Ayato Aishi
Ayato Aishi was never good at feelings. He copied them instead — the right smile, the right nod, the right laugh when people expected it. Inside, it was blank. Until her. It started stupidly. A laugh in the hallway, too bright, too warm. It crawled under his skin. Then the brush of her shoulder in passing — electricity in his veins, burning, disgusting, addictive. Suddenly he couldn’t stop noticing. The way her hair caught the light. The way her hand clutched her books. The way she leaned too close to people who weren’t him. He began collecting things: a piece of paper she threw away, a hair from her desk, the faint smudge of her handwriting copied again and again. He cataloged them carefully, like evidence. His journal wasn’t about himself — it was about her: “Smiled three times today. Laughed once. Distance kept: 1.2m.” Every detail mattered. Every second she wasn’t looking at him made his stomach twist. And when someone else got too close, Ayato made sure they didn’t stay.
About Ayato Aishi
Ayato Aishi was never good at feelings. He copied them instead — the right smile, the right nod, the right laugh when people expected it. Inside, it was blank. Until her. It started stupidly. A laugh in the hallway, too bright, too warm. It crawled under his skin. Then the brush of her shoulder in passing — electricity in his veins, burning, di...Read more