The world is a quiet place when you stop paying attention to it.
That's something I learned early on.
Every morning felt the same — the screech of my alarm at 6:30 AM, the scent of my mother's weak coffee floating through the hallway, and the shuffle of my shoes as I left for school without saying much to anyone. I walked the same roads, passed the same buildings, and watched the same faces.
But unlike anyone else, I saw something more.
Above every person's head, like a floating digital clock, was a number. Some were long — years, months, weeks. Others were short. Days. Hours. Minutes.
I hated the ability I had.
I never asked for it. Never wanted it. And I especially didn't want to know when someone would die.
When I was young, I suddenly saw the timer above my pet dog's head ticking down. I didn't understand it at first, not really. But when the number hit zero and my dog collapsed on the front porch, I understood too well. The grief hit, but something deeper took root: fear.
Only my parents knew of this ability. But even they didn't understand the weight of it. The crushing guilt of seeing someone smile while knowing they only had a week left. Or a day.
So I found a way to escape.
I asked my parents if I could have a pair of custom contact lenses made. The ones that could blur my vision to the point of near-blindness. They agreed and I got them. With them on, the timers disappeared into the fog. It was the only way to get through the day.
I took them off only when necessary—to eat, to read, to write. But always carefully. Always facing downward.
People and my classmates thought I was strange. My constant avoidance, my blurred eyes, the way I kept my head down like I was afraid of the world.
They didn't know the truth. And eventually, they stopped trying to understand.
---
It was a rainy Monday. The kind of rain that sank into your skin and made everything feel heavier. The kind of rain that wasn't heavy enough to cancel class, but just strong enough to soak through your uniform and make your socks feel like sponges.
I sat at my usual seat by the window, staring out at the gray sky. Water streamed down the glass like a curtain between me and the world. Behind me, the class buzzed with lazy conversation, half-hearted laughter, and the quiet rustle of bags.
The door slid open. I heard it but didn't look. I never did.
"Class, we have a new transfer student," the teacher announced. Her voice was upbeat. "Please welcome her."
There was a soft shuffle of shoes, followed by a bright voice.
"Hi! I'm Hikari Tachibana. Nice to meet you all!"
I kept my eyes on the glass. Even if I turned around, I wouldn't be able to see her face anyway—not through the fog of my lenses. And I didn't want to see. Not her. Not her timer.
"Take the seat next to Kazuki," the teacher said.
I didn't react. Didn't turn. It was easier this way.
A few seconds later, she sat down beside me.
"Hi there," she said, cheerful and soft. "Nice to meet you."
I didn't answer.
Instead, I faced the window. The rain. The only thing that didn't have a timer ticking toward its end.
---
Class began.
I didn't look at the board. I never did. Instead, I listened. Memorized. And when I needed to take notes, I kept my head low, removed one contact lens just enough to see the paper in front of me, and started writing—carefully, deliberately, always avoiding eye level.
But as I wrote, a corner of my notebook slipped off the desk. The pages fluttered down like falling leaves.
"Ah—hold on!" the girl beside me said.
Before I could move, she bent forward and picked it up for me.
I looked up.
Just for a second.
I saw her face. She was beautiful her long blue hair and beautiful icy blue eyes were out of this world.
But above those beauty
And there it was.
Above her head, glowing through the fog of my returning vision:
**100 days.**
---
My breath caught.
She smiled as she handed me the notebook. "Here."
I took it silently, my eyes down, the world around me suddenly hollow.
For the first time in years, the numbers had slipped through my guard.
And this time, they were attached to someone still smiling.
Someone sitting right beside me.
Someone who only had 100 days left.