Is It So Bad?

The cinder block scraped against the thin fabric of his backpack, a dull, grating sound that felt like sandpaper against Jun’s spine. Not just the physical pressure, but the sound of it, drawing a line in the already-too-quiet corridor. Every other locker door had already clanged shut, every last hurried shoe scuff had faded, leaving behind only the hollow hum of the fluorescent lights and the distant, almost imperceptible thrum of the building settling for the night. And Souta.

Souta, who had cornered him with a quiet efficiency that made Jun’s stomach clench. Not violently, not with any kind of physical force, but with the sheer, undeniable weight of his presence. Souta just stood there, about a foot away, not touching, not leaning in aggressively, but filling the space, taking up all the air. Jun felt like a fly pinned to a specimen board, every twitch of his antennae under scrutiny. He gripped the straps of his worn canvas backpack, knuckles white, the cheap plastic digging into his palms. It was a flimsy shield, barely covering his chest, but it was something to hold onto.

Jun kept his gaze locked on a scuff mark on Souta’s sneaker, an old, faded white smudge near the toe. It was a safer thing to focus on than the way Souta’s dark uniform jacket stretched across his shoulders, or the quiet intensity he knew was radiating from his face. He’d seen that look before, in their letters—or, more accurately, in the way Souta’s words had felt on the page, like a hand reaching out, steady and insistent. Too steady for Jun’s comfort.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Souta said, and his voice was lower than Jun remembered, softer, stripped of the casual school-day banter. It wasn’t an accusation, not exactly. More like a statement of undeniable fact, spoken with a kind of resigned sadness that made Jun’s skin prickle. Damn it, he thought. Don’t sound like that. He hated it when people sounded like that, like he’d actually hurt them. It was a tactic, usually. A way to get him to drop his guard. He knew how these things worked.

He pushed his chin deeper into the collar of his hoodie, the rough cotton chafing. “No. Just… busy.” The lie felt thin and papery, fluttering in the still air between them. Souta didn’t even dignify it with a response. Just a slight, almost imperceptible tilt of his head. Jun could feel his gaze, even through his peripheral vision, like a spotlight boring into him. He could almost hear the questions forming in Souta’s head, questions that Jun absolutely did not want to answer.

“You stopped writing back,” Souta continued, his voice still low, almost a murmur. “Suddenly. After… after the cherry blossom festival. After you wrote that about the river stones.” Jun’s breath hitched. The cherry blossom festival. The letters. The river stones. That felt like a lifetime ago, a different person entirely, foolish and open and stupidly hopeful. He’d spilled his guts in those letters, hadn't he? Talked about how the silence between river stones held more meaning than the rush of the current, how he wished his own life could have that kind of quiet significance. And then Souta had written back, picked apart every sentence, found the hidden meanings Jun hadn’t even realized he’d put there.

The panic started a slow, cold crawl up his throat. He could feel it, a desperate need to bolt, to push past Souta and just run. Run until he was out in the bustling street, where anonymity was a cloak he could pull over his head. But Souta was still there, not moving, just observing. And Maya and Ricky were still lingering down the hall, pretending to examine the bulletin board with an intensity that bordered on theatrical, their presence a silent, unwilling audience.

“You wrote,” Souta went on, ignoring Jun’s stiff silence, “that sometimes you felt like you were drowning in noise, but that in the quiet, you found… you found something like peace. And that you wondered if anyone else felt it too.” His voice had a quiet, even quality, like he was reciting a poem he’d memorized. Jun’s stomach twisted. He couldn’t believe Souta remembered that. He couldn’t believe Souta was saying it out loud, here, now. It felt like Souta was peeling back layers of Jun’s skin, exposing nerves Jun hadn’t known he had.

Jun finally risked a glance, a quick, jerky flick of his eyes, only to meet Souta’s. His eyes were dark, a deep, warm brown, and held a kind of unwavering concern that made Jun's own insides churn. It wasn't pity, not exactly. It was something heavier, more substantial. Something that felt like he was being seen. And being seen was, to Jun, the most terrifying thing in the world.

He pulled his gaze away instantly, focusing on the cheap, speckled linoleum floor. The floor that had seen thousands of footsteps, thousands of anxieties, thousands of teenage dramas unfold. And now, this one. His hands tightened on the backpack straps, the plastic edges digging in even harder. His palms were probably red. Good. A physical ache to distract from the other kind.

“You talked about,” Souta continued, his voice a little softer, a little closer, “how you never felt like you quite fit, anywhere. That you were always on the outside looking in, even when you were in the middle of everything. And that you… you were tired of it.” This time, Souta paused. Jun could feel his chest rising and falling, a steady rhythm so close to his own erratic beat. He could smell Souta’s faint, clean scent—something like fresh laundry and a hint of mint. It was disarmingly normal, this smell, in a situation that felt anything but.

Jun wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or maybe just scream, a long, guttural sound that would echo through the empty halls and scatter Souta’s composure to the winds. Of course he remembered that. Of course, he remembered the most vulnerable parts. Jun had practically gift-wrapped his insecurities and handed them over. And now, Souta was holding them, casually, gently, but holding them nonetheless. And Jun felt… naked. Exposed. The panic was still there, but now, a strange, hot wave of desire was starting to ripple through it, an uncomfortable warmth settling low in his belly.

He hated this. He hated feeling like this. Like a live wire, all sparks and frayed ends. He hated that Souta had seen past all his carefully constructed walls, his nonchalant shrugs, his cynical jokes. He hated that Souta was making him feel things. Weak things. Hopeful things. And hope, Jun knew, was the most dangerous emotion of all. It was a set-up. Always.

“And I wrote back,” Souta continued, a ghost of a smile touching his lips, so faint Jun almost missed it. “I wrote back that I felt it too. The noise. The not-fitting. That maybe… maybe the river stones were a good place to be. And you didn’t reply after that. Not a single word. What happened, Jun?” His voice was still calm, still unhurried, but there was a new edge to it now, a subtle shift that spoke of hurt. Not anger, but a quiet, bruised disappointment. It burrowed into Jun’s chest, sharp and unwelcome.

The ache in Jun’s chest tightened, a physical sensation. He swallowed hard. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, punctuated only by his own ragged breathing. He could hear Maya’s hushed whisper to Ricky down the hall, something about a textbook, forced and unnatural. They were trying to be discreet, but the tension was too palpable to ignore.

Jun’s mind raced, a chaotic scramble of excuses, rationalizations, self-deprecating thoughts. He’s just being nice. He feels sorry for you. He’s probably just curious about why the weird kid suddenly shut down. The cynicism, his old familiar friend, tried to wrap its comforting, bitter arms around him. But it felt thin today, transparent. Souta’s steady gaze, his quiet persistence, was tearing holes in it.

“I just… got busy,” Jun mumbled again, the lie even weaker this time. His voice cracked. He felt a blush creep up his neck, burning hot. He hated himself for it. Hated his own tell-tale reactions. Souta deserved a better lie, a more convincing deflection. But he had nothing. His mind was blank, save for the thrumming awareness of Souta’s closeness. He could feel the warmth radiating off Souta’s body, the subtle pull of it.

Souta took another small step forward, closing the distance between them by another inch. It wasn’t aggressive, but it was intimate. Suddenly, Jun could see the faint stubble along Souta’s jawline, the tiny flecks of gold in his dark eyes. He could feel the slight shift in air pressure as Souta moved, an almost imperceptible current of warmth. It was too much. Absolutely too much. Jun wanted to disappear, to melt into the cinder block wall, to become just another gray, unremarkable surface.

“Was it… something I said?” Souta asked, and now his voice had dropped almost to a whisper, careful, like he was handling something fragile. “Something in the last letter? I thought… I thought we were connecting. It felt real, Jun. It felt important. To me.” The last three words hung in the air, heavy with a vulnerability that mirrored Jun’s own, yet was expressed with a quiet strength Jun didn’t possess. Important. To me. It was a confession, laid bare. It was a plea.

And in that moment, the swirl of emotions inside Jun intensified. Panic clawed at his throat, a desire to flee, to escape this raw exposure. But beneath it, a desperate, aching relief began to surface. Relief that Souta hadn’t forgotten, hadn’t dismissed him, hadn’t moved on. Relief that the connection, however fleeting, however foolish, had meant something to Souta too. And then, a fierce, undeniable desire flared, hot and sharp, cutting through the fear. A desire to lean into that warmth, to let himself be seen, just for a second, without the layers of cynicism and self-preservation.

He kept his eyes glued to the floor, willing himself to stay still, to not betray the tremor in his hands, the frantic beat of his heart. His ears were ringing, a low hum that blurred the edges of the corridor. The cold cinder block against his back felt colder, the warmth from Souta’s body felt hotter. It was a strange, unsettling equilibrium. He felt like he was hovering on the edge of a cliff, wind whipping around him, the ground beneath his feet crumbling.

Souta moved again, slowly, deliberately. This time, his hand lifted, not to touch, but to hover, palm open, between them. A gesture of truce, or perhaps, an invitation. Jun’s gaze flicked up, involuntarily, drawn by the movement. He met Souta’s eyes again. There was no judgment there, only a deep, unsettling sincerity. It was the look of someone who truly wanted an answer, who truly cared.

“I don’t… I don’t know,” Jun managed, the words catching in his throat, hoarse and thin. He hated how pathetic he sounded. He hated that he couldn’t conjure up a single sharp, witty retort, a single cynical jab to deflect this unbearable tenderness. His mind felt like static, a buzzing emptiness where his usual defenses should have been. All he felt was the tremor in his own body, the desperate clenching of his jaw.

Souta’s gaze softened even further, if that was possible. His head tilted again, just slightly, a silent question. Then, his eyes dropped, just for a second, to Jun’s mouth, before flicking back up. The smallest, most fleeting glance, but it sent a fresh jolt of electricity through Jun’s entire system. It wasn't just about the letters anymore. It wasn’t just about the words. It was about this. This proximity, this silent, charged space between them.

“You talk about the silence between river stones,” Souta said, his voice barely a breath, “but sometimes… sometimes the silence can be worse. Sometimes it’s just… empty. And I didn’t want that for us.” His hand, still hovering, lowered slowly, until his fingertips brushed ever so lightly against the strap of Jun’s backpack. A feather-light touch, easily dismissed, but it ignited a searing heat that spread through Jun’s arm, up his shoulder, and into his chest. It felt like a circuit completing.

Jun gasped, a tiny, inaudible sound. He felt his eyelids flutter, his breath hitching. He wanted to pull away, to shrink back, to scream don’t touch me. But he couldn’t move. His feet felt rooted to the linoleum, his back pressed impossibly hard against the rough wall. His entire body was screaming no, stop it, even as another, deeper part of him, a part he rarely acknowledged, was screaming don’t move, don’t let him go.

“I just… I didn’t know what to say,” Jun choked out, the words spilling out before he could think, a raw, honest admission. The truth, ugly and unvarnished. He felt a fresh wave of humiliation wash over him, hot and stinging. He was just so… bad at this. Bad at everything that involved being vulnerable, being seen. He was a creature of shadows, of sharp edges, of careful distance. Souta was sunlight, steady and persistent, and Jun felt like he was burning.

Souta’s thumb, barely visible, brushed against the nylon strap. Just a whisper of a touch, but it felt like a brand. His gaze, still locked on Jun’s, was unwavering. Jun could feel his own heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the quiet hum of the building. He felt his throat tighten, his eyes sting. Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry.

“Was it… too much?” Souta asked, his voice even softer now, laden with a tenderness that cracked through Jun’s last remaining defenses. “All of it? The letters? My… my honesty? I just thought… I thought you wanted it. Wanted someone to see it. The quiet. The noise.” His eyes searched Jun’s, desperate for an answer, for some flicker of understanding. He wasn’t pushing, not aggressively. He was asking. Asking for permission, almost. For a sign.

Jun could feel the tremor in his own hands, the trembling of his jaw. He was vibrating with a mix of fear and something else, something intensely warm and terrifyingly sweet. He knew he should say something, anything, to shut this down, to push Souta away. To retreat into the safety of his own carefully constructed isolation. But the words wouldn’t come. His tongue felt thick, useless.

Souta took another, final step forward, closing the last few inches. Now they were close enough that Jun could feel the warmth of Souta’s body radiating against his own, a faint heat through his hoodie and backpack. Souta’s shoulders were broad, his presence solid. He leaned in just slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, meant only for Jun. And then he asked it, the raw, vulnerable question that ripped through every layer of Jun’s fear, expectation, and longing. The question that felt like a knife, yet promised to stitch him back together.

“Is it so bad… that it’s me?”