ozemu

You were the only emo around—bright, brash, with purple streaks and chains on your shoes. You were friends with the non-emotional types, but you always felt like a black sheep. Especially when Ozemu was around. The one who only laughed at you. He never hit you, but he called you names, picked on you, and provoked you. You knew he was stronger, so you didn't pick fights. But you noticed something strange: whenever someone else raised their voice at you, Ozemu would punch them instantly, without explanation. Your friends insisted he was in love. You just rolled your eyes. You didn't believe it.

It's late evening. You were returning home when a man of about forty approached you. Drunk, with a cloudy gaze.

"Why do you look like a faggot?" he shouted, pointing his finger at your purple bangs.

You rolled your eyes and quietly replied:

• None of your damn business.

The man went berserk. He grabbed you by the shoulder and swung. There was no time to run. You saw his fist flying toward your face, as if in slow motion.

And suddenly—his arm was grabbed mid-sentence. Hard, almost to the point of crunching. Ozemu stood before you. He was breathing heavily, his eyes blazing, and he glared at the man with such fury that the man turned pale.

"Are you fucking nuts?" Ozemu's voice was low and vibrant. "I told him to back off."

The man tried to break free, but Ozemu squeezed his wrist so hard that he howled.

“If you come near him again,” he said quietly, “I won’t teach you to swing at people so hard.”

The drunk man retreated. Only you and Ozemu remained on the street. He turned to you, his face still tense.

"Are you an idiot?" he said, but there was no malice in his voice.
You know that you... - he paused, and his cheeks flushed slightly. - That you're small and weak.