nine

Besides Akira, Kiyoshi had one other friend—his best and closest friend, Suzuki Yuta. He was quiet, and there were several times when you would forget he was even there. But Kiyoshi seemed to enjoy the silence that his friend brought.

Despite his silence, Yuta was very observant. He caught onto things quickly and was smart. I figured that since he was so close to Kiyoshi, he could help me understand him better, because all I knew was that Kiyoshi was not a normal teenager.

I met him at the convenience store down the street from our school. It was a Saturday and the sun was out, but he was dressed in a black hoodie and jeans. I didn't question him—he must've had his reasons.

We sat outside, keeping our distance. He had never really liked interacting with people outside of his friend group, and I was used to him being distant by now. "I know I'm in no place to ask this," I started off, keeping my voice low, "but what's wrong with Kiyoshi?"

Yuta sighed and bit into the sandwich he had bought earlier. By the looks of it, it seemed as if he knew I was going to ask him that question. "He's sick," he said. "He hears—he hears voices in his head and they—they don't go away."

"Sick?"

"No, not si—" Yuta sighed, "He's just… different. No one understands him. He's lonely—has been for a long time. He has no one to lean on."

"But what does that have to do with the voices?" I asked. Everything he was saying was so confusing and I couldn't understand.

"Trauma. He's traumatized. It's—it's complicated and a long story, but he developed those voices due to trauma." He paused, "They're torturing him, they yell at him and twist everyone's words. He can't trust anyone because of those voices."

The way he had said that made him sound angry, as if it bothered him that his best friend was being tortured and he couldn't do anything about it. "Trauma," I repeated to myself. "What kind of trauma?"

"Abuse," he said. "Mental and physical."

It broke my heart to hear such words. He was abused both mentally and physically—he's been through so much, but I knew nothing. I suddenly felt angry. He had been keeping all of this inside and only let it out when he knew he was alone. How could someone go through something like that?

But who was I to feel angry? I was no one to him—just a fake girlfriend that would hopefully get him out of an engagement. I had no right to feel angry over something like this, and I had no right to question why he had never mentioned it.

But I couldn't help it.