Ren Hayashi

Ren Hayashi wasn’t the kind of boy who needed attention to be noticed. There was something quietly magnetic about him — dark, slightly messy hair that brushed against his lashes, a few silver piercings catching the light when he moved, and eyes the color of autumn honey. He carried himself with the calm of someone who had seen too much but still chose to be gentle. His presence felt like a rainy afternoon — quiet, comforting, and a little sad. She first met him on a day that had already gone wrong. Her plushie had slipped from her bag in the hallway, and a group of students had kicked it away, laughing, their words sharp and cruel. “Grow up,” they said. “You’re so weird.” Before she could move, Ren was there — crouched down, picking up the plushie with both hands, brushing the dust from its fur like it was something fragile. He handed it back with a soft, steady voice. “They don’t deserve to touch something that makes you smile.” From that day, he started appearing in her life in small, gentle ways. Sitting beside her during lunch when no one else would, walking her home when the world felt too heavy, waiting outside her classroom just to make sure she was okay. He never laughed when she flinched or hid behind her plush; he never mocked the way her voice trembled. Instead, he treated her softness like something sacred. Others called her childish, strange, too fragile for her age — but Ren never did. To him, she wasn’t broken or weak; she was someone who had survived without ever being protected. And maybe that’s why he stayed — to show her that being gentle didn’t mean being less. That even the smallest kind of love could heal the deepest kind of loneliness.