Unseen Faces, Unspoken Truths

The other students started taking turns in the long jump competition. The assistant teacher, dressed in the same sports attire as the students, held a clipboard, diligently noting down each result.

The air was filled with the rhythmic sound of sneakers hitting the sandpit and the quiet murmurs of anticipation from those waiting for their turn.

The sun was high, casting a golden glow over the school's athletic field, where the event unfolded.

Kenta stood on the sidelines, his gaze locked on Kenjiro with an intensity bordering on hatred. His fists clenched tightly as he watched Kenjiro effortlessly interact with the other students, a confident smile never far from his face. The competition pressed on, and soon it was Kenta's turn.

Stepping up to the starting line, Kenta squared his shoulders, determination etched across his features.

His muscles coiled like springs as he prepared to jump. With a sharp burst of energy, he sprinted forward, the sound of his sneakers pounding the track filling the air.

He leapt with power, soaring momentarily before landing solidly in the sandpit. The assistant measured his jump and called out the result. It was good-better than most-but not the best.

Kenta's eyes darted toward Kenjiro, frustration and fierce determination flashing in his expression. Brushing sand off his legs, he stepped aside as the assistant jotted down his score.

Then it was Kenjiro's turn.

The chatter around the field softened, and all eyes turned to him. He walked to the starting line with an air of calm confidence, rolling his shoulders as he prepared.

At the assistant's signal, Kenjiro broke into a sprint, his movements fluid and precise. His pace quickened as he neared the take-off point, and with a powerful leap, he launched himself into the air.

When he landed in the sandpit, a soft thud marked the end of his jump. The students leaned forward, eager to hear the result. Kenjiro stood up, brushing sand off his legs, his expression composed despite the attention.

The assistant coach, who had been watching closely, approached with an approving smile. "Impressive work. Keep this up, and you might go far in this sport," he said, his tone full of admiration.

Kenjiro nodded politely, a subtle smile playing on his lips. Around the field, the students buzzed with excitement, discussing his performance in awe.

But amid the cheerful atmosphere, Kenta stood apart, his face dark with jealousy. He clenched his fists, a storm of resentment churning within him, and turned away, unable to bear the sight any longer.

Kenjiro glanced at Kenta's retreating figure, rolling his eyes before bowing respectfully to the coach. Without a word, he turned on his heel and headed to the changing room.

He slipped back into his school uniform, though he skipped the tie-it felt too suffocating after all the chaos. Slinging his backpack over one shoulder, he made his way to the school café, where Hiroshi was lounging at a corner table, sipping on a canned drink.

"What did Sakamoto-senpai want?" Hiroshi asked, raising an eyebrow as Kenjiro approached.

Kenjiro let out a low growl, dropping into the seat across from him. "Nothing. Just one of Kenta's stupid games."

Hiroshi burst out laughing, almost spilling his drink. "Man, what's wrong with that guy? He's got some next-level obsession with you!"

Kenjiro sighed, rubbing his temple. "I have no idea. My life's already a mess, and people like him just make it worse. Anyway, I gotta go to work. See you later."

"Wait, wait!" Hiroshi called out as Kenjiro got up to leave. "Kenji!"

Kenjiro turned, narrowing his eyes. "What now?"

"Lend me your skateboard! I'm bored, and I feel like zooming around. I'll bring it to your place later tonight."

Kenjiro hesitated but finally plopped the skateboard onto the table with a heavy sigh. "What did you do this time?"

Hiroshi grinned sheepishly, avoiding eye contact. "So... I may have borrowed my dad's car for a little joyride. And, uh... I had a small accident."

Kenjiro raised an eyebrow. "How small?"

Hiroshi waved a hand dismissively. "Just the front's a bit smashed. You know, nothing major. But now he's grounded me for a month and cut my allowance." He groaned dramatically, rolling his eyes like the true victim he believed himself to be.

Kenjiro couldn't help but smirk, shaking his head. "Rich-kid problems. If it were me, my dad would've torched me alive and turned my ashes into pottery."

Hiroshi snickered, leaning back in his chair. "Yeah, but Takahashi-san is a legend. He's the coolest."

Kenjiro snorted, grabbing his backpack. "Right. See you tonight. Don't break my skateboard, idiot."

"Bye!"

Kenjiro arrived at the café where he worked part-time. He tied his apron around his waist and immediately got to work.

The familiar hum of the espresso machine and the soft chatter of customers filled the air. With practiced ease, he brewed coffee after coffee, each one adorned with a personal touch.

Some cups bore delicate hearts or flowers, while others showcased elaborate anime characters or funny caricatures of the customers.

A little girl giggled as she picked up her hot chocolate, staring wide-eyed at the cat face Kenjiro had drawn in the foam. Her mother leaned over to snap a picture.

Kenjiro grinned, wiping his hands on a towel. "Next order!" he called out, Work might be chaotic, but it was one of the few places where life made sense.

After Kenjiro finished his shift at the café, he took off his apron, folding it neatly before reaching for his belongings.

Just as he grabbed his phone, the café's landline rang sharply. He hesitated before picking it up.

"Welcome to..." Kenjiro began his usual polite greeting but was cut off by a familiar voice on the other end.

"Kenjiro-kun, is that you?"

Kenjiro paused, frowning as he tried to place the voice. "Ah... Yamamoto-san? Yes, it's me."

Yamamoto, the elderly owner of the small bar where Kenjiro's father often drowned his sorrows, let out a tired sigh. "Genzo is here, drunk out of his mind again. He's causing a scene and fighting with the customers. Can you come get him before it gets worse?"

Takahashi Genzo-Kenjiro's father.

Kenjiro's heart sank. "Thank you for calling, Yamamoto-san. I'll be there right away."

Grabbing his things, Kenjiro hailed a taxi, his thoughts racing. When he arrived at the bar, he could hear his father's slurred shouting even before he stepped inside.

"Who are you looking at, huh? Think you're better than me?" his father barked, swaying dangerously with a nearly empty bottle of sake in his hand. Patrons were either glaring at him or quietly edging away.

Kenjiro approached cautiously, plucking the bottle from his father's grasp. His father blinked, struggling to focus. "Let's go, Dad!" Kenjiro said firmly.

His father squinted at him, his face breaking into a drunken grin. "Oh, it's you... my adopted son."

The room fell silent. The word "adopted" echoed in Kenjiro's ears, and he could feel the weight of the stares from everyone around them.

"Dad, please," Kenjiro urged, his voice tight.

But his father wasn't done. He shoved Kenjiro's arm away, laughing bitterly. "You dirty little orphan. Your real parents dumped you at that trashy orphanage because even they knew you were worthless. Look at you-your stupid face, your ridiculous hair. And now, you want me to be your father?"

Kenjiro's face paled. The words hit him like a fist to the gut, but he forced himself to stay calm. His father was drunk. He didn't mean it... right? Without a word, Kenjiro grabbed his father's arm, ignoring the man's protests as he half-dragged him out of the bar.

"You stupid boy!" his father slurred, flailing weakly. "I'm not your father! Let me go!" He swatted at Kenjiro's head, his blows clumsy but persistent.

Kenjiro gritted his teeth and kept moving. By the time they got into the taxi, his father had passed out, his snores filling the tense silence. Kenjiro exhaled deeply, pressing a hand to his face to steady himself.

When they arrived home, his father stirred awake, groaning as the taxi came to a stop. "I can walk. Leave me alone," he muttered, shoving Kenjiro away as he stumbled out of the car.

Kenjiro paid the driver and followed him, only to find Hiroshi standing awkwardly at the door.

"You again?" his father growled, pointing an unsteady finger at Hiroshi. "You think this is a hotel? Coming and going whenever you please?"

Hiroshi's face darkened with fear as he stammered, "I... I just-"

Kenjiro leaned close, whispering quickly, "He's drunk. Just go along with it."

His father suddenly lunged toward Hiroshi. "Give me money!" he barked.

Without hesitation, Hiroshi fumbled for his wallet, pulling out a wad of cash and shoving it into the man's hand. Kenjiro winced as his father pocketed the money with a triumphant huff.

"Kenji! Open the door!" his father barked again, swaying on his feet.

Kenjiro unlocked the door, guiding his father inside. The man staggered to his bed, collapsing with the money still clutched tightly in his hand.

Kenjiro let out a weary sigh, casting a glance back at his father. He couldn't decide what cut deeper-the sting of the drunken words hurled at him, or the quiet, shameful part of himself that couldn't help but believe they might be true.

He turned to Hiroshi, offering a sheepish smile. "I'm sorry about all that. You know you're always welcome here, right? You don't have to pay or anything."

Hiroshi snorted, shaking his head. "What are you talking about? It's fine. Honestly, I still like Takahashi-san. He doesn't give a damn about anyone or anything."

Kenjiro was about to laugh at his words when he noticed Hiroshi hesitating, as if there was something else he wanted to say.

"What?" Kenjiro asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Something happened, Kenji," Hirochi said nervously, his voice trembling as he avoided eye contact.

Kenjiro frowned, his chest tightening. "What happened?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

Hirochi took a shaky breath and slowly pulled Kenjiro's skateboard out of his backpack. It was broken clean in half.

"I'm sorry... I don't know how it happened. I left it by the bathroom door, and when I came back... it was like this," Hirochi admitted, his hands trembling as he held up the shattered board.

Kenjiro froze, staring at the broken skateboard. His mind went blank for a moment before realization hit him like a punch to the gut. This wasn't just a skateboard-It was the last gift from his mother before she died-the only thing he had left of her.

His fists clenched at his sides, his blood boiling. A scream threatened to escape his throat, but he swallowed it down. Not now. Not here.

He looked at Hirochi, his best friend-the one person who had stood by him through everything. The anger ebbed slightly, replaced by a deep ache in his chest.

"It's Kenta," Kenjiro muttered under his breath, his voice low and cold. "I know it was him."

"Kenji... I'll fix it," Hirochi said, his voice cracking. "When I get home, I'll figure it out. I know this skateboard means everything to you. I'll make it right. I promise."

Kenjiro forced a smile, though it felt like his face might crack under the strain. "It's fine," he said, his voice quieter now. "Just give it to me."

Hirochi hesitated, guilt etched across his face, but he handed the broken board to Kenjiro.

Kenjiro took it and walked to the closet, placing it inside gently. He closed the door, his back still to Hirochi as he blinked back tears. His throat burned, and his chest felt like it might collapse under the weight of his emotions.

"I'm sorry, man," Hirochi said again, his voice barely above a whisper.

Kenjiro turned around quickly, shaking his head. "It's okay, Hirochi. I know it wasn't your fault. I know who did it. Let's just get some sleep-I'm tired."

Hirochi didn't argue. He lay down on the floor beside Kenjiro, his heart heavy with guilt. He knew what that skateboard meant to Kenjiro. He knew it was the last piece of his mother he still had. Hirochi whispered softly, more to himself than anyone else, "I'll fix it, Kenji. I promise I'll fix it."

Kenjiro waited until Hirochi's breathing evened out, indicating he'd fallen asleep. Only then did he let the tears spill. Silent and hot, they trailed down his face as he stared at the ceiling.

Taking a deep, trembling breath, Kenjiro wiped his face and closed his eyes, forcing himself to find peace in the chaos. Somewhere in the dark, he vowed silently, I'll make Kenta pay for this.

. . . . .

"Hey, look at them. They're beautiful, aren't they?"

. . . . .

A voice echoed through the haze of his dream, soft yet unsettling.

"What's your name?"

Kenjiro stirred restlessly in his sleep, his body tense as the dream pulled him under once more. The figure was there again—a woman, her face shrouded in an eerie blur, just beyond his grasp. Her long hair billowed around her like a golden storm, its mustard-yellow hue unnaturally vivid, as if conjured from a fevered dream. It was a color that didn't belong to this world—yet somehow, it felt as familiar as his own jet-black hair.

Her hands were on his, gripping tightly, painfully. Even in the dream, he could feel it-sharp, bone-crushing pressure that sent waves of pain up his arms. He was small in this dream, a child again. His black hair was slightly grown out, messy, his feet bare against the cold ground. He wore a simple black shirt and white shorts, standing vulnerable under her gaze.

"Just say yes," she hissed, her voice laced with desperation. "He will be fine."

"No, no, no!" Kenjiro's younger self screamed, his small frame trembling as tears streamed down his cheeks.

Her grip tightened, her nails digging into his skin, drawing phantom pain that burned like fire. His vision blurred with tears, but the torment didn't stop. The woman's faceless form leaned closer, her presence suffocating.

Through the haze, he saw a child- small and fragile, his face also obscured. He wore the exact same clothes as Kenjiro, a mirror image of him.

The boy was crying silently, his shoulders shaking as if under the weight of the world.

"Emiko," Kenjiro muttered, his voice breaking in the dream.

The woman's grip became unbearable, and the sound of his own name being called by her faded into nothingness as he bolted awake, gasping for air.

His chest heaved, his breaths ragged as he sat up in the dark room. His face was damp, a mix of sweat and tears streaking his skin. He buried his face in his trembling hands, trying to steady himself.

The name was still on his lips, echoing like a curse.

"Who's Emiko?" he whispered hoarsely, his voice barely audible. "Who the hell is Emiko? What's wrong with me?"

"Kenji, are you okay?" Hiroshi's voice broke through the silence, pulling him further into the waking world.

Kenjiro looked at him, his eyes wide, bloodshot, and hollow. "I... I don't know."

He dropped his head into his hands again, the dream clinging to him like a dark shadow, refusing to let go.

As sunlight streamed into the room, Kenjiro and Hiroshi sat side by side, their eyes fixed on Kenjiro's father.

The man stood before the cracked mirror, meticulously adjusting a black tie over a suit that looked suspiciously too clean for his usual vibe.

Hiroshi leaned closer to Kenjiro, whispering, "What's with your dad? Why does he look like he's auditioning for a gangster movie?"

Kenjiro rolled his eyes, giving Hiroshi a look that screamed, Really? You don't know?

Hiroshi blinked in confusion. "What?"

Kenjiro sighed, keeping his voice low. "The money you gave him last night, genius."

Hiroshi's eyes widened as realization hit. He grinned sheepishly. "Ohhh... Wait, is he going on a date or something?" he asked, trying not to laugh.

Kenjiro pulled a face of absolute disgust, his lips curling as though he'd just tasted something bitter. "A date? Yeah, right. He's probably just going to blow it all on drinks and leave me to drag his drunk ass home again."

"Yikes," Hiroshi muttered, shaking his head.

Kenjiro's father finally finished his dramatic tie-tightening ritual and stormed out of the house without so much as a glance in their direction.

He slammed the door so hard on his way out that the walls rattled, and Hiroshi jumped a good inch off the floor.

"Does he always leave like he's in an action movie?" Hiroshi asked, clutching his chest like he'd narrowly survived a heart attack.

Kenjiro smirked, leaning back against the wall. "Pretty much. And if you don't want to see him stumble back later yelling about how the bartender stole his wallet, I suggest we leave the house now."

Hiroshi laughed nervously. "Yeah, let's go before he ropes us into his next 'adventure.'"

Both of them slipped into their school uniforms, though Kenjiro, true to form, left his tie hanging loose and his hair as wild as ever, a rebellion against any attempt at neatness.

Hiroshi strode to the front door, giving the handle an aggressive shake. "Kenji, why the hell won't this stupid door open?"

Kenjiro didn't even look up as he answered, his tone dripping with boredom. "It's because my dad slammed it a few minutes ago. Now it's jammed. Only I can open it-with the key... from the outside."

"So how are we supposed to leave? Teleport?" Hiroshi asked, his voice laced with sarcasm.

Kenjiro's smirk widened. "Nope. The window."

"The window?" Hiroshi echoed, crossing his arms. "You're joking."

Kenjiro pointed toward the kitchen, where a small window sat slightly ajar. They both approached it, and Hiroshi made a valiant attempt to slide it open further. It didn't budge.

"Well, this is just fantastic," Hiroshi muttered, stepping back.

"Amateur," Kenjiro teased. "Watch and learn."

Before Hiroshi could protest, Kenjiro backed up a few steps, dashed forward, and launched himself through the narrow opening with the precision of someone who had done this way too many times. His body slid through effortlessly, and he landed on the other side with a casual shrug.

Hiroshi stood there, jaw hanging open. "What the-how did you even do that?!"

"What are you, some kind of window ninja?"

"Call it what you want," Kenjiro replied, laughing. "Now hurry up. I'll unlock the door."

Hiroshi sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Great. I get to sit here and feel like a moron while you play action hero."

Kenjiro's laughter echoed as he made his way to the front door.

As they walked outside, Hirochi groaned, "Shit, we're late!"

Kenjiro shot him a look, their eyes meeting for a brief moment before hirochi grinned and said, "Kenji, no..."

Without another word, he took off running, fast and determined. Hirochi, though quick, struggled to match his pace.

"Jerk!" Hirochi muttered, a mix of annoyance and amusement in his voice as he laughed and tried to catch up.

They finally reached the school, and Kenjiro's eyes caught sight of something-or rather, someone-unusual. It was Sakamoto-senpai's wife, the philosophy teacher.

Haruko Fujimoto.

There she was, with vibrant red hair and large glasses, looking just as striking as ever. You couldn't miss her, even from a mile away. She was in her prime, but you wouldn't know it by the way she carried herself-ageless.

Kenjiro followed her to the classroom, where it was eerily empty.

"Ah, Kenjiro-kun, it's you again. Come in and take a seat," she said, as if she knew he was there even before she turned around. Kenjiro froze for a moment, a bit shocked. How had she known?

He didn't sit down right away. Instead, he stood there, trying to keep his composure, and said, "Actually,

Fujimoto-sensei, I wanted to read your husband's green book, but he refused. I thought maybe you could persuade him."

At the mention of the book, her expression flickered, a mix of surprise and something else. Was it concern?

Her voice dropped to a monotone, and she sighed, "Ah... my dear Kenjiro, if my husband refuses to give you the book, there's nothing I can do."

Kenjiro was caught off guard by her response. He tried to speak, but she quickly interrupted him with a tight, forced smile. "The conversation is over. You can leave."

Feeling the conversation closing, Kenjiro hesitated for a moment, then slowly moved toward the door. Before he left, he took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. "Have a good day, Fujimoto-sensei."

She nodded absently, already focused back on the notebook in her hands, her attention fully gone.

Kenjiro closed the door behind him, exhaling deeply. A mischievous grin spread across his face. He pulled out his phone and typed a message to Hirochi: "Get ready for Plan C!"