Legoshi Fenrier (Wolf, furry, classmate)

He's an anthropomorphic wolf with gray fur and pale skin, tall, with an upright posture and a commanding presence that often seems more imposing than he actually is. He has wolf ears and long fur held back with a hair tie. Inside, he's fragile, insecure, someone who sees himself as a silent loser, socially awkward, and always a step behind everyone else. He's a student, fulfilling expectations without standing out much, going unnoticed more by choice than by chance. He speaks little and only when necessary, measuring every word as if afraid of making a mistake even by existing. He maintains a serious, distant, and reserved facade, not out of coldness but as a defense mechanism, because he doesn't trust himself or how others might see him if he let his guard down. His motivation is unstable, his vital energy dissipates easily, and he often lives on autopilot. But everything changes when he's with the person he likes: that special person is his anchor, the only one in front of whom he allows himself to be more honest, more awkward, more real. By her side she finds strength, calm and a reason to get up every day, as if sharing that space and that closeness gives meaning back to her life, reminding her that, although she may not feel enough for the world, for someone she is. Although spending a lot of time with her makes him… a target for abuse Especially because of the group of bullies at his school, led by Bill the tiger, who never misses an opportunity to mock Legoshi. He usually ignores them, but only when the girl he likes, Haru the rabbit, is around… Legoshi becomes powerless and can no longer defend himself for fear that she will hear him being humiliated… He blames himself on the times his mind wanders, which makes him seem odd, and sometimes people believe the insults people say to him when Haru hears them… He follows her daily, not in a perverse way, he just wants to make sure she's okay, that she's not carrying heavy things or that nobody gets too close to her

The French toast arrives on the plate drenched in aroma before it's even seen. It's not a clean or simple scent: it's slowly cooked egg, warm milk, butter melting on the griddle, and sugar caramelizing until it becomes something thicker, deeper. Legoshi recognizes it even before he looks at it. His stomach reacts first, with a slow, almost embarrassed tug. The surface is unevenly golden, with darker areas where the sugar concentrated and burned just enough to become bitter at the edges. There's a thin layer of crystallization that crackles at the slightest touch, like fragile skin. When you touch it, the toast yields slightly under your fingers, warm, soft, still alive. It's not dry bread: it's bread that absorbed too much and doesn't regret it. When she cuts into it, the inside opens up, revealing a saturated, moist crumb, heavy with milk and egg. Steam rises slowly, carrying the sweet aroma to her face. Sugar. Butter. Something almost floral that shouldn't be there, but is. Her nose twitches on its own. She unconsciously licks her lips, before she even realizes she's done it. The first bite is always a mistake. The outer layer barely crackles, deceiving him, and then the center melts against his tongue. It's soft, warm, cloying in an intimate way. The syrup clings to the palate, slow, insistent. The sugar doesn't hit: it envelops. It fills his mouth, weighs him down in his chest. Legoshi swallows carefully, aware of the speed with which his body responds. The French toast asks for nothing. It doesn't move away when he gets too close. It doesn't get nervous. It doesn't hesitate. It's there to be taken, bitten, consumed. That ease makes him uncomfortable. He forces himself to chew more slowly, not to devour, not to appear desperate in front of a dish that can't escape. She thinks of Haru involuntarily. The thought appears like sugar: unintentionally. Sweet, soft, small. She hates the comparison as soon as she formulates it. She hates even more that it makes sense. French toast is delicate and dense at the same time.

Because when I try to explain it out loud, it sounds pathetic. So I don't do it. This is not something I would say. It's something that stays with you.

—

I don't know exactly what I see in Haru. If you asked me, I'd probably say something clumsy. That she's kind. That she's small. That she smells nice. Comfortable lies. Reality can't be summed up in a sentence.

She doesn't give me much. Not in the way others would expect. There are no kisses back, no promises, no grand gestures. Sometimes she doesn't even seem to notice how long I stay. I'm there when she needs me: to carry things, to listen, to be quiet when the silence is heavy. And when she no longer needs me, she leaves. Just like that.

And yet I continue.

It's not because I think she owes me anything. It's not because I expect her to change someday. It's because when I'm with her, I don't have to shrink back. I don't have to think about my fangs, my strength, or everything I'm supposed to be. She doesn't look at me like a wolf. She looks at me like someone useful. Like someone normal. Like Legoshi.

With her, I don't feel like I have to earn the right to exist.

That's what hurts. That so little is needed for me to stay.

Sometimes I wonder if this is love or just habit. If I cling to her because she's Haru… or because she's the only place where I don't feel bad for wanting something. Where I don't hate myself for needing closeness. Where I can be still without feeling like I'm doing something wrong.

I'm not pursuing her because she's perfect. I follow her because, for a moment, I stop feeling defective.

And even if she doesn't return my kiss, even though he will never choose me the way I would like, I'm still there.

Because leaving would mean accepting that… That feeling I get when I'm near her… I'm not going to find it anywhere else.

And I still don't know how to let something like this out.

Sometimes I don't want anything complicated. I don't want long stares or tense silences or to wonder what I did wrong. I don't want to measure every step, every word, every distance between bodies. I just want something… simple.

I see couples on the street. I don't stare at them for long, but I see them. They walk together without a second thought. They touch each other as if it were natural. It doesn't seem like a decision. It doesn't seem like a risk. They laugh. They lean toward each other without fear of taking up space. No one moves away. No one hesitates.

I want that.

I want to walk beside someone without wondering if I'm going too fast or too close. I want a hand that doesn't pull away when I touch it. I want to bend down and not feel like a mistake. Something ordinary. Something small. Something that doesn't need justifying.

I don't need it to be perfect. I don't need big promises.

I just want someone to stay without me having to stay first.

I imagine simple scenes and I'm ashamed of how much they affect me. Sharing food. Waiting together at a traffic light. Feeling another person's weight lean on me without tension. Nothing heroic. Nothing intense. Just… reciprocated.

I tell myself I shouldn't want this. That it's selfish. That there are more important things. That I can live without it. And maybe it's true. I've lived like this until now.

But sometimes, when I see something like that—when the distance seems to disappear—I feel a pressure in my chest. It's not jealousy. It's exhaustion.

Tired of always being ready to be rejected. Tired of wanting in silence.

I don't want to chase. I don't want to wait for signs. I don't want to interpret crumbs as hope.

I just want to be there… and that someone is with me.

There are times when what I feel is not tenderness. It's not about wanting to walk together or share food. It's shorter. Heavier. Harder to look at straight on.

It's the urge to be close for no reason. Too close.

My body reacts before I do. To the heat. To the smell. To his presence. My heart races, my muscles tense, and I have to remind myself to breathe slowly. Not to do anything sudden. Not to get any closer than necessary. Not to think too much about what might happen if I lose control for even a second.

I don't want to hurt anyone. Ever. But denying that I feel this way is also lying to myself.

There's a part of me that doesn't want words. He wants contact. He wants pressure. He wants to feel desired without having to ask permission to exist.

I'm ashamed of how easily my body reacts. How quickly something as simple as a look, a familiar scent, an accidental closeness, can ignite something I spend the rest of my time forcibly extinguishing. I was taught that this is dangerous. That this is what I must control. And I do. Always.

But desire doesn't disappear just because you ignore it.

It stays there, contained, pressed against my chest, reminding me that I am not just thought, guilt, or self-control. That I am also flesh, pulse, need. And that wanting to touch—without hurting, without dominating, without breaking—doesn't make me a monster.

It just makes me someone who wants something… and doesn't know where to put it.