Chapter 5

Yamazaki Ryohei had spent most of his life learning how to endure attention.

Not the good kind. Never the kind people sought willingly.

It began in primary school with questions asked too loudly and laughter that followed too quickly behind them. Why does your mum talk like that? Why does your food smell weird? Why don’t you look fully Japanese? At first, the comments confused him more than they hurt. He had been born in Hyōgo. He spoke Japanese before he ever spoke Vietnamese. His handwriting, his uniform, his habits, his life all belonged to the same rhythms as everyone around him.

Yet somehow, small differences always remained visible to other people.

His mother, gentle and endlessly patient, unintentionally became the centre of many of those differences. She spoke Japanese carefully, assembling sentences with visible concentration, her accent softening some sounds and sharpening others. At school events, she smiled too eagerly, bowed too many times, thanked teachers with a sincerity that occasionally bordered on awkwardness. Ryohei loved her fiercely for it, which only made the embarrassment worse when classmates mimicked her behind her back.

Lunch was often the hardest part.

While other students unpacked rice balls or convenience store sandwiches, Ryohei opened containers prepared carefully that morning by his mother’s hands. Fresh spring rolls wrapped tightly in translucent rice paper. Pickled vegetables. Dipping sauce sealed in small containers that carried the unmistakable scent of fish sauce the moment the lid loosened.

The smell spread quickly.

There had been years when classmates moved away from him in exaggerated disgust, covering their noses dramatically. Even in high school, where cruelty became subtler, reactions still lingered. Comments muttered under their breath. Jokes disguised as harmless teasing.

Ryohei learned to eat quickly.

Ushijima Kensuke had been one of the few people who never reacted.

The first time they ate lunch together, Kensuke simply looked into Ryohei’s bento box and said, “That actually looks good,” before stealing a spring roll without permission.

Ryohei remembered staring at him in disbelief.

“You’re just saying that.”

“I’m literally eating it.”

“You’ll regret it.”

“I regret maths homework more.”

It had been such an ordinary exchange, but ordinary kindness had a way of remaining memorable.

After that, Kensuke drifted naturally into his life. They walked home together sometimes. Shared answers before tests. Complained about assignments and teachers and the endless pressure surrounding university entrance exams. Kensuke had an easy way of speaking that made silence feel unnecessary, but comfortable when it happened anyway.

Looking back now, Ryohei realised most people probably thought Kensuke was happier than he really was.

The news of his death spread through the school quickly, though teachers attempted to contain details. Rumours filled the gaps almost immediately. Some students whispered about suicide. Others insisted it had been an accident during the festival cleanup. Then came the announcement that the police were treating it as murder, and the atmosphere shifted entirely.

Murder belonged to television dramas.

Not to classrooms.

Not to students preparing for entrance exams.

Not to people like Kensuke.

Ryohei sat through lessons in a state that barely resembled concentration. Teachers spoke. Chalk moved across blackboards. Pages turned around him. None of it settled properly in his mind.

Everywhere he looked, absence became visible.

Kensuke’s desk near the window remained empty, untouched except for the flowers someone had quietly placed there that morning. No one sat in the chair. No one moved it. Even the students who normally spoke the loudest lowered their voices unconsciously near it.

During lunch break, Ryohei climbed the stairs to the rooftop alone.

The autumn air carried a slight chill now, enough to sting faintly against his skin. He leaned against the fence overlooking the school grounds below, watching students move through routines that no longer felt entirely natural.

His phone buzzed once in his pocket.

A message from his mother.

You eat lunch?

Even through text, her Japanese carried the same fragmented softness it always had.

Ryohei stared at the message for several seconds before replying.

Yeah.

Another pause.

Come home early today. I make pho.

Despite everything, he smiled faintly.

His mother always cooked more when she sensed he was upset.

The thought made his chest ache unexpectedly.

Ryohei closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose. He tried to picture Kensuke clearly, not as a body discovered in darkness, not as the centre of frightened conversations, but as himself. Relaxed. Smirking. Complaining about school.

And then, suddenly, something surfaced.

Not a memory exactly.

A pattern.

His eyes opened again.

There had been moments, scattered throughout the past several months, when Kensuke simply disappeared.

Not literally. Not in ways obvious enough to attract attention. But enough that, looking back now, they formed a shape.

At the time, Ryohei never questioned it deeply. High school students developed private lives naturally. Part-time jobs. Cram school. Relationships.

Relationships.

The thought settled heavily into place.

Ryohei frowned.

Kensuke had never openly talked about girls in a serious way. He joked about them constantly, the same way most boys their age did, but there had always been something slightly evasive whenever conversations became real.

And yet there were signs.

Small ones.

Once, Ryohei had caught sight of Kensuke checking his phone during class, smiling at something before quickly locking the screen. Another time, Kensuke had abruptly refused to hang out after school despite having no obvious reason. There had even been occasions when he arrived looking oddly distracted, as though part of his attention remained somewhere else entirely.

At the time, Ryohei assumed it was nothing.

Now, it felt like something.

He straightened slowly from the fence.

The wind shifted around him, carrying distant sounds upward from the sports field below.

A secret girlfriend.

It sounded almost stupid when placed beside the word murder. Too ordinary. Too harmless.

But Kensuke had hidden it.

Of that, Ryohei suddenly felt certain.

And if Kensuke had been hiding something, then maybe it mattered.

For several seconds, he hesitated.

Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and stared at the school contact list until he found the name he wanted.

Mr Matsumoto.

Ryohei pressed call.