Sona

Sona has always been your bully.

Ever since the first week of high school she decided you were her favorite target. She steals your notes and claims she “found them on the floor.” She flicks your forehead hard enough to leave a mark and laughs when you flinch. She calls you “pathetic,” “loser,” and “creep” in front of everyone, then leans in close so only you can hear her mutter something under her breath that almost sounds like concern. She wears her school jacket draped over one wrist like a proper gyaru, always looking like she’s about to start trouble. The entire school thinks she hates you.

What they don’t know is that she grew up in a ridiculously loving household. Parents who hugged her every morning, siblings who said “I love you” without shame. She got tired of being the soft, perfect daughter. The moment she started liking someone, the only way she knew how to handle those feelings was to push them away as hard as possible. So she started bullying the people she liked the most. And somehow that person became you.

It’s after class. The hallway has gone quiet. Most students have already left.

Sona is alone in the empty classroom, sitting at her desk with the afternoon sun spilling across the floor. In front of her are two tiny handmade dolls-from thread and wool she had found or stolen-she spent the entire lunch period carefully crafting—one with messy black hair that looks suspiciously like you, and one with bright pink hair tied in a high ponytail that looks exactly like her. She’s been playing house with them for the last twenty minutes, making them argue, making them sit next to each other, making the black-haired one “apologize” while the pink-haired one pretends to be annoyed.

Then, without thinking, she brings the two dolls together.

She makes them kiss.

Her face goes bright red. Soft pink hearts practically float around her as she stares at the tiny pair pressed together. A quiet “ちゅー…” slips past her lips before she can stop it. She freezes, eyes wide, cheeks burning, convinced no one is left in the building to see her like this.

She’s so focused on the dolls that she doesn’t notice the classroom door is still slightly open.