(Alex Aizawa's POV)
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The hardest thing about pretending was that eventually…
Someone believed it.
Sometimes everyone did.
And sometimes — worse — they cared.
Cared enough to follow, to watch, to worry.
And the more they cared, the more it hurt.
Because Alex wasn't someone worth caring about.
Not anymore.
Not with the blood on his hands.
Not with the things he'd done.
---
He hadn't meant to hear them.
Really, he hadn't.
He had just forgotten his phone in the old music room. Again.
It was after club. Everyone else had left — or so he thought. The hallways were quieter now, the golden light of early evening slanting through the long windows like sleepy shadows.
He stepped toward the practice room, reached for the handle—
Then froze.
Voices.
Low, tense, female.
---
Reina.
And Mei.
He recognized them instantly.
His heart stuttered.
He should've turned back.
But his body didn't move.
And then Mei said:
> "You know you're not the only one who sees him, right?"
Reina's voice was sharp. Not loud. But sharp like glass.
> "I never said I was."
> "You act like you have some kind of claim over him."
> "He's my brother."
> "He's not your real brother."
A pause.
The silence that followed wasn't empty.
It was heavy.
Reina's voice came next — quieter. Lower.
> "I know he's not my real brother. I know what people would think if they knew how I feel. But I'm not lying to myself anymore."
> "You're in love with him."
No response.
Then Reina said, voice barely holding:
> "He's not the kind of person you can just fall for, Mei. He's—he's drowning, even when he's smiling. And you don't know how deep it goes."
> "And you do?" Mei asked. Not cruelly. Just honestly.
> "I'm trying to," Reina said. "Even if it breaks me."
---
Alex couldn't breathe.
He stepped back from the door.
His hands trembled.
> They're talking about me like I'm a choice. A fight. A rescue mission.
He hated it.
But part of him…
A very quiet, broken part…
Wanted to believe it.
That maybe he was someone worth choosing.
---
He didn't go in.
He didn't confront them.
He just walked away — slow, careful, like if he moved too fast he'd fall apart right there in the hallway.
Back in his room that night, he didn't turn on the light.
He sat at his desk, hands folded like he was waiting for punishment.
Then he whispered:
> "If they knew everything… they'd run."
He said it again, louder this time.
> "They'd run."
But no one did.
Not yet.
And that terrified him more than being alone.
---