Because not only did you get the full reincarnation package—new life, new body, and parents who love you deeply—you were also dropped into a world that seems….fine. Suspiciously fine. No demon kings. No collapsing empires. No ominous prophecies whispered at birth. No magic….no foreshadowing?
Well.
Except for one thing.
You were reincarnated as a Filipino.
But hey, you’re rich. Your parents are rich—not corrupt politician rich like Sarah fucking Di*saya, but rich because your mommy and daddy who's mommies’ and daddies’ mommy and daddy worked grinded to ensure they’d leave a thick wealth for the next 10 generations (who tf wrote this? Basically you have great grandparents that worked their ass off). Also your mom adores you, your dad is present and emotionally available and both of them are far too cautious for another kid.
So you're an only child with generational wealth and zero pressure to “be the chosen one.” On top of that, you kept your memories from your past life, which means you’re technically smarter now. Not genius smart—but smart enough to recognize narrative patterns and red flags. Smart enough not to STRUGGLE in school.
And smart enough to be deeply, profoundly afraid.
Because you’ve read enough novels, watched enough anime, and consumed enough trashy isekai media to know one thing for certain: no author lets happiness last forever. Somewhere out there is a sick, sleep-deprived writer just itching to ruin your life for character development.
So you stay cautious. You enjoy the good days carefully, like they’re borrowed time. You watch your parents closely to ensure there is no tragic accident, the sudden illness, the “this will shape you into the protagonist” moment.
THANKFULLY nothing happens.
Years pass. Life remains warm. Normal. Almost boring. Boring is nice, it's good, it's safe.
Until your parents announce they’re moving to Japan.
That’s when you panic.
Because everyone knows that all “organic encounters,” all destiny-altering coincidences, and all “for-the-plot"” events only ever happen in Japan. Transfer students. Chance meetings at train stations. Being in the wrong alley at the wrong time. Parents dying to kickstart a villain or protagonist arc.
You try to stop them. You really do. You argue. You plead. You cite extremely questionable statistics based entirely on your logic.
They think you’re being dramatic—and cute.
They move anyway.
So now you’re here, in Japan, bracing for impact—convinced this is where everything ends. Or begins. Or gets horribly worse.
But maybe—maybe—you can cheat the system.
Maybe if you keep your head down.
Maybe if you stay quiet.
Maybe if you refuse to stand out.
You can survive as a side character.
A background extra in a perfectly vanilla shoujo anime.
No tragic backstory. No divine trials. No existential suffering beyond the usual.
Nothing more.
Nothing else.
Right?
a/n: This story contains mentions of Catholicism, the yn being Filipino for purely comedic purposes (it doesn't matter in later chapters), a lot of low-key offensive/dark jokes, depression, insecurities, irrational fear, the whole fic is mostly written in y/n's POV and mentions of suicide. But I swear on everything holy, this is a crack fic. Probably. And as always, yn would be as blank as possible aside from her personality.
(a/n: italized is spoken in another language—at least for this chapter)
“Oh, hon… look at her. Isn’t she pretty?”
Someone cooed at you.
You had no idea how you got here—but you did remember jumping off a bridge. The cold, the burn in your lungs, the filthy river water filling you up until you couldn’t fight anymore.
So this definitely wasn’t heaven. In your religion, killing yourself is the free pass to hell. So you're supposed to be there.
But this doesn't seem to be hell either.
“There’s our little flower.” a man’s voice said warmly. Then—snff. He sniffed you. Like you were bread fresh out of the oven.
The woman laughed softly at that.
Where were you?
Why couldn’t you move?
The river was gone. The freezing current, the pain, the panic—all replaced by this strange, heavy warmth. You felt bundled, cradled, too small in a way that felt wrong. You couldn’t open your eyes. Couldn’t move your arms. Couldn’t even clench your hands properly.
Something was deeply incorrect with your body.
Panic flared.
You tried to speak. To complain. To ask what the hell happened—and a baby’s cry came out of you.
…Oh no.
“Hush now, little flower.” the woman murmured, rocking you gently.
“Don’t rock her too much, hon.” the man said, a little worried. “She might get used to it.”
Immediately, the rocking stopped.
The sudden stillness—and the sheer confusion of that sentence—made you quiet down on your own.
“What should we name this little flower?” the woman asked fondly, gazing down at you. “She could be our little B. Bea”
“Bea Wak?” the man repeated, like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard.
You mentally screamed.
Bea is fine. Bea Wak is a crime.
“Ooooh” the woman hummed. “But Kim Panzi also sounds nice.”
The man nodded thoughtfully. Thoughtfully.
WHAT THE FUCK ARE THESE NAMES.
“How about Belle?” she tried again. “Belle Lhat?”
The man sighed dreamily. “That’s also good.”
As if these weren’t names that would get you bullied from preschool to the grave.
You couldn’t take it. You started crying again.
The woman immediately pulled you closer, soothing you. “Oh, you don’t like those names, flower?” she giggled. “How about… Y/n?”
She glanced up at her husband.
You paised.
It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t great. But compared to the previous options?
It was basically the most perfect answer.
You stopped crying.
Both of them noticed.
“She likes it. Our little flower is smart enough to choose her own name.” the man said softly, smiling like he’d just witnessed a miracle. He looked at his wife, eyes full of nothing but love. “I love you, hon.”
She smiled back, just as soft.
“And I love you too.” he added, lowering his voice as he looked at you. “…Y/n.”
Something in you finally unclenched.
You didn’t know if this was a dream, a punishment, or the start of some messed-up isekai plot—but for the first time since you jumped, you felt… calm.
Then it hit you.
The language.
The vibes.
Putangina.
Filipino ka na naman?
-
“No, no, Y/n. You’re not supposed to do that.”
The beautiful woman scolded you playfully, hands already reaching out as you attempted—once again—to climb out of the bathtub like your life depended on it.
Which, unfortunately for everyone involved, it felt like it did.
The moment the warm water reached your stomach, your body locked up. Your breath hitched. Your tiny fingers clawed at the smooth porcelain edge with the desperation of someone who knew what came next.
Submersion.
The woman—your mom—sighed softly, trying to keep her tone light even as worry crept into her eyes. You’d been like this since your very first bath. Not crying anymore, no screaming, no hysterics—just… escape.
“You’re okay, flower,” she said gently, steadying you before you could topple over. “The water is safe. See? It keeps you clean, smells good.” She lifted the shampoo bottle and gave it a hopeful little shake. “You want that, right?”
You responded by attempting to hoist one leg over the tub.
She caught you again, easily—but not without effort.
You were one and a half years old and like every toddler, you're unreasonably strong.
“I’ll give you candy after,” she added, voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “So many candies.”
This was, objectively, a bad parenting move.
Unfortunately, you did not care about candy.
She frowned slightly, clearly running out of ideas. “Look! Look, Y/n—Mr. Turtle!” She grabbed the bright green bath toy and made it bob cheerfully in the water.
You looked at Mr. Turtle.
Then you looked at the edge of the tub.
Then you resumed climbing.
Honestly, it was kind of funny.
The first time she’d bathed you—when you were barely a week old—you’d cried the entire time. Red-faced, furious, lungs working overtime, she and her husband quietly panicked at that time. Went to the pedia right after your bath only to be told you're fine you probably just hate bathing. But back then, you were small. Helpless. Easy to wash.
Now?
Now you didn’t cry at all.
Once you’d figured out how to communicate—through aggressive pointing, babbling, and very clear physical resistance—you simply refused.
No tears. No screaming.
Just the quiet, terrifying determination of someone who had drowned once and refused to do it again.
Your mom didn’t know that lol.
She only saw her stubborn little flower scrambling like a gremlin, face serious, eyes wide whenever the water rose too high.
Eventually, she gave up.
With a sigh, she scooped you out of the tub and wrapped you in one arm, keeping you far away from the water. Then she grabbed a small bucket and pitcher, carefully pouring water over you in controlled, shallow amounts.
You relaxed immediately.
She noticed.
“…You really don’t like the tub, huh?” she murmured, more to herself than to you.
She kissed the top of your head, smiling softly.
-
“Little flower, give Daddy a hug.”
Your dad had just gotten home from work, his tie loosened and his shoulders slumped with exhaustion, when he immediately tried to make a beeline for you.
Unfortunately for him, you were busy.
Specifically: sitting on the floor with a storybook open, completely absorbed. Or at least, pretending to be absorbed—because yes, you could read it, and yes, it was painfully basic, but it was still a book.
You sensed him coming.
You reacted instantly.
The moment his arms reached for you, you twisted away with the speed and precision of someone who had learned survival tactics early in life, scrambling past him and toddling straight toward your mom, who was in the kitchen preparing dinner.
Your dad froze, arms still outstretched.
Your mom didn’t even look back.
“Hon,” she said sharply, though there was no real anger in her voice at all, “even Y/n knows the first thing you do when you get home is wash up.”
“Betrayal.” Your dad gasped like he’d just been stabbed in the heart. He dramatically kicked his shoes off by the door and collapsed onto the couch, one arm thrown over his eyes. “But I’m tired.” he groaned. “And I need my little flower to give me an energy boost.”
You peeked at him.
He lowered his arm just enough to grin—and then dangled a paper bag from his work bag.
“Especially since I got her another book.”
Your soul left your body.
Books.
You were obsessed with books. Aside from the fact that it was the only acceptable addiction your parents allowed. Television was rationed like contraband—one hour max—you obviously aren't allowed to hold a phone plus you only saw your mom hold a telephone (or do they even exist? Sure they do, but what you mean are those glorious dopamine packed smart phones not the buttons—you never “learned” how to use them. You're too short to see the calendar your parents hung up and you literally can't speak aside from the weird babbles. Plus it's creepy if a toddler asks you what year it is so you have zero idea what year it is.) and normal toddler toys bore you to death. Your parents even know not to buy you those because you'd end up uninterested anyways.
Because you weren’t a normal toddler.
You were an adult who got isekai’d and was now stuck reliving childhood.
Still… this part?
This part was nice.
Because aside from the fact that your mom does everything for you. All you have to do is literally nothing. Sure you get bored from time to time but you quickly realized you like doing nothing at all.
Plus your mom adored you in a way your past mother never had. Your dad—as goofy as he is right now, is an emotionally available and present father who adores you as much as his wife does. You tried not to think about your old life—most days, it stayed buried—but sometimes it crept up when things were quiet.
Your parents, of course, thought you liked books because of the pictures. Because obviously no one expected a one-and-a-half-year-old to read.
If only they knew how badly you wanted a real novel.
Not the spicy ones—yet—but you're dying to read something that does not include rhymes, ducks, or moral lessons explained in three sentences.
Still.
A book was a book.
And beggars can't be choosers.
You abandoned your mom instantly and ran toward your dad, tiny hands reaching for the bag.
He pulled it away just in time.
“Nuh-uh” he teased. “You gotta love Daddy first.”
You mentally rolled your eyes.
Unfortunately, your body betrayed you. You toddled closer anyway, arms slightly raised and gave him a really awkward hug.
“Thank you, dada.” you said—or at least, you thought you said and the author would rather kill itself than write how you would speak as a toddler—so you speak perfectly in your perspective.
So in your head, it was perfectly clear.
In your dad’s ears, it was an adorable babble that vaguely resembled gratitude.
He made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a sob.
“Oh my God,” he breathed, immediately scooping you up into a hug. “My flower is so smart.”
He pressed his cheek against your hair, absolutely beaming. “She definitely got that from Daddy’s genes, didn’t she?”
Your mom turned slowly.
“What do you mean your genes?” she asked sweetly. “My genes.”
“No, no,” your dad said confidently. “The intelligence is clearly from me. She already got the pretty face from you.”
“Oh?” Your mom raised an eyebrow. “Our little flower got both my pretty face and my intelligence, honey.”
“No, no,” he countered immediately. “This level of intelligence? That’s all me.”
They went back and forth like this, arguing passionately over your hypothetical genetic inheritance, until your mom finally grabbed a pillow from the couch and threw it at him.
“Go wash up,” she ordered. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
Your dad laughed, surrendering at last. He carefully set you down on the couch before standing up.
Still, he leaned down and whispered softly—
“You’re just like your mommy, you know. Smart. Beautiful.” Then he walked off toward the bathroom.
Your dad loves your mom to the point he would agree to everything she says.
That’s not even cruelty anymore. It’s just fact, delivered plainly, like a grade written in red ink at the top of a paper you already knew you failed.
Because not only are you failing half your class, you’re also unmotivated, friendless, and pessimistic—words people use when they’re trying to sound polite about disappointment.
God, you’re also fucking ugly. You don’t even get the mercy of being tragically gifted or quietly pretty. You’re just…there. Taking up space. Wasting it.
It was idiotic to even think you could survive a challenging course like engineering. Idiotic to believe you could sit in the same room as people who understand things—who glance at equations and nod like the answers are whispering themselves to them. You’re the dumbest one in class—in every class, and you feel it every time you raise your hand too slowly or don’t raise it at all.
Maybe—maybe this field just isn’t for you. That’s what people say when they’re trying to soften the blow. Maybe you’re not a math wiz. Maybe you’re meant for something else. Something greater.
Something that doesn’t involve series and proofs and numbers that refuse to make sense no matter how long you stare at them.
But you’re no artist. You’re no writer. You’re not clever enough to be a science geek, too anxious for people-centered work, and too ugly for anything that depends on being looked at kindly. You don’t even have a talent you can cling to. There’s nothing waiting for you on the other side of quitting.
People tell you not to lose hope. They laugh lightly and say every engineering student fails at some point. That it’s normal. That this discipline is hard and would eventually make you feel dumb at some point.
But you didn’t fail a hard one.
You failed an ‘easy’ one.
Level one. Introductory. The kind your professor cheerfully calls “foundational.” You failed it five times. Five. And it’s a prerequisite—like some sick game rule that won’t let you advance until you beat the first boss, except the boss is humiliatingly weak and you still keep dying.
It's basically the tutorial mode. You FAILED the tutorial mode.
You’re getting older. The faces around you change every year—new batches, new energy—while you stay the same. Familiar. Embarrassingly constant. You know your professor’s look by heart now: the tight smile, the pause before handing your paper back, the disappointment he tries not to show but never quite hides.
You did this to yourself.
Your fault.
Your fault.
Your fault.
You could’ve shifted courses. Plenty of people do. But you couldn’t stomach the process—the paperwork, the explanations, the imagined looks. You can already hear it—“What a waste”. The thought alone gnaws at you until there’s nothing left but shame.
Or maybe—maybe you’re just a coward.
There are so many moments you need your parents, you need your mom. Especially now. Especially when you’re standing on the edge of something final, something quiet, something you idiotically chose yourself.
You tell yourself they didn’t abandon you. Not really. They were just tired. Busy. Disappointed, yes—but who wouldn’t be? You understand them. You always have.
They didn’t mean to make you feel invisible. They were just being realistic. Honest. Parents have to be, right?
Still, you ache for your mom’s voice. For the way she used to call your name when you were sick. For the memory of her hand on your forehead, cool and grounding. You don’t want lectures about how to do better. You just want her to say your name like it still belongs to someone worth loving.
But you’re the family’s disappointment now. The one people corner at gatherings with the same question—“When are you going to graduate?”—asked with smiles sharp enough to cut. The one relatives whisper about when they think you’re out of earshot. The cautionary tale. The one they warn their children about when they don't study well.
Maybe all your dreams were always too much. Maybe you mistook desire for destiny. Maybe this is where you were supposed to stop.
You only wanted to make them proud. To be loved without conditions. To stand beside your siblings and not feel smaller, lesser, tolerated.
But you’re dumb.
You’re useless.
You’re no one.
The water closes over you quietly.
At first, it’s just cold—shockingly so—seeping through your clothes, clinging to your skin like it wants to keep you. Your body reacts before your mind does. Your chest tightens. Your limbs jerk, instinct screaming at you to move, to fight, to breathe.
You don’t.
You sink instead, the weight of yourself dragging you down into the dark. The world above blurs and fractures, light bending strangely through the water. Your thoughts scatter. Everything feels too loud and too distant at the same time.
Your lungs burn. It’s not dramatic like in movies—it’s panic, raw and animal. Your throat spasms, forcing water in, and it hurts. God, it hurts. Every part of you is screaming no, even as your mind whispers this is better.
You think of your mother—you always do when you're in pain.
Her face comes to you in fragments. A laugh. A sigh. The way she looks tired all the time. You wonder if she’ll cry. You hope she does. You hope she’ll miss you enough to hurt.
There’s a flicker—just one—of regret. Not enough to save you. Just enough to sting. You wonder if this counts as cowardice too, or if backing out would be worse. You’ve tried before, after all. Stopped halfway. Lived. Faced the same mornings again. You don’t think you could survive that shame again.
Your vision dims. The pain dulls into something heavy, pressing, almost peaceful. You feel yourself letting go—not bravely, not cleanly, but tired.
You murmur a prayer in your head, sloppy and desperate. You ask for forgiveness. Not even sure for what anymore. Existing, maybe. Failing. Ending it like this.
The last thing you want—more than success, more than pride—is your mother’s arms around you. Just once. Just long enough to believe you were loved without earning it.
You’re fully convinced that the author currently writing your isekai journey is either deeply unloved and living vicariously through your life or deliberately giving you the best parents imaginable before ripping them away to kickstart your tragic protagonist/villain arc.
Sure, someone could argue that maybe the author is just kind. That it genuinely wants you to have a happy life. No strings attached.
But where’s the drama in that?
…Or maybe these thoughts are just a distraction. A convenient excuse to avoid acknowledging the real problem at hand.
Your dad can’t do a proper ponytail.
And honestly? That’s the real tragedy.
“Okay, little flower,” your dad said gently, crouching in front of you. You were about four now—amazing time line skip because the author decided it's boring to write an isekai story from a ‘normal’ toddler’s perspective. Also remember your last chapter dilemma. The one where you don't have an idea what year it is? Well, you know now! It’s 1994! “It kinda sucks, but Mommy’s really sick today, so it’s just you and me, okay?” Your dad also added.
He hesitated, fingers tangled awkwardly in your hair. “I’m sorry…Daddy’s not very good at this.”
To be fair—he was doing great. Doing great both being a dad and a husband.
The moment your mom showed even the slightest sign of being under the weather, your dad went into full emergency mode. He had forced her to stay in bed, insisting he could iron his own clothes, he could iron your uniform, make breakfast, pack your snacks, pack his meal prepped lunch, and—yes—take care of a child all by himself. (God how you wish you could see the version of him when your mom was pregnant or even in labour.)
Your mom, of course, stubborn as she is, did not listen.
She was currently sitting at the dining table, watching the scene with half-lidded amusement as she ate pancakes. Not just any pancakes—the only pancake your dad had made that wasn’t burnt or suspiciously raw.
Despite their earlier argument about how she should stay in bed and is currently ‘upset’ at her, he had very pointedly given her the best one.
You, unfortunately, had eaten the slightly burnt one because as he said—“Well done is better than raw.”—and ate the worst ones. The ones that are either super raw or super charcoaled.
“I’m still here, you know.” your mom teased lightly, taking another bite.
Your dad pretended not to hear her, tightening your shoelace and handing you your backpack. He was clearly ‘mad’—which in his case meant mildly pouty and extremely dramatic.
“Okay,” he said, kneeling in front of you. “What do you say to your teacher? Say—Good morning, teacher.” He demonstrated with a small, stiff bow.
You nodded seriously and copied him. “Good morning teacher—”
Unfortunately, your backpack—comically too big for you—slid forward with the motion, dragging you down with it. You tipped forward, arms flailing.
Your dad caught you instantly. Definitely not having a heart attack. Wait this scene is fucking familiar.
“Does she really have to go to school?” he blurted out, clutching you like you’d narrowly escaped death. He turned to your mom, eyes wide. “Look! She’s clearly not ready. Our little flower is already smart enough. I can just—hire someone. A babysitter, a teacher and a stay at home nurse. Everything she needs!”
“Honey,” your mom said patiently, smiling. “It’s her first day of school. Ever. Do you really want her to miss that? Plus it's only pre-school. They'll just teach her letter, numbers, how to read.”
“Our flower already knows how to read. Plus, we can enroll her again next year,” he muttered weakly.
Then your mom gave him ‘the look’.
He deflated immediately.
He turned back to you, suddenly very serious, holding your shoulders gently. “Flower. If you don’t like school…if you don’t like your teacher…if anything feels off—just tell Daddy, okay?” His voice softened. “Run back to me. I’ll be right here. I’ll always wait for you, Y/n.” This author should be jailed for copyright. Burn the author. She's copying word for word what happened in this one k-drama you watched from your past life. The author is so uncreative! Sure with the author dead it wouldn't be able to continue writing your life and that's the point!
Everyone who's reading this, let's curse the author with some writing block or burn her out so badly that she forgets that you exist.
The intensity of it made your mom laugh.
“Oh my God, stop,” she said between giggles. “How are you ever going to let her go when she gets married?”
Your dad gasped like she’d just cursed your entire bloodline and immediately hugged you. “Y/n is too young,” he said, genuinely distressed. “We are not supposed to imagine that right now.”
He looked like he was about to cry.
To comfort him—kind of—you patted his back.
“I’m never gonna get married, Daddy.”
Instant relief.
He hugged you tighter before finally letting go.
“Okay, flower,” he sniffed. “Shall we go to school?”
You nodded.
He slipped on his shoes and carried you toward the door.
“Wait!” your mom called.
He turned—genuunely expecting something else.
She grabbed a camera and pointed it at the two of you. “Picture.”
Your dad stiffened awkwardly. You threw up a peace sign.
Click.
She glanced at the screen—and laughed.
“You two are genuinely alike,” she said fondly.
She turned to walk away.
Your dad pouted.
“Where’s my kiss?”
“What?” she teased. “I thought you were mad.”
He pouted harder.
Laughing, she stepped forward and gave him a quick peck on the lips.
“Yuck.” You made an exaggerated gagging sound.
Both adults burst out laughing.
“Oh, don’t gag, you little rascal!” your mom said. “I’d kiss you too, but I’m sick.”
Your dad was too happy to scold you.
“Bye, honey,” he said softly, opening the door. “Rest well. Don’t cook dinner. Don't do house chores. Don’t even think about picking Y/n up from school, infact forget you have a child or any responsibilities at all—I’ll call a nanny.”
She nodded, waving.
He gave her one last look—the kind usually reserved for dramatic airport goodbyes—before closing the door.
“All right, flower,” he said casually as he walked you to the car. “Let’s drop you off at school before Daddy goes to work.”
As if he hadn’t just said goodbye like he wouldn’t see her again for years.
You really, really hoped the author let this last.
-
You hate the Philippines.
The traffic is hell. The pollution clings to everything. The imbalance is so obvious it hurts to look at.
You’re privileged—you know that. You live in a nice house inside a quiet subdivision, and the places your family takes you are clean, safe, and honestly lovely. Malls with air-conditioning. Restaurants with polished floors. Lovely private parks.
But on the way to school, through the car window, reality bleeds in.
Beggars at stoplights. Families living on the side of highways. Kids your age—your age—barefoot, dirty, scavenging for scraps of food instead of carrying backpacks.
The Philippines is depressing.
You hate it.
It’s plundered. Stripped. Chewed up and spat out.
It has everything—fertile land, oceans, minerals, an entire archipelago worth of resources. It could feed itself. It could thrive.
And yet the majority of its people are poor.
That was the main reason you hated being reincarnated here.
Honestly, when you realized the family you were born into was rich, you were scared.
Because what are the chances that after killing yourself in your past life, you’d be reborn as the child of someone like Sarah D*scaya?
Does she even exist in this world? Is this one of those isekai timelines where everything is the same—same corrupt politicians, same dynasties, same rot—just slightly rearranged?
The Philippines looks exactly like your past life’s version, so chances are… yeah. They’re all still here.
Lol.
What if you ran for office this life?
…Nah.
You have zero idea about politics, not interested about politics and you aren't one of those actors like Robin P*dilla or Bato D*larosa that runs for office “just because” and becomes total dead weight.
God you don't wanna be shamed by Vico S*tto and be called a ‘trapo’.
Plus you want peace. A quiet life. NPC energy. Side-character vibes. You don't wanna try to save the world just because you care. Everyone else can deal with their own mess.
If you wanna help. You’ll do it quietly.
You’re currently rich. You’ll go to a good school. Get a good job. Build a good business. And low-key help people.
Not by handing out food packs or a few pathetic pesos politicians are so eager to give every election season—fuck that. People don’t need charity that keeps them dependent.
They need choices. (Actually you're supposed to use another word, but you forgot what the word used to describe the ability to choose and you'd rather fuck yourself than open a dictionary.)
Education. Jobs that pay an actual livable wage. Dignity.
If you just give a man a fish and never teach him how to fish, that man will stay hungry forever.
You’ll do that. And you’ll stay in the Philippines, because despite everything—despite it being hell—there’s no way a crazy isekai plot would happen here.
You’re just a normal citizen. An NPC. A side character. In fact you're going to personally name this isekai journey as ‘The ways of a Side Character’ fuck thats too long, what if…. ‘Side Character: an Isekai Story’....nah, still too long, let's call it ‘Side Character’, nothing more, nothing else. Fuck the author and its opinion.
Your favorite flavor is vanilla now.
And with how overworked your dad is—and the principles he’s drilled into you since you right now—you know your family isn’t corrupt. Not tied to anything dirty.
A perfect start to a mediocre, peaceful life.
…Wait.
Fuck.
What if you were reborn into the ‘Ang Probinsyano’ universe?
Don't you get reincarnated in stories you heavily consume? Despite how cringe ‘Ang Probinsyano’ is, you never miss any episode.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
You do not want that.
Sure, the idea of seeing Coco Martin—or in this case—Cardo Dalisay get shot ten times and still survive and even beat the hell out of the antagonist in real life is impressive—but you don’t want to live in that world.
Okay. New plan.
Study hard. Work abroad.
You choose uhhhhh, Finland?
Surely there are no isekai plots in Finland.
“Alright, flower. We’re here.” Your dad’s voice snapped you out of your spiraling thoughts as the car stopped in front of a classroom.
You blinked.
Were you really so deep in your head that you didn’t notice the entire drive and walk to the classroom?
Your dad chuckled at your expression. “God, you silly girl.” he said fondly, pinching your nose before setting you down. “I always wonder what’s going on in that mind of yours.”
“Thank you for bringing me to school, Dad.” you said politely.
He smiled immediately. “Bye-bye, flower. Have fun. I love you.” He waved enthusiastically.
You waved back and turned around, ready to conquer the terrifying world of kindergarten—when he suddenly grabbed the strap of your backpack, stopping you.
“You gotta say ‘I love you’ back,” he said seriously.
Not “oh that’s strange” wrong. Not “maybe it’s just the lighting” wrong. No. It was the kind of wrong that makes your spine stiffen before your brain catches up. The kind that prickles behind your ears. The kind horror movie extras ignore right before they die.
And yet.
You walked toward it.
You could blame the author for the sucky writing. Honestly. What kind of person (specifically a super aware one that they got reincarnated) forgets the most basic rule in every horror story?
If it’s unusual, don’t investigate.
If it looks terrifying, leave it alone.
If your instincts say no, listen.
Instead, you leaned in.
Why?
You don’t know. Something inside you—something reckless and stupid and stubborn—needed to see it closer. Needed to confirm it was real.
You’re not Dora the Explorer.
Wait. Is Dora even the right reference? She explores safely. With supervision from a monkey. And a talking map.
What are you then? The side character who says, “What’s that noise?” and immediately gets dragged into the shadows?
Ugh.
Lesson learned.
If you can ignore it, ignore it.
You don’t want to be one of those idiot horror leads who dies because they decided to investigate the ‘unusual sound’ (though technically, you already became one last chapter.)
By the way, your parents become careful in the way people only do after something goes wrong.
It starts after the simple words—‘Mama, my tummy hurts’, you passing out. Then you wake up in white.
Hospital white. Ceiling white. The kind of white that hums.
Later, you learn you were out for two and a half days. A coma, they call it, like it’s a neat word that explains everything. Like it doesn’t sit heavy in your father’s chest or make your mother flinch every time you close your eyes for too long.
Tests follow. So many tests.
Blood. Scans. Machines that beep and whirr like they’re annoyed you’re wasting their time. Doctors press cold fingers to your skin, shine lights in your eyes, speak in low voices just outside the curtain. Every result comes back the same.
“There’s nothing wrong with her.” They say it carefully. Hesitant. Like they’re holding a glass that might shatter in their hands. Like they themselves don't know if that's a good or bad thing. God how much you need Gregory House right now.
You’re fine, actually. Perfectly fine.
If you ignore the fact that five-year-olds aren’t supposed to collapse and stay in coma for days. You're fine. Healthy as a horse!—or whatever that quote says.
After you’re discharged a few weeks after (reluctantly too because your parents are scared for you), life doesn’t go back to normal. It doesn’t even try.
Your parents hover. Fingers always brushing your forehead, checking your temperature. Your mother wakes at every sound you make at night. Your father watches you breathe when he thinks you’re asleep, counting like it’s a job he can’t afford to mess up.
Every week, you’re back at the hospital. Different doctors. Same answers.
Your dad calls them incompetent the moment you’re out of earshot. Says thst this country is always behind, always catching scraps, always careless unless money’s involved. He starts calling doctors overseas—America, France, Russia, anywhere with equipment that looks expensive enough to be trustworthy.
Your passport application sits on the table one morning, tucked between bills and medical receipts.
He insists the doctors should come here because how dare they make his flower travel to them? But considering the lack of equipment here…..against his heart, he's going to bring his little flower there instead.
It’s not that your parents want something to be wrong with you.
They just need an explanation. Something solid. Something they can fight.
Because what kind of child slips into a coma like it’s a nap?
Sometimes at night, when the house is quiet, your thoughts stop being careful.
What if this is it?
What if this is where the story turns ugly?
You wonder—briefly, guiltily—if this is the beginning of your villain arc. Or protagonist arc. Or punishment arc. The kind authors love. The kind gods might enjoy more (god you should stop calling yourself a protagonist or villain! You might manifest it! You're a side character, a side character, this is simply just, uhhhh weird unexplainable things that we can blame in the writing!).
You don’t dwell on it for long. Dwelling feels dangerous.
Still, a thought worms its way in.
Is this because of what you did?
Your past life creeps up on you when you least expect it. You may not remember everything—faces blur, voices fade—but the ending is sharp. Too sharp to forget.
You killed yourself. You could still feel the filthy murky water filling your lungs up.
You don’t dress it up. You don’t soften it. You chose to stop. To end your life.
Catholic school drilled it into you early: hopelessness is a sin. Despair leads to suicide, and suicide damns the soul. Your body is the temple of Christ. You had no right to destroy it.
So what if this—this perfect life, these warm arms, this gentle world—is just borrowed time?
A taste before it’s cruelly taken away.
The idea settles in your chest, heavy but familiar.
Maybe god waited. Maybe he let you be happy first before ripping everything away (a little taste to the very thing you were craving in your past life).
And maybe this is him reminding you that you don’t get to keep things and you don't get to take it away either.
It's your fault.
Your fault.
You were weak.
You were selfish.
You threw away a blessing people would kill for—and now look at you. Breaking again.
Life is precious, they told you. Not everyone gets it.
You didn’t even want it.
That thought still stings, even now. Even here.
You imagine taking life—and placing it back into god’s palms. God can have it back! You didn't ask to be alive in the first place. You're no masochist.
Because even though that means you'll never get reincarnated here and experience this warmth, loving parents, soft mornings. That would also mean you'd never exist in the first place. You’d never have a chance to ‘take your life for granted’. You would've never killed yourself.
Nonexistence sounds peaceful when you’re careful not to think too hard.
“Flower?” Your mother’s voice cuts through the fog.
You blink and look up. She’s standing behind you, gently brushing your hair. Each stroke is slow, deliberate, like she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she rushes.
You’re sitting on the bed in a tiny white dress. Graduation day from Pre-school.
She almost didn’t let you go to school at all. Almost kept you home forever, wrapped in pillows and prayers. You had to beg—said you were lonely, said you wanted friends, said you were fine.
Eventually, they believed you. Or pretended to.
“Yes, Mama,” you say quickly, smiling on instinct. “I’m just really excited to graduate!”
The lie slips out easily. You’ve had practice.
Your mom studies your reflection in the mirror, like she’s searching for cracks. Then she nods and helps you into the miniature toga, adjusts the cap with trembling fingers.
“I’m proud of you, flower,” she says softly.
“Daddy will be there, right?” you ask.
She smiles, but it’s tired. “Yes. He wouldn’t miss it.”
Your dad hasn’t been sleeping much. You hear him pacing at night, phone calls whispered in foreign accents, papers shuffled long after midnight. Having a possibly sick child costs more than money—it eats time, health, pieces of him.
Still, he makes sure you’re comfortable. Fed. Smiling.
You don’t know how to feel about that.
Grateful feels wrong when it’s built on sacrifice.
You want to tell him to stop. To rest. To let it go.
But every time you look at him, he’s strong. Smiling. Unbreakable—for you.
So you stay quiet.
You smile.
And you pray, quietly, desperately.
God, please.
I love this family.
Please don’t take them away from me.
-
You know that one terrifying feeling when parents have something important to discuss to you but they don't know how? And their reluctantness to tell you what they're supposed to tell you also makes you nervous.
They sit you down one afternoon like it’s something important.
Not serious-serious—no tight mouths or red eyes—but careful. Deliberate. Your dad turns the television off first, which immediately puts you on edge. Your mom smooths her skirt and smiles too much.
You’re not every normal five year old. You notice things.
“So,” your dad starts, clapping his hands together once, like he’s about to pitch something exciting. “What do you think about… Japan?”
You go quiet.
Japan.
The word alone makes something in your chest tighten.
You don’t say anything at first, because five-year-olds don’t immediately respond with existential dread. So you tilt your head instead, pretend to think.
Your parents take that as permission.
Your mom leans forward. “Japan has really pretty places, flower. Cherry blossoms. Big parks. Clean streets.”
“And toys,” your dad adds quickly. “Really cool toys. And books. Bookstores bigger than malls.”
“There’s trains,” your mom says. “Fast ones.”
“And cartoons,” your dad says, grinning. “Way better than what you’re allowed to watch here.”
They’re low-key glazing it. Hard. Are your parents Japan glazers? Are they gonna make ‘those videos’ in the future in TikTok?
They list everything they could think of a normal five-year-old would like. Colors. Fun. Magic words.
You nod slowly, carefully, playing your role. When there’s a pause, you say what you’re supposed to say.
“Yeah,” you say softly. “I like that.”
They exchange a look.
And then your mom drops it.
“Good,” she says gently. “Because we’re going to move there.”
Your stomach drops.
No. No no no.
Your mind immediately screams: Absolutely not.
Every isekai you’ve ever read. Every anime. Every “normal life” that spirals into tragedy.
Japan is where plots happen.
Japan is where truck-kuns happen, and the hotspot for every ‘organic encounter’.
Japan is where devils, gods, heroes, villains, gambling high schools, heck even curses, and destiny wait patiently for unsuspecting protagonists.
You freeze for exactly one second then panic. “But—I—” you blurt out, then stop yourself. You can’t say that’s where the plot starts. You can’t say I don’t want narrative relevance.
So you scramble for logic. Child logic.
“But I like the Philippines,” you say quickly. “It’s hot. I like the sun.”
“You don’t even go outside much.” your dad says gently.
“I have friends,” you add immediately. That’s a lie. You know it but they don’t.
You turn to your dad fully now, deploying your strongest weapon. You pout. You lean closer. You make your eyes big and watery. He’s always the weak link.
“Dada,” you whine softly. “I don’t wanna move.”
Your dad hesitates. You see it—the crack.
He looks at your mom. “We could… reconsider. I mean, I could work harder here. Or I could be an OFW. Just for a while—”
“No,” your mom says firmly. Not angry. Just decided. “You’re already exhausted.”
She turns to you instead, voice softening. “Flower, I promise it won’t feel strange. It’ll feel the same. Like you’ve lived there your whole life.”
That’s somehow worse.
“And my parents are there,” she continues. “Your grandparents. Don’t you want to meet them? They’re always sending you packages.”
You think of the boxes you receive every birthday and Christmas. The unfamiliar handwriting. The toys that smell different. Only then you realized, Japan has already been reaching for you across the sea.
You hesitate.
Then your mom adds the final blow.
“Your dad will have better opportunities there,” she says quietly. “and…better doctors.”
Your chest tightens.
You shake your head immediately. “I’m fine,” you insist. “I’m really fine, Mama. I don’t get sick anymore.”
Your dad nods, hopeful. “Honey maybe, I can manage here. I’ll just work more—”
“No,” your mom repeats, firmer this time. “I won’t let you ruin your health.”
Silence settles over the room.
You feel it then—that familiar, awful guilt. The same one that’s been following you since the hospital. Since the tests. Since the whisper that says you’re the reason.
If you say no, your dad stays overworked.
If you say no, they stay worried.
If you say no, everything is harder because of you.
You swallow.
Your mind scrambles for comfort, for excuses.
‘ Maybe Japan isn’t that bad.’ you tell yourself desperately.
If there’s a plot, maybe it’s a soft one.
If we can ignore whatever that is in the last chapter (and you definitely could!). We can have a vanilla shoujo plot.
Slice of life.
No deaths. Just school and slow romance and pretty skies. Heck add the tsunderer archetype there too! Maybe even the ‘student council is more powerful than god’ trope.
You look up at them.
“…Okay,” you say finally, small and careful. “We can go.” Well to be fair, even though you say no, it would never change the fact that you three would still move there because lol—you’re a kid.
Relief floods their faces instantly. Your mom pulls you into her arms. Your dad exhales like he’s been holding his breath for weeks.
“Honey, guess what!” Your mom practically glides across the genkan the moment your dad gets home, excitement bright enough to fill the house. He’s halfway through taking off his shoes when she reaches him.
“What is it, hon?” he asks, smiling automatically.
“So! I was enrolling Y/n at the local elementary school, right?” she says, hands animated. “And this really beautiful woman with long black hair helped me out. Turns out she lives nearby—and she has a son around Y/n’s age!” You disagree with that, because your mom. Is so much more beautiful than that woman.
Earlier while she was enrolling you, she was struggling for a bit because she was trying to inquire about the special classes or remedial classes meant for the Japanese language.
Sure, you have private tutors before and after moving here and are still consistent in learning the language. But you can't really expect that much from yourself. Especially since it's a whole nother language.
Your dad hums, amused. “Oh? That’s nice.”
Two months.
It’s only been two months since you moved here.
Your dad settled into work within a week. Your mom settled into the house like she was always meant to be here (your grandparents initially volunteered to hire ‘servants’ but your mom refused. Plus she knows it's their way of spying on her.). The place feels lived-in now—warm, safe, normal. Too normal. You love normal.
You sit on the floor nearby, legs tucked in, quietly reading. A fairy tale. Less pictures now, more words. You like that. It gives your brain something structured to hold onto.
It's ridiculous how in every fairytale there's a prince that shows up to save the day. Cinderella, Snow White, Sleeping Beauty….. wouldn't it be funny if it was the same prince all along cheating with these three maidens?
Because ‘happily ever after’ is such a strange, far-fetched word to use at the end of every fairytale.
Still, you love these vanilla fairy tales with a prince and damsels in distress.
The ghosts—the things—still show up sometimes. Always at the edges. Always gone when you look properly. You’ve learned to ignore them. Probably your imagination. Probably stress. Probably—
“Flower?”
You look up.
“Do you want to have a playdate with her son?” your mom asks brightly.
Who's son? Were they talking to you? Did you accidentally exited yourself from their conversation? Was it the kind woman’s son? Your mom’s potential friend?
You nod before thinking. It’s automatic. The response of a well-trained child.
Your mom beams. “Then it’s settled! We’ll invite them over.”
—
Black hair.
Purple eyes.
Black hair and purple eyes.
Black hair and—
“Hello! I’m Geto Suguru.”
The world stops.
The boy bows slightly, polite, practiced. He’s your age. Five. Still soft around the edges. His hair is neatly tied back, not long yet, not wild. His eyes are striking even now—too sharp for a child, but not cruel. Just observant.
You don’t breathe.
Your mom stands beside you, smiling. Mrs. Geto stands beside him, equally warm, equally unaware that your life just split cleanly down the middle.
“Flower,” your mom prompts gently, nudging you forward. “What do you say?”
You stare.
You can’t speak.
Your hands go numb.
No.
No no no no no—
This isn’t a coincidence.
This isn’t just Japan.
This isn’t just some rural area.
You now know this place.
You know this boy.
How could you forget?
How could you be so stupid.
So fucking stupid.
Of all the worlds. Of all the stories. Of all the tragedies—Jujutsu fucking Kaisen?
Was it because you simped heavily in almost ALL of the characters here?
Normally, when you meet your crush you'd feel giddy inside. Back in your past life, just a small glimpse of them is enough to give you a smile the entire day (you remember telling your teacher you just wanna go to the bathroom but ended up going to the cafeteria because your crush’s classroom is on the way there—not only you could buy snacks, you could have a glimpse of them TWICE. Though there was one time when you got back after that trip, the teacher started a quiz without you and you ended up failing it because you missed half of it).
While ‘butterflies in my stomach’ isn't so different to just feeling sick, you know damn well which one you're feeling right now.
The boy in front of you will grow up believing that power equals responsibility, he believes that he should protect the weaker—until that belief rots him from the inside.
The boy in front of you will watch his fellow sorcerers die and find civilians and higher ups, basically everyone does not care about it.
This boy would bury his own classmates.
This boy would realize he's death wouldn't even be remembered by the same people he's trying so hard to protect. It wouldn't mean shit. This boy would realize that he can't save a world that refuses to help itself. As long as humanity stays the same, pain and suffering will never end.
The boy in front of you will snap.
He will kill.
He will burn everything down and call it justice.
And you—
You’re aeound the same age.
The same town.
The same starting line.
Your stomach twists violently, like something is tearing loose inside you.
“Flower?” your mom asks again, worry creeping in. “Are you alright?”
Tears blur your vision before you even realize they’re there.
“Mama…” you whisper, grabbing her sleeve like it’s the only solid thing left in the world.
Your mom stiffens immediately. “Hey—hey, what’s wrong?”
This boy might kill your parents someday.
‘Mama please. Let's run away from here. Anywhere. Everywhere.’ Your chest tightens until it hurts to breathe.
“You told me…” you choke, voice breaking, “you told me my playmate would be as handsome as a prince. Like in my books.”
The silence is instant.
Mrs. Geto blinks.
Your mom freezes. “Huh?”
“But he doesn't have light hair and watercolor eyes! He is no prince! I don’t wanna play anymore!” you sob suddenly, loudly, desperately. “I don’t want to!”
Please get him away.
Please.
Please don’t let this be real.
Suguru flinches.
Just a little.
He looks down at himself, then back at you,
confusion knitting his brows. His ears redden.
‘…Am I THAT ugly?’ Suguru thought as he looked at you, who is currently sobbing.
—
“I’m really sorry, Mrs. Geto,” your mom says later, mortified. “I don’t know what came over her.”
Mrs. Geto laughs softly into her teacup. “Oh, it’s alright. I was more surprised than offended.”
She glances out the window.
Suguru is in the garden now, crouched near the flowers, utterly absorbed. A butterfly lands near him. A bird hops closer than it should. He may currently not be a prince but he definitely could pull a snow white.
You clutch the pillow tighter, stomach aching, chest burning.
You don’t want to be here.
You don’t want to know this.
But you do.
And there’s no unknowing it now.
-
“Flower, you have to apologize to little Suguru, alright?”
Your mom says it gently, like she always does—kneeling in front of you so she’s eye-level, hands warm where they rest on your knees. Her voice isn’t scolding. It never is.
“He was so upset when you did not want to play with him.” she adds softly, trying to smile.
You shake your head immediately.
No.
It’s been days. Days of this. Days of your mom bringing it up in different ways—softly at breakfast, casually while folding laundry, carefully before bed. And every time, you refuse.
Your arms fold tight against your chest, jaw set in a way that doesn’t look right on a five-year-old.
Your mom exhales slowly.
She studies you for a moment, really looks at you, like she’s trying to read something written between the lines of your face.
“You’ve never been this stubborn before,” she admits quietly. “You always apologize, even when things aren’t your fault.”
That makes something twist in your chest.
She doesn’t understand.
How could she?
She doesn’t know that boy will grow up drowning in blood and ideology. She doesn’t know that standing next to him feels like standing beside a lit fuse you can’t put out.
“I don’t like him.” you mutter.
Your mom tilts her head. “Why?”
You open your mouth.
Then close it.
Because I don’t want you to die isn’t an acceptable answer.
Because he’ll break one day sounds insane.
Because this world is cruel and he’s one of its favorite sacrifices will get you sent to a psychiatrist.
So you say nothing.
Your mom sighs again, softer this time. “Flower… Did you know, Mrs. Geto told me something.”
Your shoulders tense.
“She told me Suguru doesn’t really have friends.”
You frown. That’s not your problem.
“He’s not bullied,” your mom continues quickly, as if anticipating your thoughts. “Nothing like that. He’s just…very composed. Very serious. Even as a little boy.”
She smiles a little sadly. “She said he’s always been like that. He likes books, helps around the house, listens very well. But he never really lets himself be a kid.”
You swallow.
Of course he doesn’t.
“He holds himself back,” your mom says. “And because of that…other kids don’t really approach him. And he doesn’t approach them either.”
Your nails dig into your palms.
So what?
That’s not your responsibility.
It’s not your job to fix him.
It’s not your job to be anyone’s emotional crutch.
You want to argue. You want to say it out loud—that’s his fault, not mine. That people don’t owe loneliness a solution. That being kind doesn’t mean sacrificing yourself.
But then your mom’s voice softens even more.
“She asked me if maybe Y/n could be his friend.”
You look up.
Your mom isn’t smiling now.
She looks… hopeful.
Not pushy. Not demanding. Just hopeful, like she genuinely believes this would be good for him.
“I thought about you—with how similar you are to Suguru. I thought you two would be friends.” she says. “You’re kind. You’re patient. You’re good at listening.”
Your stomach sinks.
“She doesn’t want him to grow up feeling alone,” your mom adds quietly. “And I don't want you to grow up here lonely either.”
You feel it then.
That familiar, heavy thing.
The instinct to bend.
To give.
To agree even when something inside you is screaming don’t.
You’ve seen this before.
In your dad.
The way he gives in—not because he’s weak, but because he loves. Because someone he cares about asks him to shoulder something, and he does. Without complaint.
You hate that you’re like that now.
You hate that you understand him.
“…I don’t wanna,” you whisper.
Your mom nods. “I know.”
She doesn’t argue. She doesn’t guilt you.
That makes it worse.
“But,” she says gently, brushing your hair back, “sometimes being kind means doing something we don’t really want to do.”
You close your eyes.
Damn it.
“…Just a little,” you mumble. “I’ll just say sorry.”
Your mom’s face brightens instantly, relief washing over her. She pulls you into a hug before you can change your mind.
“Thank you, flower,” she whispers. “That’s all I ask.”
You hug her back.
And somewhere deep inside, a quiet, bitter thought forms: ‘I am slowly turning into my dad.’
And you don’t know whether that will save you or ruin you too.
He turns to face you, momentarily pulled out of his thoughts. Break time has finally arrived after the chaos of first-day introductions—standing in front of the class, saying your name, your favorite color, your favorite food.
The room is loud now. Children sit in clumps on the floor, bags open, trading snacks like treasures. Someone laughs too loudly. Someone else is already crying.
Suguru had been on his way to sit with the boys he talked to earlier—the ones who liked Mario Kart, who argued loudly about which character was the fastest—when you spoke.
Your brows knit together, just slightly.
Ah.
He swallowed. With the amount of time he’s spent with you, Suguru knows that look. The one that says I already asked once. He scratches the back of his head, embarrassed.
“Sorry,” he says quickly. “I didn’t hear you.”
You stare at him for half a second longer than necessary. Then you sigh—quiet, controlled, like you’re annoyed but refusing to show it too much.n“You want candy or not?”
He nods, a little too fast. “You… have candy?”
That surprises him. As far as he knows, you don’t like sweet things. You were the first person he’d ever seen refuse candy outright, politely but firmly, when his mom offered to take you both to the candy shop near the shrine. You’d stood there with your hands clasped behind your back and said, ‘No thank you’, like it was a rule you lived by.
“Yeah,” you say. You grab his hand before he can react—small fingers wrapping around his palm—and drop something into it. The touch is brief, careful, like you’re afraid of lingering. When he looks down, it’s a strawberry-flavored hard candy, still wrapped, pink cellophane catching the light. “For you.” You let go immediately.
Suguru looks up at you again, confused. You’re already stepping away, adjusting your bag strap like this exchange is nothing.
“Bye,” you say flatly. “I’m going to go play with my friends.”
He watches as you walk toward a group of girls sitting near the window. They make room for you without much fuss. You sit, cross your legs, and don’t look back.
Suguru stands there for a moment, candy resting in his palm.
He feels weird.
He already concluded the fact that you are—a normal person. But he also feels like you know a lot.
As if you know what it feels like to swallow a curse—something he's gonna do later if he gathered enough courage to and is giving him candy to distract himself from the taste.
You’re strange. Very strange.
You don’t get frustrated when he beats you—five times in a row—in every game he picks. You don’t complain. You don’t gloat when you win either. Sometimes you read him books when he asks, completely absorbed, your voice calm and steady. And sometimes, when you look at him, your eyes carry something heavy. Fear, maybe. Or resignation. Like you’re looking at something inevitable.
It makes his chest feel tight, like he’s already done something wrong—even when he can’t think of what.
And yet, you're kind. Sure you’re quick to get irritated. Not loud about it. Just… sharp. Especially when you’re doing something you clearly don’t want to do—but do anyway. Not because you’re weak. Suguru knows that much.
It’s because someone you care about asked you to.
That’s what makes you different from him.
Suguru argues. He complains. He pouts when adults make him do things he doesn’t want to do—brushing his teeth, cleaning up his toys, chores, etc.
But you don’t. You endure. Quietly. Like it’s your responsibility.
You try to be mean sometimes. Or distant.
But Suguru thinks—secretly—that you’re actually very kind.
He closes his fingers around the candy and heads to sit with the other boys. They’re already arguing again, loud and messy, and he joins in easily. He laughs. He forgets, for a little while.
-
Fuck your life.
You didn’t offer the candy because you were being nice.
(That’s what you tell yourself, anyway.)
You sit on the cool classroom floor with your back against the wall, knees drawn up, watching Suguru from the corner of your eye. He’s laughing too easily with the other kids—too practiced, like he’s learned when to smile and when to stay quiet. His bag rests beside him, neat, zipped properly. Of course it is.
You know what’s inside it.
Not the notebooks. Not the pencil case. Nor the coloring materials.
The other thing.
A curse, compressed and obedient, reduced to a black sphere no one else can see. Something that used to writhe and snarl and cling to the edges of the world. Something you know he would probably consume later when no one else is looking, when he is alone.
Cursed Spirit Manipulation.
You almost scoff, biting the inside of your cheek. You remember the anime too well. Remember adult Geto swallowing those things like it’s routine, like it doesn’t make him gag every time. Like it doesn’t taste like rot and mildew and something that should never be inside a mouth.
Like swallowing a dirty, wet rug.
Your stomach twists.
You know what it feels like to choke on filth. To have polluted water forced down your throat, burning, heavy, inescapable. Your body remembers.
And you can't bear the thought of someone else suffering filth. Someone who didn't asked for it but shouldered the responsibility anyways ‘for the better good’.
Suguru is five. Five years old.
He doesn’t know what he’s doing yet—not really. He knows how, instinctively, like breathing. He knows the end result. He doesn’t know the cost, or maybe he knows and doesn’t have the words for it. Adults never give children words for pain and burdens like that.
You close your eyes for a second, irritated.
This isn’t your problem.
You already decided you wouldn’t interfere. You wouldn’t get involved. You wouldn’t try to fix anything because fixing things is how stories derail. You’re supposed to be invisible. Boring. Plain. A background character who survives by staying out of the way.
And yet.
Earlier this morning, in that thin strip of forest, you saw the way his shoulders tensed after he exorcised the curse. How his fingers curled like he wanted to wipe his hand on his clothes. How he stared at what is in his hands a brief second before dismissing it in his bag. How he knows what would happen next, what he has to do. How he swallowed too hard afterward, like something was already stuck in his throat.
He didn’t complain.
That’s what gets you.
He didn’t complain. Didn’t even make a face. Just put the orb away and held your hand again, warm and steady, like he was the one reassuring you.
You open your bag slowly.
The candy is cheap. Strawberry-flavored hard candy your mom bought in bulk, the kind that leaves a fake sweetness on your tongue for hours. You don’t even like it. You never do. Sugar sits wrong in your mouth, too sharp, too bright.
But that’s the point.
If curses taste like rot, then sugar might—might—cut through it. Distract the senses. Give him something else to focus on. Something clean. Something normal.
You hate that you’re thinking like this.
You hate that you care.
So you stand, walk over to him, and keep your face flat. Neutral. Like you’re annoyed. Like this is nothing.
“Do you want candy?”
He looks up, startled. Says “Huh?” like he wasn’t expecting you at all.
You drop the candy into his hand before he can say anything else. Don’t linger. Don’t explain. If you explain, it becomes intentional. If it’s intentional, it means something.
You don’t want it to mean anything. Just you, randomly giving him candies.
“Bye,” you say, already turning away. “I’m going to go play with my friends.”
That part is a lie—you don’t really play—but it gives you an exit. You sit with the girls by the window and keep your back straight, eyes forward. You don’t look back.
Not even once.
Still, you feel it.
The weight of his confusion. The way he probably stared at the candy like it was a puzzle he didn’t ask for. The way he’ll keep it, maybe. Or eat it later, after swallowing something far worse.
You press your thumb into your palm, grounding yourself.
You’re not saving him.
You’re not changing anything.
You’re just… refusing to pretend you don’t see pain when it’s right in front of you.
Another fun fact: when you and Suguru graduated elementary school, she made you stand beside him under the sakura tree outside the gates and snapped a Polaroid.
You remember that day clearly.
You were squinting—your bangs looked horrible. He wasn’t smiling properly—just that small, almost private curve of his lips. The wind had caught your hair mid-motion.
But hey, it was a good photo.
You kept it.
Not displayed. Not framed.
Just tucked inside a small Kuromi card holder clipped to your bag, along with other tiny Polaroids—your parents, Jojo, one badly timed candid where your dad blinked and trinkets or keychains—yes you’re the type of student that would have A LOT of keychains clipped on their bag. Yes—people could hear you from miles away because every time you move your keychains jingle. You call it “Anik-anik”.
You told yourself it was practical.
Memories are portable that way.
And despite actively trying to distance yourself from Suguru—despite telling yourself that staying away from him meant staying away from plot—you couldn’t deny he was your friend.
Sometimes you miss him.
Especially now.
Especially when fitting in felt like trying to breathe underwater. HAH!
Another fun fact: that photo is gone.
You noticed during break.
At first, you assumed it had shifted behind the others. Then you checked every keychain. Every pocket in your bag because you might’ve just tucked it in and forgot.
Nothing.
The one with your family was still clipped neatly to your bag.
But his was missing.
Your stomach tightened.
It must’ve fallen off. You clip too many keychains to your bag. They bump against desks. Against chairs.
You retraced your steps mentally.
Locker. Hallway. Classroom. Bathroom.
Nothing.
When you returned to the classroom to grab your bag finally accepting defeat and go home, you heard giggling.
Soft. Clustered.
You didn’t look immediately.
You already knew that sound.
Kimiko—the ringleader. Gretchen Wieners wannabe is Yukiko. Karen wannabe is Saeko. (Why do half your classmates’ names end in “ko”? Is this a generational requirement?)
You walked to your seat, grabbed your bag, slung it over your shoulder.
Maybe it’s really gone.
You were already preparing yourself to accept that loss when—
“Y/n-chan.” Kimiko’s voice was light. Sugary.
You paused.
“It’s L/n.” you corrected automatically.
She pouted slightly. “But I let you call me Kimi-chan. Why can’t I call you Y/n?”
You stared at her.
Because you insisted. Because we are not close. Because boundaries exist.
Instead, you smiled politely. “What do you want, Kimi-chan?”
Her smile sharpened just a little. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
The question made you blink. “No.”
And even if you did, why is that her concern?
She tilted her head. “Then who’s this?”
She held up a familiar pink-and-black Kuromi card holder between two fingers.
Your Polaroid.
You saw it immediately—the sakura tree, your slightly awkward posture, Suguru beside you.
Your heart jumped into your throat.
“Where did you get that?” You asked, stepping forward instinctively.
She pulled it back just out of reach.
Yukiko leaned in dramatically. “Ehh—he’s cute.”
Saeko giggled. “You’re dating someone Japanese.?”
The way she said it wasn’t loud.
Wasn’t sharp.
Just… pointed.
You felt it.
Kimiko studied the photo again. “You look different here.”
You stiffened.
“Different how?” you asked carefully.
She hummed, pretending to think.
“Lighter.” Yukiko supplied helpfully.
“Maybe it’s the lighting,” Saeko added quickly, but she was smiling.
What the hell are they even talking about?
Kimiko’s eyes flicked up to your face, then down to the photo again. “You must have worked really hard under the sun! Hard workers like you are needed in this society.” she said lightly.
You kept your expression neutral. “I am darker than the rest because I have more melanin.” you replied calmly. “Now knock it off.”
There was a tiny pause.
Yukiko laughed too loudly. “She said it like it’s science class.”
Kimiko tilted the photo slightly, examining Suguru more than you.
“So he’s not your boyfriend?” she asked again.
“No.”
“Hmm.” She smiled faintly. “He looks like the type who wouldn’t date someone…loud. Plus you look like a monkey (HAH) besides him.” The girls giggled, making you stare at them blankly.
‘With this treasure I summon—’
You extended your hand again. “Give it back.”
For a split second, you thought she wouldn’t.
Then she did.
Just like that.
“Oh, it was on the floor.” she said casually. “You should be more careful. Important things get lost easily.”
Your fingers tightened around the card holder.
You checked it quickly.
The photo wasn’t bent.
Just… handled.
“Thanks,” you said, because you had to.
She smiled again.
Too sweet.
“No problem, Y/n-chan.” She walked away with her entourage, their whispers starting up again once they were a safe distance.
You clipped the card holder back inside your bag instead of outside this time.
Hidden.
Your reflection faintly stared back at you from the glossy plastic.
You weren’t stupid.
You know beauty standards here.
You've heard enough “you’re not fully Japanese, right?” from them to understand the hierarchy.
But you also knew something else.
Kimiko didn’t look at the photo the way someone looks at a joke.
She looked at it like she’d discovered information.
And that unsettled you more than the comments ever could.
You zipped your bag shut.
You didn’t like being studied.
-
“Your bag looks…less loud.” Your mom says it casually while sitting cross-legged on the floor, wiping the outside of your backpack with a damp cloth like it personally offended her. She always does this on Sundays—cleans everything before the week starts. Shoes by the door. Lunchbox lids. Stray pens that somehow migrate to the living room.
You glance up from your book.
The bag does look different.
No dangling acrylic charms. No layered straps. No little plastic frames holding Polaroids. Just plain and the school’s neat, acceptable neutrality.
You glanced up from your book and hummed. “Yeah. I took the keychains off.”
She turned the bag slightly, inspecting the now bare zipper. No dangling charms. No tiny plastic frames clacking together. “Why?” she asked. “I thought you liked it that way.”
You did.
You liked the noise. The weight of them. The way your bag felt undeniably yours in a sea of identical navy and black.
‘That was until some entitled Mean Girls wannabe decided to go through it.’
You kept that part to yourself.
Instead, you shrugged lightly. “I almost lost one. It probably fell off. The clasps loosen sometimes.”
That wasn’t a lie.
Just not the full story.
You didn’t mention how Kimiko had held the Polaroid between her fingers like it was something she found amusing. Didn’t mention the way Yukiko leaned in too close. The way Saeko peered at it as if judging the photo.
You especially didn’t mention how your stomach had dropped when you saw it in someone else’s hand and you’re sure as hell don’t want that to happen EVER again.
Your mom nodded, practical as always. “Ah. Cheap hardware.” She clicked her tongue in disapproval at the imaginary manufacturer. “We can ask your dad to fix it if you want.”
“Nah—I like it that way now.” You turned a page in your book. “Simple and less loud.”
Your mom wiped the inside lining of your bag with a damp cloth. “Too bad.” She said, “Your bag lost its personality.”
You smiled faintly. “It was kind of chaotic.”
“It was charming,” she corrected. “Like you.”
You rolled your eyes a little, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you.
“You know,” she said casually. “you don’t have to make yourself smaller just because other people don’t know how to take up space.”
Your fingers paused on the edge of the page.
“I’m not?” you replied, a bit too quickly.
She didn’t argue. She rarely did. “I’m just saying flower.”
