The ceiling fan spun in lazy circles above the bed, groaning on every rotation as if it, too, had grown tired of pretending things were normal.
He lay beneath it, wide-eyed and unmoving, listening to the sounds of the world outside—dogs barking, a car alarm whining, some drunk yelling in the distance. The noise didn't reach him. Not really.
Inside his room, there was only silence. Not the comforting kind. This silence slithered along the floor like smoke—too familiar, too close.
His gaze drifted to the mirror across the room. It showed a boy—sixteen, tall for his age, with sharp features and black hair clinging to a sweaty face. But the eyes were what stood out the most.
Cold. Hollow. Wrong.
He stared at the reflection until, slowly, the corners of his mouth lifted.
A smile.
Thin. Gentle. Almost innocent.
Almost.
He hated it.
With a frustrated grunt, he sat up and spun his chair around, resting his elbows on the backrest and his chin on folded hands. The mirror still stared. Still smiling.
"You're not real," he muttered. "Just a symptom."
That's what Dr. Yano had said. A projection of his disorder. Detachment from consequence. A fetish for silence. That was the word—fetish. It made his stomach twist.
He wasn't sick.
He was broken.
"Kamazaki," came his mother's voice, soft through the door. "Dinner's ready."
His body tensed as guilt flared up, hot and sharp behind his ribs.
"I'm coming," he said, voice calm and steady—too practiced to be natural.
The dining room felt warmer than usual. His father sat upright, posture as stiff as ever. His mother moved quietly between the table and kitchen. Miri, his little sister, just nine years old, kicked her legs and hummed an anime tune under her breath.
He took his seat. His mother placed a bowl of miso soup, rice, and grilled fish in front of him with a soft smile.
He returned it.
It looked real.
"How was school?" his father asked, spoon halfway to his mouth.
"Fine."
"Just fine?"
He nodded, chewing slowly, not really tasting anything.
His mother's eyes lingered on him longer than usual. "You look tired."
"I'm fine."
A lie. But a necessary one.
Miri giggled and leaned forward. "Onii-chan probably stayed up watching scary movies again!"
He glanced at her. That innocent grin of hers always hurt more than it should.
"Yeah. Something like that."
But he didn't need horror movies. His dreams were worse.
After dinner, he helped clear the table. His mother touched his arm gently as he passed by.
"You're shaking again," she whispered.
He paused, then gave the same reply he always did. "Just cold."
She didn't believe him, but she didn't press. She never did.
Back in his room, the ceiling fan kept spinning—groaning like some ancient thing too stubborn to die.
He opened his nightstand drawer and stared at the old pocketknife lying inside. The blade had dulled over the years, its edge worn down to harmless metal. He kept it anyway. A reminder.
The first time he used it, he was eleven. A classmate had pushed him too far. There'd been blood, a scream, a teacher yanking him back.
Then came therapy. Diagnosis. Medication. Suppression.
But the second time? There was no excuse. No trigger. Just silence—and that smile.
He didn't want to kill.
He just wanted to want it.
And that was worse.
He stood and faced the mirror. His reflection rose with him, perfectly in sync.
The knife came up in his hand.
And the reflection smiled.
"I'm going to be better," he whispered.
The mirror gave no answer.
He stared until that smile faded, then tucked the knife away and crawled into bed.
Tomorrow would be better.
It had to be.
The Next Morning
He walked to school alone. Always did.
Crowds made him feel like a ticking bomb wrapped in soft skin. One wrong bump, one sharp breath, and the mask would crack. The pieces would fall.
But the cold morning air helped. It made things feel clean. Bearable.
He passed the corner store. The old man was sitting beside the side door again, scratching at his neck, muttering to himself.
He slowed down.
The man looked up, bloodshot eyes locking onto him. "You've got it in you, boy. I see it."
He said nothing.
"Dark thing. Hungry thing. You smile like it's not there… but it always is."
Their eyes met. And for a moment, he felt exposed. Like someone had peeled his skin back and looked inside.
He walked on, faster this time.
School was the same as always. Teachers talked. Students laughed. Hallways echoed with meaningless noise.
He moved through it all like a ghost.
Every moment was a battle.
Don't stare too long.
Don't grip the pen too tightly.
Don't imagine the blood.
Just walk. Just breathe. Just blend in.
That night, it happened again.
He woke on the floor. The knife was in his hand.
The mirror was shattered.
And on the wall, faint lines carved into plaster, only visible when the light hit just right:
Don't smile.
His hand was bleeding. His mouth ached.
He reached up and touched his lips.
Still curved.
Still smiling.
Even in his sleep.