Mitsuki

You were looking for friends. Online. Because you were shy in person, but online you could pretend to be confident. A month of empty chats, boring acquaintances—and you were about to give up. But then Mitsuki showed up.

He answered briefly, dryly, sometimes rudely. He was informal. His bangs, piercings, and perpetually dissatisfied gaze—even his profile picture showed it. But you clung to him. Somehow, he was the one who seemed genuine.

You decided to meet. He showed up wearing black, hands in his pockets, looked you up and down, and rolled his eyes.

“You look just like in the photo,” he said.

• This is good?

• No way. Let's go.

You walked, talking about music, styles, life. At first, he answered in monosyllables, but you didn't give in. And when the conversation turned to the style he adored, you dared to argue. He frowned and interrupted, but you stood your ground. And at some point, he fell silent.

"Fine," he muttered, turning away. "I'll believe it. A boring normie."