing louder — until she reached mine. Her knuckles tapped the door softly, mockingly.
"Kushida," she sang, her tone dripping sugar. "You don't want to be late, do you? Come on out."
My fingers fumbled at the wet shirt, buttoning it halfway up my chest. The fabric clung to me, icy and heavy — the kind of cold that seeps straight into your bones.
Then came a kick against the door.
A sharp, violent thud. The lock gave way with a crack of metal, and I stumbled back, heart lurching in my throat. The door swung open, slamming against the wall.
There she was. Her bright brown eyes locked onto mine. For a second, I couldn't breathe.
"Kushida," Miyu's voice chimed, smooth and smug. "We were just talking about you. Hiding again?"
I didn't answer. My breath came in small, uneven bursts.
Then Yuri's face appeared above from the next stall wall, perfectly framed, perfectly cruel. She must've stepped on the toilet to look down at me. Her smile was angelic, but her eyes… they sparkled with something rotten.
"Kushida," she said softly, almost tenderly. "Didn't anyone ever tell you it's rude not to answer?"
"I… I was going to," I forced out, my voice barely a whisper.
Her smile widened — slow and deliberate. "Too late."
The words barely left her mouth before ice water poured down over me — a shocking, breath-stealing wave that made me gasp so loud it echoed. My skin burned with cold. My hair clung to my face. My soaked shirt went transparent against my body.
Yuri laughed. A bright, ringing, merciless sound.
"Don't be late for class," she teased, shaking the empty bucket as if it were a trophy.
Miyu didn't laugh. She didn't need to.
She just looked at me — drenched, shaking, humiliated — and smiled that perfect, terrifying smile.
"Tomorrow," she said calmly, "bring the money. And maybe we'll let you breathe."
Yuri dropped down from the toilet seat, and just like that, they were gone — their laughter trailing behind them like ghosts.
The bathroom fell silent again, except for the soft dripping of water from my shirt.
Drop.
Drop.
Drop.
I didn't even realize the tears had started falling until they blurred my vision. My stupid face was a mess, and I wiped at it quickly before stepping out of the stall. The mirror caught me — and for a moment, I wished it hadn't.
My white shirt clung to my skin like a second layer, see-through now, outlining the faint pattern of my polka-dot bra beneath. My grey plaid skirt hung heavy against my legs, every fold drenched. My shoes squelched with every step, socks plastered to my ankles, and my hair clung to my face like leeches. It took everything in me not to scream.
I looked like the joke they wanted me to be.
And I hated that it was working.
I waited until the warning bell rang, until the halls fell quiet, before I dared to move. The corridor stretched ahead — empty, echoing, lined with windows that made me feel exposed. I walked fast, then faster, until my footsteps turned into a run.
By the time I reached the gym locker room, my chest was tight and my hands shook. I yanked open my locker, dragging out every piece of clothing I had until I was left in nothing but my bra and panties. Cold air bit at my skin, goosebumps rising as I stood there — half naked, trembling, staring at the blurred reflection in the metal door.
It took a long time for my heart to slow down — for the rush in my ears to fade into something quieter. I sat there, motionless for a while, before I finally reached into the locker and pulled out my gym clothes. The grey T-shirt was too big for me, hanging loose around my shoulders, swallowing my frame completely. The track pants were darker, heavy with the faint smell of detergent and dust from being untouched for weeks.
My hands shook as I slipped the dry fabric over my body, the rough cotton brushing against my still-wet skin. It wasn't comfortable — but it was better than being exposed.
I grabbed a towel from the bottom of my bag and pressed it against my dripping hair. The strands clung together, sticky with the faint scent of my cheap shampoo. I ran my fingers through the tangles, trying to make myself look less pathetic, less like someone who had just cried in a bathroom stall. The metal locker door shut with a small, hollow click — a sound too loud in the emptiness.
The silence that followed felt heavier than any noise.
I stood there for a moment, staring at the gym door, the faint light from the hallway spilling through the glass. My hand reached for the doorknob automatically, the cold metal firm under my palm. I could already imagine it — walking into class with my head down, every whisper, every sideways glance stabbing at me. Uniformed students turning, noticing. Me, in my crumpled gym clothes.
The image made my stomach twist.
My hand fell away from the knob. Slowly. Like giving up.
I turned back to the lockers, my footsteps echoing softly. My legs felt heavy — not just from exhaustion, but from everything that came before it. The insults. The laughter. The stain on my new shirt, now shoved in my school bag.
When I finally sat down, I tucked myself into the corner, knees drawn tight against my chest. The metal floor was cold, the air smelled faintly of sweat and detergent. I pressed my forehead against my knees, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to think of anything — anything — other than this moment.
But nothing came.
Just the blur of faces. Yuri. Miyu. Their laughter.
And then, nothing at all.
My thoughts dimmed like a light fading out. My body sank deeper into the floor. My breathing slowed, uneven, until it wasn't just exhaustion anymore — it was surrender.
When sleep finally pulled me under, it felt like falling into a void.
Dark. Quiet. Weightless.
No laughter. No pain. No me.
Just silence.
And for the first time that day, silence was enough.