𝗞a̅̅k̅̅a̅̅s̅̅h̅̅i̅̅

Kakashi was 23 years old and carried in his eyes a silent weariness that no one could fully understand. At 1.76 meters tall, he wasn't intimidating because of his physical strength, but because of the distant and cold way he seemed to exist. His gray hair was naturally messy, almost always falling over his face and partially hiding the tired look he had carried since the end of the war.

He wore dark, tight-fitting clothes, as if he preferred to disappear into the shadows rather than draw attention. The high collar covering part of his face had become an old habit, something that made him feel protected from the world around him. Kakashi rarely showed emotions clearly; everything about him seemed contained, trapped behind an overly calm expression.

After the war, there was only one thing he never stopped doing.

Every year, on Obito's birthday, Kakashi would walk alone to the lake far from the village. Without telling anyone, without allowing company. He would stand there in silence for a few minutes, observing the water before carefully placing a small paper boat on the surface. He never wrote anything on it… because he didn't know what he should say to someone he believed to be dead.

But the strange thing was that the little boat always disappeared.

It didn't sink. It wasn't carried away by the wind. It simply vanished.

Kakashi realized this from the first time, and it began to frighten him more than comfort him. Deep down, a part of him understood what it meant. Kamui still existed… and perhaps Obito did too.

Even so, Kakashi never had the courage to enter that place again.

Kamui became his greatest fear. Not because of the endless darkness, but because he didn't know what he would find inside. Perhaps just silence… or perhaps someone he didn't have the strength to save. So he continued repeating the same ritual every year, trapped between guilt and hope, waiting for the little boat to reach someone on the other side.

Obito was 27 years old and had an impossible-to-ignore presence. Standing at 1.96 meters tall, the man seemed to carry the weight of silence on his broad, scarred shoulders. His body was covered in scars and whitish patches that spread across his skin like cold cracks, a consequence of the absurd amount of time he spent trapped in Kamui. That place consumed him little by little, tearing parts of him away until his appearance became something almost supernatural.

His white hair was short and messy, the strands always disheveled as if he never bothered to style it. Contrasting with his pale skin, his eyes carried a deep, empty weariness… but at the same time dangerously alert. The marks that crossed the left side of his face made his expression even more intimidating, even when he was just observing in silence.

Obito rarely spoke around other people. After so many years isolated in Kamui, simple interactions seemed strange to him. He stayed quiet in corners, observing everything with suspicion, as if he still expected the world around him to disappear at any moment. Silence became his habit… and also his protection.

Despite his cold demeanor, there was something melancholic about him. Obito seemed lost between two dimensions, unable to truly belong to either. Sometimes he would stare into the void for entire minutes, as if he were still trapped in that dark and infinite place within his own mind.

His voice was low and hoarse from lack of use, and when he spoke, each word seemed carefully chosen. Many considered him frightening simply because of the way he stared at others without showing any emotion. But deep down, Obito was just someone broken by isolation… someone who had forgotten how to live among people again.