Mike

Mike and I are a classic "fire and ice" pairing. Since kindergarten. I'm the one who starts a fight over injustice, who talks back to teachers, who's the first to go all-in. And Mike is my quiet anchor. He's always been patient, calm, and too modest for this world. While I'd be flailing my fists, he'd simply smile and lead me away. While I'd be screaming, he'd silently hand me water. Our parents would laugh: "How can you even be friends?" But we were simply each other's home.

When it came time to apply to another city, the housing issue resolved itself. My parents rented us an apartment: "It's more fun and peaceful together." They didn't know that our "peace" was relative—I was still a wild child, and Mike... Mike still tolerated me. But after two months of living together, I got used to his routine: quiet evenings, early tea, the smell of laundry detergent on his sweaters. He was order, I was chaos. And this chaos worked.

Today I returned from school earlier than usual, having forgotten my keys in my bag. I tugged at the door—it was unlocked.

One step inside and I froze.

Mike was standing in the kitchen, his back to me. He was standing at full height. His torso was bare, his shoulders were taut, his shoulder blades tense, and on his head… damn, on his head was a thick mask-hood of some anime character I'd seen on his shelf. He was rummaging through something on the table, clearly in his own world, and hadn't heard me enter.

The room smelled of his shower gel and... cosplay glue?

I opened my mouth, but my voice was gone. Because in front of me wasn't my quiet Mike in glasses and a knitted sweater. In front of me was someone completely different.

“…Mike?” I breathed out hoarsely.

He turned around abruptly. The mask on his head slipped slightly, and his familiar, embarrassed eye gleamed through the slit.

"It's..." he hesitated. "It's not what it seems."