One week after the arcade...
Lain had always sensed that there were pieces of Kyra she would never fully understand—not because Kyra withheld them out of malice, but because it was her only way to guard herself. Lain had learned this long ago, when she first noticed the subtle shift in Kyra's gaze and the tightening of her smile. Kyra's sharp smirks and defiant retorts were no longer just a shield against the world; they were barricades built piece by piece around her inner self.
Standing outside their school on a chilly morning, Lain watched as Kyra trudged ahead, her hands buried deep in her blazer pockets, and her shoulders hunched as if trying to meld with the frosty background. To anyone else, this might have seemed like indifference, but Lain knew it was a quiet plea for solitude—a message that screamed of deeper, unspoken hurt.
Lain's mind drifted back to the first time she had witnessed Kyra's retreat into herself. In that moment, Lain had felt a mixture of frustration and helplessness: frustration at being shut out and helplessness in the face of a friend's pain. She had spent years learning to decipher these silent signals, reading between Kyra's words and the long pauses that sometimes filled the space between them.
Today, however, something was different. As they walked side by side, Lain's concern wove through every step. "Hey, you left my text hanging last night—everything all right?" she ventured softly, her tone warm with genuine curiosity rather than accusation.
The cool air between them seemed to thicken as Kyra's gaze remained fixed ahead. After a pause that stretched out too long, Kyra offered a half-hearted explanation, "I just crashed early," her words laced with a wry resignation that hinted at deeper layers.
Lain hummed in response—a sound that masked her disappointment. "Mmm, sure, if you say so," she replied, the casual inflection betraying both playful skepticism and quiet sorrow. In that moment, Lain wished she could reach out, to bridge the growing gap with something more than shared steps.
Kyra exhaled through her nose, an almost amused sound that didn't quite reach her eyes. "You really aren't buying that excuse, are you?" she teased, her tone a delicate blend of vulnerability and defiance. Lain's heart clenched; this was the moment when she felt the sting of isolation, as though Kyra's playful deflection was yet another brick in the wall that separated them.
"Nope, not even a little," Lain admitted softly, her voice carrying the weight of resigned understanding. There was a brief instant when Kyra's head tilted, and Lain felt the possibility of a spark—a challenge, a genuine invitation to break through. But then Kyra simply shrugged, retreating once again behind the defenses she'd so carefully constructed.
That small act, that silent withdrawal, pained Lain more than she could express. It was as if she were watching someone she loved slowly fade into a shadow, disappearing behind a barrier that seemed impenetrable. Lain wasn't like most people—she felt every nuance, every subtle shift in emotion, with a raw intensity that made it impossible to ignore when someone was hurting.
For the past year, Lain had watched Kyra build her wall higher, each stone laid with the weight of past hurts and unspoken sorrows. Each time she saw that wall, her own heart ached with the knowledge that sometimes the greatest love was in the attempt to understand, even when understanding seemed forever out of reach. Lain knew that beneath the defiant exterior, Kyra was hurting—and that the real tragedy was that sometimes, no matter how deeply you cared, you could only stand by and watch her retreat further into herself.
Lain's thoughts drifted back to their first year of middle school, when they were only twelve. Back then, Kyra Sakamoto was nothing more than a name passed around in hushed, cruel whispers—an enigma cloaked in scandal and vicious rumors.
"She's downright vicious, you know." "Yeah, I live in her apartment building, and her parents are a total disaster—they fight so loud it sounds like war every night." "Word is, her dad went completely off after the war. They say there's nothing human left in that house."
Lain had never paid much attention to these harsh words. Yet, despite the venom behind the gossip, she couldn't help but notice Kyra. Not because of the rumors, but because Kyra always seemed to float on the fringes of every crowd—as if she belonged to a different world entirely.
That was why Lain remembered the autumn afternoon when she noticed something amiss. It was cool and biting outside, the kind of day when most students hurried home with laughter trailing behind them, leaving the campus echoing with memories of the day. Lain lingered near the school grounds, mulling over whether to grab a snack before heading home, when she saw Kyra.
There, hidden behind the gym, Kyra was huddled with her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. The sight of her—a small, withdrawn figure with her head buried in her arms—stopped Lain in her tracks. It wasn't something she meant to see; she had simply been passing by. Yet the quiet desperation in Kyra's posture struck a chord deep within her.
Something about that moment felt terribly wrong.
Hesitation flickered through Lain's mind for only a split second before she took a cautious step forward. "Kyra?" she called softly, her voice laced with both worry and a dash of familiar teasing.
At the sound, Kyra flinched—a sharp, startled jerk, as if she'd been ripped from a far-off, private torment. Her eyes, rimmed with red and glistening with unshed tears, met Lain's for a fleeting moment. For an instant, it seemed as if Kyra might bolt, desperate to vanish from this unwanted attention. But recognition crept in, and her shoulders sagged in weary resignation.
Lain moved closer, her approach measured and gentle—like reaching out to a frightened stray. "Are you really okay?" she asked, her voice soft and sincere, free of pity and full of care.
Kyra's breath hitched as she exhaled shakily, her fingers clenching the fabric of her sleeves. "They're... they're just so damn loud," she managed, her voice cracking on the final word as reluctant honesty spilled forth. "I can't stand going home when all they do is fight."
In that moment, Lain felt a cold weight settle in her stomach. She didn't need to know every painful detail of what 'loud' meant in Kyra's turbulent home; the way Kyra recoiled, shrinking into herself despite the fierce reputation that everyone else seemed to fear, said enough.
"You shouldn't have to face that alone," Lain said gently, her tone both comforting and determined. "Mind if I stick around for a while?"
Kyra sniffled, her sleeve brushing against her face as if to chase away the tears. "You really don't have to," she murmured, the vulnerability in her tone belying the hard shell she'd built around herself.
"I want to be here," Lain insisted, her words firm yet tender—a promise of unwavering presence.
A shaky breath escaped Kyra, and for just a heartbeat, the rigid lines of her guarded posture softened. They sat together in silence for what felt like an eternity—a quiet communion where no words were needed to acknowledge the pain behind Kyra's walls.
That day, as Lain looked back on that moment, she realized it was the first time Kyra had allowed anyone to see even a glimpse of what lay behind those walls of cruelty and hurt. And even though the echoes of the bully's harsh words still lingered—words meant to isolate and demean—Lain knew that beneath the scathing rumors and the fierce defiance was a soul crying out for understanding and kindness.
For Lain, the memory was bittersweet. It was a reminder of how easily people could be broken by words thrown carelessly, and how deeply one could care for someone even when that person had spent their life erecting barriers against the world. In that silent, shared moment, Lain vowed to always look beyond the harsh voices of others—to seek out the truth of the person they whispered about, and to offer a steady hand in the darkness.
Lain blinked back into the present, her fingers curling around themselves as if trying to hold onto a memory slipping away. That moment—when she saw Kyra smoke—had stayed with her like a persistent ache.
Back then, Kyra had still let people in. Lain remembered a time when Kyra's guarded smile was tempered by fleeting moments of vulnerability, when her laughter echoed even in the midst of whispered rumors. There was an unspoken invitation in the way Kyra allowed someone to step closer, to see past the hard edges of her defiance. But now, a year after losing both of her parents, that Kyra was gone. The loss had built an impenetrable wall around her heart, and every day, Lain felt the growing distance with unbearable clarity.
Lain's mind churned with memories of what had once been—a time when even a single shared secret could bridge the gap between two souls. Now, as she watched Kyra drift further into isolation, it felt as though she were witnessing the slow erosion of something irreplaceable. The change wasn't gradual; it was marked by that one stark moment. The first time she saw Kyra smoke, a tendril of blue-gray haze curling into the air, Lain understood that Kyra had slipped past the point of return.
In that instant, the act of lighting a cigarette was more than just a habit—it was a silent surrender, a declaration of self-imposed exile. For Lain, the smoke was a visible symbol of the pain and the loss that Kyra refused to speak about. It was a signal that the person who once fought to let the light in was now content to hide behind a fog of sorrow. And as the smoke drifted away, so did any remnants of the connection they once shared.
Lain felt a pang of helplessness. She yearned to reach out, to pull Kyra back from the edge of this dark chasm, but every time she tried, Kyra would retreat further behind her carefully constructed walls.
Another flashback surged into Lain's mind as the scent hit first—a sharp reminder of rebellion and hidden pain. Lain found Kyra tucked away behind the old storage shed, leaning casually against the wall. One foot was propped behind her, her navy blazer unbuttoned just enough to hint at careless defiance, and her tie hung loose, as if it had long ago given up on order. In her hand, a cigarette glowed like a small, forbidden beacon. With deliberate slowness, Kyra exhaled a lazy curl of smoke that seemed to merge with the chill autumn air, her eyes unfocused and drifting somewhere beyond reach.
Lain froze. In that moment, the world narrowed to the sight of Kyra—vulnerable in her act of secret rebellion. Kyra's gaze met hers, and for the first time since Lain had come to know her, there was an undeniable flash of being caught. It wasn't overt shame, but something close—a fleeting, raw exposure of the carefully guarded self. "Jesus, Kyra, what the fuck are you doing?" Lain demanded, her voice a mix of shock, concern, and that familiar exasperated edge.
Kyra hesitated, her lips twitching into a forced smirk that barely masked the tremor of uncertainty. "What? You think I'm suddenly a delinquent?" she shot back, her tone laced with playful defiance even as it betrayed a flicker of vulnerability.
Before any further reply could surface, Lain's inner voice echoed a biting thought: "I never pegged you for that kind of idiot." The words, harsh and unfiltered, reverberated with the weight of years spent watching Kyra battle her own demons.
For Lain, that internal dialogue wasn't merely a fleeting thought—it was a searing snapshot of their tangled connection. Kyra wasn't just smoking; she was hiding. Each puff was a secret, a moment of surrender to guilt and the crushing realization that what she was doing was, by every measure, wrong. And yet, she persisted, as if that small act was her defiant claim against a world that had already judged her too harshly.
Lain had been witnessing these quiet battles for a year now. Every hidden habit, every desperate attempt to mask pain, added to a growing ache in Lain's heart. Watching Kyra, always so guarded, always desperately trying to cover up her scars, Lain felt an overwhelming helplessness. She longed to reach out, to pull her friend back from the precipice of self-destruction, but every time she tried, Kyra would retreat further behind her carefully constructed walls.
In that charged moment behind the shed, Lain realized with painful clarity that she still had no idea how to make Kyra stop—how to undo the habits that were slowly corroding the person she once knew. The harsh words in her mind weren't born out of cruelty, but from a raw, unfiltered fear of losing Kyra to the very demons she fought silently. It was a battle of wills, of self-destruction versus the desperate hope for redemption, and Lain felt both its urgency and its inevitable sorrow.