Chapter 9: "Unspoken Truths Revealed."

Chapter 9: "Unspoken Truths Revealed."

It was a typical day at school, though "typical" had come to mean something entirely different for Ren. He hadn't planned on going to class—he hardly ever did anymore—but some part of him, that quiet, desperate part that clung to routine, had forced him to walk through the school gates that morning. He had drifted through the hallways like a ghost, barely conscious of where he was heading, his mind preoccupied with the familiar weight of his thoughts.

By lunchtime, Ren's exhaustion had overtaken him. He was beyond tired—emotionally, physically, in ways he couldn't even describe. As he sat at his desk, staring at the blank pages of his notebook, he felt an overwhelming urge to leave, to escape the noise and the light and everything around him. His hands, almost mechanically, shoved the notebook into his bag before he stood up and slipped out of the classroom without a word.

But in his haze, he hadn't realized that the notebook had fallen out of his bag, left behind on his desk, the cover slightly askew.

Ren didn't return for the rest of the day.

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Aoi was late to class again, as she often was these days. Her mind had been somewhere else, her thoughts still swirling around Kaito and the awkwardness that had lingered between them since her confession. She was trying to move on, really, but it was hard. So, when she saw Ren's desk empty again, she barely noticed. It had become common for him to disappear for long stretches, his absence as much a part of the classroom routine as her tardiness.

After class, she spotted something that caught her eye—the notebook on Ren's desk, its corner peeking out like a forgotten piece of his presence. She hesitated for a moment, glancing around to see if anyone else had noticed. When no one paid attention, she walked over and picked it up, recognizing the worn cover from the many times she had seen Ren writing in it.

She debated whether to leave it there or give it back to him later, but curiosity tugged at her, a soft yet persistent voice in the back of her mind. Aoi opened the notebook, flipping through the pages out of casual interest. She expected to see mundane notes or sketches, maybe even a few poems or random thoughts, but what she found stopped her cold.

The words on the pages were raw, jagged, full of pain she hadn't known was there. At first, it was subtle—the quiet musings of someone who felt alone, who struggled with connecting to the world around him. But as she turned the pages, the tone changed. His loneliness was palpable, each sentence a cry for help hidden beneath layers of self-doubt and fear.

Aoi's heart began to race. She kept reading, unable to stop, her eyes scanning the words with growing horror.

I don't know how much longer I can keep pretending…

Does anyone even care? Or am I just a shadow?

Her breath caught as she read passages about herself, scattered through the notebook like fragile confessions that Ren had never been able to voice aloud. He wrote about the moments they shared, how much her presence had meant to him, how he had fallen in love with her, silently, desperately. But even those confessions were tainted by the overwhelming weight of his sadness.

She doesn't see me. Not really. I'm just the quiet boy who sits beside her. She doesn't know that I'm breaking inside.

Aoi's hand flew to her mouth. Her heart clenched as she realized just how deeply Ren had been suffering all this time. He had seemed quiet, yes—withdrawn, even—but she had never imagined it was this bad. She had thought her companionship was enough, that simply being there for him was helping, in some small way. But she was wrong. So terribly wrong.

As she neared the end of the notebook, the entries grew darker, more fragmented. Ren's words became disjointed, his thoughts spiraling into despair. The pages were filled with hopelessness, a reflection of a mind that felt trapped, suffocated by the emptiness that had consumed him.

I don't belong anywhere. I can't escape this. It's like drowning, but no one sees me sinking.

Aoi's eyes blurred with tears. She could barely breathe as she read the final pages, where Ren's writing was frantic, scrawled in uneven, shaking letters. The sentences spoke of an overwhelming darkness, of a life that felt too heavy to continue carrying.

I'm so tired of pretending. Of waiting for things to get better. Maybe they never will.

The last few lines were more chilling than anything Aoi had ever read.

I don't know how to keep going. I don't know if I want to.

Her hands trembled as she closed the notebook, tears now spilling down her cheeks. The weight of Ren's suffering hit her like a tidal wave, and for the first time, she truly understood the depths of his pain. He hadn't just been lonely. He hadn't just been shy. He had been drowning, right in front of her, and she hadn't even seen it.

Aoi stood there in the empty classroom, clutching Ren's notebook to her chest, her heart pounding in her ears. Guilt twisted inside her, sharp and unrelenting. How could she have been so blind? She had sat with him every day, talked to him, shared pieces of her life with him, but she had never stopped to think about how he might be feeling. She had never asked, never pried, content to let him remain silent as long as he was there beside her.

But now, as she held his notebook, she realized just how much pain had been simmering beneath the surface, how much he had been hiding. And it terrified her. She didn't know what to do, didn't know how to help him now that she had seen the truth.

Her legs felt weak as she sank into Ren's empty chair, her mind racing with thoughts of what might happen next. She had to talk to him, had to confront him about this, but how? What if he pushed her away? What if he didn't want her to know?

But what terrified her even more was the thought of doing nothing—of leaving him alone in his pain, of letting him slip further into the darkness that had already consumed so much of him. She couldn't let that happen. She wouldn't.

Aoi wiped the tears from her eyes, determination settling in her chest. She would find Ren. She would tell him that she knew, that she cared, that he wasn't alone, no matter how much he might feel like it. Because now, after reading his notebook, she realized that her words, her presence, could no longer be passive. She had to be there for him—really be there—before it was too late.

Gripping the notebook tightly, Aoi stood up, her heart heavy with fear but filled with resolve. She couldn't undo the past, couldn't erase the moments when she had unknowingly hurt him by not seeing him clearly. But she could try to change things now. She could try to reach him before he slipped away entirely.

With that thought, Aoi walked out of the classroom, Ren's notebook still held close to her chest, the weight of his unspoken suffering now her burden to carry, too.