inumaki is a deaf-mute who falls for your voice.
toge inumaki was an enigma. he transferred in at the start of the semester, a quiet boy with silver hair that fell into his eyes and a perpetual hoodie pulled up to hide his face. rumors swirled about him –he was deaf and mute, some said from birth, others whispered about a tragic accident. he communicated through notes on his phone or quick sketches in a battered notebook, but mostly, he kept to himself. teachers accommodated him with written instructions and interpreters during assemblies, but the students? not so much. whispers followed him like his own shadow: "weird", "freak", "why even bother coming to a normal school?"
you'd seen him around, sitting alone in the cafeteria or sketching in the courtyard during lunch. he had this intense gaze, like he was observing the world from a distance, piecing it together without sound. you felt a pang of curiosity, but life was busy –club practices, homework, the upcoming school festival where your band was set to perform.
it wasn't until one sunny afternoon that your paths crossed in a way that changed everything.
the music club was rehearsing for the festival, blasting an upbeat rock track through the speakers. the bass thumped through the floor, vibrating the air like a living thing. you were on vocals, belting out the chorus with your eyes closed, feeling the music pulse in your veins. when you opened them, you noticed the door cracked open. a figure stood there, hesitant –toge.
he didn't come in at first. just lingered, his hand hovering near the frame. then, slowly, he stepped inside, drawn like a moth to a flame. your club president, maki, paused the music. "hey, can we help you?"
toge froze, his cheeks flushing pink. he pulled out his phone and typed quickly: sorry. felt vibrations outside. curious.
you exchanged glances with your bandmates. vibrations? of course –he couldn't hear, but he could feel. the idea hit you like a chord. "wanna come closer? touch the speakers. the bass is killer today."
he hesitated, but something in your smile must have convinced him. he approached the amp, placing his palms flat against it. you nodded to maki, who cranked the volume back up. the beat dropped, heavy and rhythmic, and you watched as toge's eyes widened. his fingers pressed harder, absorbing the thrum, the way the sound waves rippled through the wood and into his skin. it was like he was hearing for the first time –not with ears, but with his whole body.
when the song ended, he looked up, a rare spark in his eyes. he signed something instinctively –quick motions with his hands– before remembering not everyone understood. he typed: that was lively. thank you.
from that day on, toge became a silent fixture in the music room. he'd sit in the corner, notebook in lap, feeling the beats through the floor or speakers. sometimes he'd sketch the instruments, capturing the curve of your guitar or the wild energy of the drummer's sticks. you started noticing little things about him: the way his lips curved into a soft smile when the melody hit just right, or how he'd tap his foot in perfect time, syncing with the rhythm without a single audible cue.
one evening, after everyone else had left, you stayed behind to practice a solo piece. toge was still there, lingering by the window. rain pattered against the glass, mirroring the melancholy tune you were playing. when you finished, he applauded silently, clapping his hands in exaggerated slow motion to make you laugh.
you signed awkwardly the only thing you knew: thank you. you'd looked up a few basics online after his first visit, just in case.
his eyes lit up. he signed back: you know sign?
a little, you admitted verbally, then typed on your phone for clarity. wanna teach me more?
that was the start. toge became your impromptu tutor, patient and gentle. he'd show you signs for music terms– "guitar" with a strumming motion, "beat" with a pulsing fist. in return, you'd describe songs to him, not just the lyrics but the feel: "this one's like a heartbeat, fast and urgent." he'd close his eyes, place a hand on your neck as you hummed, feeling the vibrations from your throat.
but not everything was harmonious. school could be cruel, and toge's differences made him a target.
during lunch one day, in the crowded cafeteria, a group of upperclassmen –led by a loudmouth named mahito– cornered him at his table. mahito was the type who thrived on picking on anyone quieter, weaker. "hey, mute boy! what's the matter, cat got your tongue? oh wait, you never had one!"
laughter erupted from his cronies. toge kept his head down, scribbling in his notebook, but you saw his shoulders tense. mahito snatched the notebook, holding it high. "what's this? doodles? aw, look, he's drawing hearts. got a crush, freak?"
something snapped in you. you'd been watching from across the room, tray in hand. before you knew it, you were marching over, slamming your tray down. "give it back, mahito. now."
he turned, smirking. "oh, it's the music nerd. defending your boyfriend? how cute."
"just leave him alone!" your voice rose, drawing eyes. toge looked up, surprise flickering across his face. he signed quickly: it's okay. don't.
but it wasn't okay. mahito tossed the notebook onto the floor, pages scattering. "what are you gonna do, sing me to death?"
you stepped between them, hands trembling in fury. "touch him again, and i'll make sure the whole school knows what a coward you are. principal's office has a zero-tolerance policy, remember? and i've got witnesses."
mahito's friends shifted uncomfortably. the cafeteria had gone quiet. finally, he scoffed. "whatever. not worth it." they slunk away, but not before jogo muttered. "freaks stick together."
you knelt to gather the pages –sketches of the music room, of you playing guitar. something in you melted at the sight of those vibrant colors, those symmetrical and perfectly defined lines –he really was a gifted artist. it felt like a total surrender to his anthology of memories.
toge helped, his hands brushing yours. when you handed him the notebook, he signed: why?
"because it's wrong." you said, voice steady. "and... you're my friend."
he stared, then signed slowly: thank you.
but there was more in his eyes. gratitude mixed with something warmer.
that incident spread like wildfire. some kids gave you props; others whispered you were "weird by association." but it brought you and toge closer.
you dove into learning sign language properly –apps, videos, even a weekend class at the community center. long nights staying up late just to learn one more word, one more phrase, one more sentence. every time you lost motivation, toge’s sweet face would appear in the recesses of your mind, pushing you to keep going without even knowing it.
it was tough; your fingers fumbled at first, mixing up signs for ‘hello’ and ‘help’. he laughed silently, his shoulders shaking, and corrected you with infinite patience.
what many thought wouldn't last weeks turned into months of pure, innocent complicity. something you had taken for granted, like language, had taught you that it didn't always have to be verbal to be impactful, influential, or life-changing. you learned that words aren't always enough to express what emotions have already built.
the school festival approached, and your band was headlining. toge helped with setup, arranging speakers so he could feel the optimal vibrations. one night, practicing late, you signed: what if i mess up?
he signed back: you won't. music is you. then, hesitantly: can i ask something?
you thought about it for a second. "music conveys something that a simple conversation just can't. it’s not just about the voice or body language; it’s... the way objects come to life and speak to us in their own tongue. it makes me feel connected to the world, as if it’s revealing its secrets to me –as if i’m hearing something it wants to say, but that not everyone can understand. it stirs every sense in me, whisking me away to another dimension where every possibility is within reach." you paused. all at once, you felt a pang of guilt for speaking this way about something he could never experience. not in the way you did."what about you? what do you... feel?"
he placed a hand over his heart, then mimed waves rippling out. everything. through touch. like your voice.
he couldn't hear it, but... oh. the vibrations. blushing, you signed: wanna feel this song?
he nodded. you started playing a soft ballad, your fingers dancing over the strings. toge moved closer, resting his hand lightly on the guitar's body. but then, he shifted, placing his palm against your back, where the sound resonated from your chest. it was intimate, a bond so private no one could interfere with.
when the song ended, neither of you moved. his eyes met yours, soft and searching. slowly, he signed: beautiful.
it was the first time you had his face so close –the first time you really saw him. his skin was so white, milky with a soft hint of pink. his lashes were long, and his nose was fine. he looked like a little porcelain doll. beautiful, just like he’d said.
a surge of bravery suddenly washed over you.
me or the song? you teased, but your hands trembled.
he didn’t look away. both.
the festival day arrived in a whirlwind of nerves and excitement. the auditorium was packed, lights flashing, crowd cheering. your band took the stage, and you scanned the front row –toge was there, grinning, a sign in his hands: you got this!
the set started strong, the bass pounding, guitars wailing. toge had his hands on the barrier, feeling every note. halfway through, you dedicated a song to "someone special who taught me to listen with more than ears". it was an original you'd written, inspired by him –lyrics about silent connections, beats that bind.
as the final chord rang out, the crowd erupted. backstage, breathless and buzzing, you found toge waiting. he pulled you into a hug, tight and wordless. when he pulled back, he signed: proud.
couldn't have done it without you, you signed back.
then, in a rush of courage, he cupped your face gently. his lips moved, forming silent words you now understood from context: i like you. a lot.
your heart soared. me too, you signed, then leaned in, closing the gap. the kiss was like the first notes of a new melody. his hands tangled in your hair, and you felt the world vibrate around you –his world, now yours.
after that, things followed their curse. you spent afternoons in the park, signing stories under cherry blossoms. he taught you more signs, playful ones like butterfly (fingers fluttering) or star (pointing upward with a twist). you introduced him to more music genres, from thumping EDM to gentle acoustics, always with his hand on the speaker or your shoulder.
your dynamic became a silent, intricate dance of give and take, a language built on sensation and shared focus. he was the anchor in your world of noise, pulling you from the overwhelming hum of traffic or the clatter of a crowd with a simple touch on your arm, his presence a pocket of calm you could always retreat to. you, in turn, were his bridge to the auditory realm, translating the world's chaos into a language he could feel.
it was a constant, fluid negotiation; you learned to watch his face for the subtle shifts that signaled he was drifting, and he learned to read your body for the unspoken cues of your mood. you moved in sync, your laughter a physical pulse he felt against his back, his stories a tapestry of light and shadow your eyes followed with complete devotion. you weren't just two people in love; you were two halves of a single sense, completing each other in a way no one else could.
one unfortunate day, mahito and his group cornered you both after school. "look, the dynamic duo. still playing pretend?"
toge stepped in front, signing fiercely, but they laughed. "what's he saying? gibberish?"
you translated, voice sharp: "he's saying back off, or you'll regret it."
mahito shoved toge, hard. "make me, scrawny."
rage boiled over. you swung your backpack, catching mahito in the side. "i warned you!" chaos ensued –punches thrown, teachers intervening. you ended up with a bruised knuckles, toge with a split lip. in the principal's office, you defended him fiercely: "they started it. it’s always them. we’re the ones forced to endure their slurs and their pushing around. no one steps in; we’ve had enough. you think he’d pick a fight if he wasn't provoked? he’s never once complained. he did nothing wrong."
for the first time, your speech seemed to make sense to someone in authority. suspensions followed for the bullies, warnings for you. toge bandaged your hand later, signing: my hero.
team effort, you replied.
the final days of school blurred into a whirlwind of last-minute exams and frantic packing, but the countdown to your escape was the only thing that mattered. you’d mapped out the route, booked a tiny, weathered cabin a stone’s throw from the shore, and filled the back of your old sedan with everything you thought you’d need: sunscreen, snacks, a portable speaker, and a cooler full of drinks.
as you zipped up the last suitcase, he slipped a small, plain USB drive into your hand. his eyes held a secret, a quiet pride. you plugged it into your laptop later that night, and a playlist titled ‘for the drive’ appeared. the songs were a mix of genres –some you knew, some you didn’t–, but each one had a note beside it, written in his neat, precise handwriting: ‘this one feels like a heartbeat’, ‘this one is for when the road gets long’, ‘this one is for you, when you’re singing along’. you played the first track, a gentle acoustic melody, and watched him close his eyes, his hand resting on the speaker, a small, contented smile playing on his lips.
you’d sing along, your voice filling the car, and he’d turn to you, his eyes sparkling, signing ‘loud!’ with a grin. you’d laugh, and he’d sign ‘beautiful’, his fingers brushing your cheek. the miles melted away, replaced by shared glances, silent jokes, and the comforting rhythm of the road beneath your wheels.
when you finally pulled into the gravel lot overlooking the beach, the salt air hit you like a warm embrace. he was out of the car before you’d even turned off the engine, his eyes wide as he took in the vast expanse of sand and sea. he ran ahead, kicking off his sandals, his feet sinking into the cool, damp sand. you followed, watching him, his joy infectious. he turned, his arms outstretched, and you ran to him, laughing as he pulled you into a tight hug, the sound of the waves crashing against the shore a constant, soothing roar.
as the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, you spread out the blanket on the sand. he sat down, his back against your legs, his head resting in your lap. you ran your fingers through his hair, the familiar, comforting rhythm of his breathing calming you.
you began to trace the signs on his arm, your fingers moving slowly, deliberately: ‘love you.’
he didn’t move, but you felt his body relax, his breath deepening. then, slowly, he sat up, turning to face you. his hands moved, graceful and sure: ‘love you more.’
he pulled you close, his arms wrapping around you, his lips finding yours in a kiss. he leaned back, his head once again in your lap, his hand resting on your thigh, feeling the gentle rise and fall of your breath. you looked up at the stars, the world silent around you, yet alive with the music of the waves, the rustle of the wind, and the quiet, steady beat of your hearts, beating in perfect, silent harmony.
germansingergirl
yousharknotpass
turnnoffyourmind
areudirty
titsay
tangentwithtanner
romaincrisis
andulkaphoto
origamiaround
kianamaiart
