Chapter Text
Sakura was sitting outside, knees pulled tightly to his chest, his small body pressed against the cold wall. The rain poured heavily around him, and he had to push himself harder against the wall so the drops wouldn’t touch him. The sound of it hitting the ground mixed with the quiet ache in his chest.
His foster dad had beaten him again. This time it was for getting into another fight at school. But it wasn’t Sakura’s fault. The other kids had started it—they always did. They called him names, shoved him around, laughed when he got angry. And yet, somehow, he was always the one who got punished in the end.
He still remembered that night clearly. The sting of the man’s hand across his face. The bruises forming on his arms and ribs. The scratches from being thrown out of the house and hitting the rough pavement. The way the cold air bit at his skin as he sat outside, shivering and crying, too scared to go back in.
He remembered the fear so clearly. It was the kind that stuck to his chest and made it hard to breathe. Every time he even looked at the house, his stomach twisted in knots. He was too scared to go back inside, even though the wind stung his skin and the rain had already soaked through his clothes. The cold hurt, but it was a different kind of pain—one he could handle. Being cold was better than being beaten by a grown man.
He sat there for what felt like hours, his teeth chattering, his fingers numb. Every sound made him flinch—the creak of the porch, the slam of a door, even the distant bark of a dog. He thought about running away, but he didn’t know where he would go. There wasn’t anyone waiting for him, no one who would notice if he disappeared.
So he stayed there, curled up against the wall, hoping morning would come soon. Hoping the man inside would fall asleep and forget about him. Hoping that maybe, somehow, things would get better. But deep down, even at that young age, Sakura already knew they wouldn’t.
Sakura flinched as he felt something shaking him, his body jerking upright before he even realized what was happening. His heart pounded in his chest, his breathing uneven as he looked around with wide eyes. The room spun a little, and a dull ache pulsed at the back of his head. For a moment, he didn’t even know where he was.
Then his vision cleared, and he saw Suo and Nirei kneeling in front of him, both of them looking worried.
Why were they there? Wasn’t he just outside? He could still feel the chill from the rain, the rough ground beneath him—yet now he was in his room. His blankets were tangled around him, his shirt clinging to his skin. Why was it so cold in here? And why was he so sweaty—
“Sakura,” a voice cut through his thoughts, snapping him back. He flinched again, his shoulders tensing. “Are you okay?” Nirei asked softly. His tone wasn’t scolding—just worried. “You didn’t come to school today.”
Right. School. He had forgotten.
He blinked a few times, trying to piece together his morning. He remembered waking up and feeling like absolute crap. His whole body felt heavy, his head foggy, like all the energy had been drained from him. The thought of getting dressed, walking to Furin, and pretending everything was fine had felt impossible.
So he didn’t. He just stayed in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet hum of the world outside. He told himself he just needed a day to rest—but deep down, he knew it was more than that. Something in him just couldn’t move.
Now, seeing Suo and Nirei standing there, concern written all over their faces, guilt began to twist in his chest. He didn’t mean to worry them. He just… couldn’t bring himself to care this morning.
“Uh… I’m fine,” Sakura insisted quickly, his voice rough and unsteady. He rubbed at his eyes and turned his face away from them. “I just don’t feel good, now go away.”
He didn’t mean for it to come out so harsh, but the words slipped before he could stop them. His throat felt tight, his chest heavy. He hated when people looked at him like that—worried, unsure, like he was made of glass.
Nirei immediately started blabbering, his words tumbling out faster than Sakura could process. “Do you need me to go bring you medicine? Do you have some here? I can go out right now if you want—”
“Nirei,” Suo said softly, his tone calm but firm enough to make Nirei stop mid-sentence.
Nirei’s mouth shut, but his eyes stayed wide, filled with concern. The silence that followed felt heavy. The sound of rain tapping against the window filled the room, and Sakura could hear his own heartbeat in his ears.
He wished they’d both just leave. He didn’t want them to see him like this—sweaty, pale, trembling slightly under his blanket. He didn’t want them to ask questions he couldn’t answer. He didn’t even know what was wrong with him exactly; he just felt… off. Tired in a way that sleep couldn’t fix.
Suo’s voice broke the quiet again, calm and careful. “You don’t look fine, Sakura.”
Sakura looked away, jaw tightening. “I said I’m fine.” His voice cracked at the end, betraying him.
Suo didn’t push, but he didn’t leave either. He just sat down beside the futon, his eyes steady but gentle. Nirei hovered awkwardly behind him, unsure what to do.
The room felt smaller now, the air thick with unspoken worry. And for a second, Sakura wanted to tell them the truth—that he wasn’t fine, that everything felt like it was falling apart again. But the words wouldn’t come out. They never did.
“How about we go get you some food, okay?” Nirei said after a moment, his voice bright but nervous. He was trying too hard to sound casual, like he wasn’t worried sick. “Your fridge is empty,” he added quickly, scratching the back of his neck.
Sakura sighed, sinking deeper into his blanket. Of course Nirei had gone through his kitchen. He always stuck his nose where it didn’t belong. “I don’t need anything,” Sakura said, trying to keep his voice even. “I’m just gonna sleep it off.”
He turned his face toward the wall, hoping that would be enough of a signal for them to leave. The air felt heavy again—awkward, thick with concern. He could feel both of their eyes on him, like they were silently arguing about whether or not to listen to him.
His stomach twisted. He didn’t want their pity. He didn’t want anyone to see him like this—weak, tired, barely able to keep his head up. He could already feel the dull ache behind his eyes, the kind that came from holding back too much for too long.
“I mean it,” he muttered, voice quieter now. “I just need to rest.”
There was a pause. He heard Nirei shifting on his feet, like he wanted to say something else but was holding it back this time. Suo still hadn’t moved from his spot near the bed.
Sakura’s fingers clenched around the blanket. He wished they’d just leave. He didn’t want to deal with anyone right now. Not when everything inside him already felt so heavy.
The silence dragged on before Suo finally spoke, his voice low but steady. “Alright,” he said. “We’ll go. But at least eat something later, okay?”
Sakura didn’t answer. He just nodded faintly, pretending he didn’t hear the disappointment in Suo’s tone—or the quiet sigh Nirei let out before they turned to leave.
When the door clicked shut behind them, the quiet came rushing back in. Sakura let out a shaky breath, sinking further into the mattress. He told himself he was fine. He always told himself that. But his chest still hurt, and for some reason, it felt even colder than before.
Sakura suddenly felt tears filling his eyes before he could stop them.
Fuck.
He pressed the heel of his hand against his face, trying to hold them back, but it didn’t help. The harder he tried to breathe normally, the tighter his chest felt. His throat burned, and his vision blurred until all he could see was the shape of the ceiling above him.
Why was he like this? Why did he always do this? Every time someone tried to care, he shut them out. Every time someone reached for him, he pushed them away like it was instinct. And yet—he wanted them to stay. He wanted Suo and Nirei to stay. He wanted them to see past his words and stay with him anyway.
But they didn’t. And how could they, when he kept building walls around himself?
He let out a shaky breath and curled in on himself, clutching the blanket tighter around his shoulders. The room felt so quiet now. Too quiet. It made the sound of his uneven breathing echo in his ears. He hated crying, hated feeling this weak. He’d spent so long trying to convince everyone that he didn’t need help, that he was fine on his own.
So why was he crying about it now?
The tears kept coming, slow and silent, slipping down his face and soaking into the pillow. He didn’t even bother wiping them away this time. He just lay there, staring at nothing, wishing the ache in his chest would finally go away.
Sakura felt an itch under his skin.
Not this again.
He froze, his fingers curling against the blanket as if that alone could keep the feeling away. It wasn’t a real itch—it was deeper than that, buried somewhere under his skin, crawling up through his chest until it was all he could feel. It made him restless, made his body tense, made his thoughts start to spiral.
He thought he was done with this. He had stopped. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t go back to that place again. So why did he want to now? Why did it always come back when things got hard?
It was like his mind was wired to turn against him at the smallest mistake. Something went wrong? He messed something up? Someone got mad at him? His first instinct wasn’t to fix it—it was to hurt himself, to punish himself for existing the way he did.
He hated that part of himself. The part that believed pain was the only way to make things right. The part that told him he deserved it every time he disappointed someone.
It didn’t matter what form it took—whether it was cutting, burning, or hitting himself—it was all the same. The same desperate need to make the noise stop, to feel something that made sense, even if it hurt.
But he knew it wasn’t the answer. He knew that. He’d learned it the hard way. Still, that didn’t stop the thoughts from creeping in, whispering that maybe he deserved it.
Sakura pressed his hands against his head, squeezing his eyes shut as if he could crush the feeling out of existence. He didn’t want to fall back into that again. He couldn’t. He’d worked too hard to pull himself out.
But right now, sitting alone in the quiet, it was hard not to slip. It was hard not to listen to the part of himself that still believed pain was the only thing he was good at handling.
He pressed his palms against his ears as if that could somehow drown out the thoughts screaming in his head.
It didn’t. Nothing ever did.
The noise was inside him—too loud, too cruel, too familiar. He wanted it to stop, but it just kept repeating the same words over and over again, telling him he was worthless, that he ruined everything, that he’d never be enough for anyone.
He shoved his face into his pillow, the fabric rough and damp against his skin. His breathing came out uneven, shaking with every exhale. He couldn’t do this again. He couldn’t go back to that place—not again. Not after everything he’d done to crawl his way out.
He had promised himself he’d never return to that dark, lonely version of himself—the one who thought pain was the only thing that could make him feel real. But right now, that version of him felt closer than ever.
At one point in his life, he’d done it every day. Every single day, like it was some twisted routine. Just because he thought he deserved it. Because every mistake, every argument, every failure felt like proof that he was nothing. That he had to be punished for even existing.
He remembered the way it used to feel afterward—empty, drained, quiet. For a few moments, it would silence everything. But it never lasted. The guilt would always crawl back, heavier than before.
And now that same guilt sat in his chest again, pressing down until it hurt to breathe. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. But all he could do was shake under his blanket, silently begging his thoughts to just stop.
He didn’t want to be that person anymore. He wanted to believe he could be better—that he could heal. But right now, all he could feel was the same ache that had followed him since he was a kid: that no matter how much time passed, part of him was still broken.
He couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t do this.
The walls felt like they were closing in, the air thick and suffocating. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat heavy and uneven, like it was trying to escape. He dragged in a shaky breath, but it didn’t help—nothing helped. The noise in his head was too loud, his thoughts crashing into each other until they blurred together.
Sakura pushed off the bed, his legs trembling under his weight. The room spun a little as he stood, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He needed something—anything—to make it all quiet again.
His feet carried him to the bathroom almost on instinct. The floor was cold under his bare feet, grounding him just enough to keep him moving. His reflection in the mirror caught his eye as he passed, and he froze for a second.
He barely recognized himself. His eyes were red, his face pale, his expression blank. He looked… tired. Not just physically, but in a way that went deeper, like every part of him was worn out from holding everything in for too long.
He swallowed hard, his hands shaking as he gripped the edge of the sink. He just needed his head to shut up for a little. Just some peace. Just one moment where he didn’t feel like he was falling apart.
It would only be a one-time thing, he told himself. Just once—to make the noise stop.
But even as the thought crossed his mind, a hollow feeling sank deeper into his stomach. He knew that was a lie. He always told himself it would be one time. It never was.
He closed his eyes, fighting against the sting of tears that threatened to spill over again. “Just one time,” he whispered to himself, his voice barely audible.
But the words didn’t sound convincing, not even to him.
He reached for the old razor that sat behind the bathroom mirror, the one he hadn’t touched in years other then when he was moving. His hand shook as he pulled it down. It was old, the metal rough and discolored, but he didn’t care. He just needed to feel something. Anything that could cut through the storm in his head.
The next few minutes blurred together. His thoughts disappeared, swallowed by the noise in his mind until everything went quiet again—too quiet.
When he finally looked down, he realized what he’d done. His arm stung sharply, red blotches forming across his skin. He blinked, dazed, his breathing unsteady. He didn’t even remember the exact moment it happened. It was like he’d been watching someone else move through the motions, disconnected from himself, from everything.
The silence that followed was heavy, almost suffocating. The air felt cold against his damp skin, and a wave of nausea hit him as he took in the sight.
What had he done?
His chest tightened as guilt crept in, replacing the strange calm that had held him moments before. His hands trembled violently now, his stomach twisting. He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t.
It was like waking up from a nightmare only to realize the nightmare was real.
He stumbled back a step, gripping the edge of the sink to keep himself upright. His reflection stared back at him from the mirror—pale, shaking, terrified.
For the first time in a long time, he felt something real. But it wasn’t the kind of feeling he wanted. It was regret, sharp and overwhelming.
He wanted to undo it. He wanted to take it all back.
Sakura didn’t have any bandages, so he just sat there and waited for the bleeding to stop on its own. The air in the bathroom was cold, and every breath felt heavier than the last. It was kind of ironic, he thought. He was always getting into fights, always coming home bruised and scraped up, but somehow he never had anything to patch himself up with. He never thought ahead like that. He just… dealt with it.
He leaned back against the wall, his head hitting the tiles with a dull thud. His body felt numb, but his chest ached like something inside him had cracked.
He’d only wanted his head to shut up. That was it. He just wanted the noise to stop—the constant replay of memories, the endless thoughts telling him he wasn’t enough, that he was a burden, that he was better off gone. For a moment, he thought this would help.
But it didn’t.
Now there was just guilt—thick, heavy guilt that sat in his throat and made it hard to breathe. He stared down at his trembling hands, not even sure what he was supposed to do next. The quiet that filled the room wasn’t peaceful; it was suffocating.
He felt sick. Not just from what he’d done, but from the realization that it hadn’t worked. His head was still full of noise—louder than before, almost mocking him.
He wanted to cry again but couldn’t. The tears had already run out, leaving only the ache behind.
So he stayed there, sitting on the cold floor with his knees pulled close to his chest, trying to steady his breathing. The bathroom light flickered faintly above him, and for a split second, he wished someone—anyone—would knock on the door.
But no one did.
And that hurt most of all.