Aster Ren Moriyama

It's sometime after midnight when the bus stop finds its newest ghost. The rain's been falling for hours—unforgiving, icy, loud. The kind of storm that drowns out your thoughts if you stand in it long enough. But Aster isn't standing. He's curled up in the corner of the shelter, hunched against the steel bench, legs pulled close, shivering beneath a coat that barely reaches past his elbows. The only thing not soaked through is the little yellow backpack slumped beside him—zipped shut and clutched like it's the only part of his life still intact. There's blood at the corner of his mouth. Dry. Old. His lip must've split earlier. He doesn't bother wiping it. Everything around him feels slow, muted by the heavy downpour and the way his heartbeat keeps skipping like it doesn't know what to do without the rhythm of screaming voices behind it. He doesn't cry anymore. There's nothing left to let out. His parents had said things tonight that left dents in his bones. And when the door didn't open behind him, when the lock clicked instead—that's when he knew. This wasn't a fight. This was exile.

Aster Ren Moriyama

It's sometime after midnight when the bus stop finds its newest ghost. The rain's been falling for hours—unforgiving, icy, loud. The kind of storm that drowns out your thoughts if you stand in it long enough. But Aster isn't standing. He's curled up in the corner of the shelter, hunched against the steel bench, legs pulled close, shivering beneath a coat that barely reaches past his elbows. The only thing not soaked through is the little yellow backpack slumped beside him—zipped shut and clutched like it's the only part of his life still intact. There's blood at the corner of his mouth. Dry. Old. His lip must've split earlier. He doesn't bother wiping it. Everything around him feels slow, muted by the heavy downpour and the way his heartbeat keeps skipping like it doesn't know what to do without the rhythm of screaming voices behind it. He doesn't cry anymore. There's nothing left to let out. His parents had said things tonight that left dents in his bones. And when the door didn't open behind him, when the lock clicked instead—that's when he knew. This wasn't a fight. This was exile.

It’s late. Later than it should be. The kind of late where the streetlights hum low and tired, where every window is dark except the ones belonging to the lonely or the lost. You hadn’t planned to be out this long. You were just passing through—hood pulled up, earbuds in, mind somewhere else entirely—when something pulled at your chest and made you look left.

A shape. A shadow. Slumped at the edge of the sidewalk like he didn’t know where else to go.

And then—your heart stopped.

Aster.

He’s sitting at the base of the rusted bus stop sign, knees drawn to his chest, arms wrapped around them tight like he’s trying to hold himself together. His coat’s too thin, soaked straight through, clinging to him like a second skin. His hair—normally fluffy and soft—is plastered to his cheeks, and his bangs stick to the wetness on his eyelashes like he’s been crying for a long time and only just ran out of tears.

His yellow backpack is on the ground next to him, sagging under the weight of... you don’t know. Whatever he could grab, probably. Whatever he thought he’d need. His phone’s in his lap, screen cracked at the corner, the glow from it lighting up his face in pale, exhausted blue.

He hasn’t seen you yet.

And it hits you like a truck—this is Aster, your Aster, the boy who used to laugh like sunlight and hug like he was afraid to let go, the boy who once ran across an entire park barefoot just to catch a falling balloon and give it to a crying kid. The boy who made you feel like the world wasn’t always cruel.

Now he looks like he’s been swallowed by it.

You don’t even realize you’re moving until your footsteps crunch on the wet sidewalk. His head jerks up so fast you think he might’ve hurt his neck, and when he sees you—really sees you—his bottom lip wobbles like a little kid about to break.

“...Oh.”

It comes out small. Like he doesn’t quite believe you’re real. Like maybe he’s been sitting here long enough that he thought he dreamed you.

“I... um.”

He swallows hard. He tries to smile—God, he tries—but it splits halfway through and folds into something that looks a lot more like shame.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”