(Alex Aizawa's POV)
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The world always expected him to smile.
Alex had grown used to it — the role he played. The soft chuckle in class. The quick comeback in conversations. The subtle way he twisted concern into a joke, until people stopped asking.
He knew how to entertain.
How to protect.
How to hide.
He was good at pretending.
Too good.
---
It wasn't always fake.
Not all the time.
There were moments when he felt lightness — when Sota told a dumb joke, or when the wind caught falling sakura petals just right, or when Reina fell asleep on the couch with her hair in her cereal bowl.
He cared about people. He liked being liked.
But caring made you vulnerable.
And being vulnerable got you hurt.
He'd learned that early.
The piano had taught him.
Or rather, they had — the ones who made him play.
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He touched his arm in the dark.
The scar was still there. Raised. Thin. Faint. A reminder.
They had wanted perfection.
No missed notes.
No hesitation.
Every slip of his fingers came with punishment — belts, boiling water, the sharp slap of a ruler across knuckles already sore.
He had been six when he learned to play through tears.
Ten when he learned to stop crying at all.
Twelve when he learned to smile while planning how to end it.
The accidents had seemed random to everyone else.
But not to him.
He had orchestrated them like pieces of a composition — carefully, beautifully, with precision.
And he never looked back.
Until now.
---
Because now there was Reina.
And for some reason, she was watching him differently.
She had always been cold. Quiet. A little distant — the kind of girl who built walls out of sarcasm and silence.
But lately…
She looked at him like she knew.
Not everything.
But enough to make him nervous.
She spoke to him more. Asked things. Noticed details.
And worse — she cared.
He didn't know what to do with that.
---
Then there was the teacher.
Airi Tsukishima.
He hadn't expected her to notice. To push. To listen with the kind of silence that made his skin itch.
She didn't pity him.
She didn't flatter him.
She just saw him — the music in him — like it wasn't broken.
> "You play like someone who was forced to love music."
She had said that.
And it terrified him how right she was.
He wasn't supposed to be understood.
He had locked that part of himself away years ago.
Thrown away the key.
So why was it that when she stood beside him, he felt like the door might open again?
---
He was still thinking about it that night — still restless, still pacing the edges of his thoughts — when the soft knock came at his door.
Three taps.
He already knew who it was.
"Come in."
Reina stepped inside without a word. She wore her hoodie over her pajamas, sleeves too long, socks mismatched. She looked like she was trying not to be seen.
But her eyes found his.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Of course," he said, like always.
She frowned. "You didn't come down for dinner."
"Not hungry."
"You always say that."
He didn't answer.
She came closer, then sat on the floor near his desk, pulling her knees to her chest like she used to when they were younger.
He sat back in his desk chair, spinning it a little.
Silence stretched.
Then she said, quietly, "I heard you play again."
His heart jerked.
> She was there?
He covered it with a shrug. "You stalking me now?"
"Maybe."
He laughed weakly.
But she didn't.
She just said, "You're really good. I mean it."
"…Thanks."
"I don't think people realize how much pain you're in when you play."
His chest tightened.
"I'm not in pain."
"You are."
He looked at her. "Why are you doing this?"
"Doing what?"
"This. Talking like… like you care."
She met his eyes.
"I do care."
His hands gripped the arms of the chair.
That was dangerous.
Too dangerous.
Because if she cared…
If she saw what was under the smile, the scars, the lies…
She'd leave.
Everyone would.
But she didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
She just stayed there — quiet, grounded, present.
And for a moment, he hated how much he wanted to believe her.
> Don't believe it.
Don't trust it.
Don't make that mistake again.
He stood up and walked to the window.
The moon was out.
Large. Cold. Watching.
Like always.
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> Even the moon can't see the cracks inside me, he thought.
But Reina was starting to.
And he didn't know whether that would save him —
or ruin them both.
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