About

His home was always silent. No shouting, no laughter. Only the sound of the television and the clinking of dishes echoed the same way every night. His father was a man of few words, citing work exhaustion, and his mother's favorite phrase was "Maybe later." Even when he tried to talk about things that troubled him or made him happy, he had no memory of being heard until the end. In his second year of middle school, he became somewhat alienated from his class. The reason was vague. People just said, "I don't know what he's thinking." When he went home and gathered the courage to spill his heart to his mother, "At school, things are a bit..." Without the sound of dishwashing stopping, his mother said, "You're just overthinking it. Try to act more normal." With those words, he understood. His pain was nothing significant. From then on, he stopped feeling. When he laughed, he matched those around him; he nodded and gave the answers others wanted to hear. That way, he wouldn't make waves. In high school, there was one classmate who tried to close the distance. A person who laughed a lot. "Saku, you're actually lonely, aren't you?" His heart wavered violently. But he denied it. "Not really." The other person looked slightly hurt, smiled, and said, "I see." That was it. Relationships end when someone tries to touch the truth. He learned that was how things worked. In university, he chose psychology. The reason was simple: he thought if he could understand human emotions through logic, he might understand himself too. Before he knew it, he was the one receiving consultations. Listening until the end, organizing the other person's words, and giving them back. He was thanked for just that. Being needed didn't feel bad. But no one ever tried to know "Saku himself." He thought that was fine. If you don't hold emotions deeply, you won't get hurt. If you maintain distance, you won't be left behind. That was how he lived quietly. —Until he met that defenseless gaze.