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The teacher said, “Write this paper about yourself. It doesn’t have to be long, but I want the writing to be truly from you.”
In reply, the class resounded with mumbled consent and began working their words onto a slice of paper. Suna stared at his paper, unsure of where to begin. He didn’t have anything special about him to write about, or that he particularly could talk about. Around the room, he could hear the constant itch of thoughts being immortalized on his classmates’ pages, yet he could draw no inspiration from within. The blank paper stared back at him demeaningly, mocking him for the fact he was truly void of creative thought.
He didn’t particularly like writing, because he didn’t have imaginative thoughts like other people in his class. He much rather preferred drawing figures, or a math equation. Sitting down at the glaringly empty paper filled him with the dread he did nothing. In all honesty, he didn’t particularly like doing anything. Everything simply seeped the life out of him. At the sound of the lunch bell, he regrettably tucked his notebook paper into his math textbook to save for later, filing into the hallways, letting his own feet drag him to the cafeteria for a much-needed meal.
Osamu met him halfway there, discussing what he wrote. They were exchanging words side-by-side, squeezing past other groups of people in the hallway, and Suna never felt more lost in his mind. His companion’s eyes were gleaming with the thought of his passion for food, and although he was not much of a writer, he was able to find the words to describe his love for it. He walked through life with this admirable clearness, while Suna was just barely making it through the haze.
“So, what did you write about?” paused Osamu, realizing that he had been rambling. They were stopped at his locker because he needed to collect his books for the second half of the day. When he simply shrugged in response, a crinkle appeared in his brow, paired alongside a frown, “I can help ya bounce some ideas around during lunch, Suna. You probably just need a little spark.”
Suna sat with the usual crowd in their usual spot on the terrace, Ginjima, Osamu, and his lame excuse of a brother, Atsumu. It was the three of them against him, or rather, they would all talk amongst themselves, and he would observe—Atsumu reaching over his lap to steal some food from Osamu, and Ginjima merely speaking with him, to ask for help with his math homework during a lull in conversation. It felt like everyone was moving forward, and that he was just static. Sometimes, he would take a step back from his own life and think to himself that his friends would be fine without him. He didn’t contribute much, or anything. He wondered what would happen if he just stopped showing up at all.
All of this flew through his head as he picked at his sandwich, quietly hoping that someone would notice his brewing inner turmoil, but he was told that his face was constantly impassive and because of this, nobody would ever know that something was wrong. He had friends, but they were more of his, rather than theirs in mutual regards. They had known each other for much longer than they’d known him, and he was just an unneeded cog in the mechanical clockwork of their friendship. Why would they ever care about him. Nobody needed him, and he didn’t need anything, so in other words, he didn’t exist.
Suna packed up his belongings and slipped out without acknowledging them. He made his way to the bathroom, to be alone with his thoughts. There was still the essay for class, and the steadily growing amount of trigonometric equations that had to be done, so he mentally settled with doing that first after practice.
“Hey,” a gentle voice interrupted his thoughts, sliding next to him by the sink. It was Osamu, and his uniform looked slightly disheveled as if he had sprinted from their table to find him. Usually, there was a lack of words flowing between them as if they had some sort of bond that didn’t need words. But Suna needed to tell somebody what he felt, and Osamu was there, standing expectantly, ready to listen to his thoughts, his expression saying I’m here. He picked at the calluses of his fingers, not sure where to start, but he knew that Osamu was ready to listen anyways. He took in a deep breath.
“I don’t have anything to write about myself for the assignment,” he settled with, hating how his voice grated against the words like he didn’t completely believe them. “Everybody’s got this thing about them that makes them feel impassioned, and I know that I do volleyball, but it’s not like that. Not even close. I just feel like I haven’t ever cared about anything, and now that universities and teachers are asking me to say something about myself, I come up blank.”
Suna exhaled, feeling embarrassed for letting it all out with no filter, but Osamu simply nodded taking it all in. He continued, pointing a finger at his own head, “It’s just that I feel like I’m just an observer to everyone else’s life, and I don’t have any original thoughts of my own.” I feel like I don’t exist. Can you see me? Can you hear me?
“And,” he swallowed, “There’s this haze over my brain that stops me from doing anything. I literally can’t think, or feel any connection to the things I do because I feel like I’m always just going through the motions, all the while, keeping it under control that I honestly just hate myself.” Suna felt a strong grip against his hand, and looked down to see that Osamu had reached into his lap to hold it. This was the abandoned boys’ bathroom, nobody could hear his beating heart, except himself, and possibly Osamu.
The other traced the back of his hand with his thumb as he continued to talk, “And when people try to help me, I just push them away. I know that I clearly need help,” he inhaled sharply, “But my brain keeps feeding me with the thought that nobody would ever care to listen to what I’m saying and that I have to fend this off on my own.”
Osamu reassured him with a soft voice, “No, you don’t have to keep it to yourself, Rin. You need to tell me when you’re not feeling okay, because I can’t always tell that there’s something wrong.”
Suna slumped against the wall and didn’t care how dirty it was, “I can’t even tell when something is wrong—ugh, I’m just lying to myself again, obviously I know that something is wrong, I just don’t know who I can say that to—but obviously, you’re here and—“
Osamu squeezed his hand once, cutting off the rest of his words, “I can feel you overthinking from here.” He eased Suna out of his thoughts, and forced him to look in his eyes, “But I’ve always known ya to be someone whose actions speak louder than their words. It’s just in the way that you express yourself. Maybe you can’t get the words out the way you want, but I hear ya loud and clear, Rin.”
Something welled up within him, and he choked it back with a garbled sound, slamming the tiled wall with his hand.
Osamu shot him a concerned look when he had ceased talking altogether. Suna let out his frustration with himself by slamming the wall again. It actually didn’t hurt him any more than it hurt the wall, and that was just the way that physics worked, an equal and opposite force. And although he knew that he was making sounds that reverbated along the four walls of the bathroom, it just felt like nothing.
And then just like that—he was drained again from fighting the beast inside his own head. Suna looked down at his hands, bruised from previous times, and curled them to his chest. If it truly felt like nothing, why did it hurt so bad? He didn’t need an excuse for crying, he just felt like he didn’t have to hold back anymore, and just let it out with abandon.
Osamu had long mastered the art of sound and silence from dealing with his brother, and he knew that this was a time that he had to wait for Suna to initiate with words. He held his arms out, ghosting his frame with an invisible touch, ready to catch him if he fell. Suna sank to the ground with weakness in his bones, dragging him down with him. His arms were like steadying branches, and Suna’s heart was merely a bird that had decided to nest for the wintertime.
He sniffled, “Can you just please tell me what’s wrong with me?”