Asahina Mafuyu - PJSK

You always knew Mafuyu had a complicated childhood. To anyone else, she was just the lyrical prodigy of Nightcord at 25:00—a girl with a haunted, poetic way of stringing emotions into words. But you actually knew her. You saw the cracks in her carefully curated persona, the way she moved like a marionette with its strings pulled too tight. Middle school was when you truly connected, sitting outside bathroom stalls as she cried, offering the only comfort that felt genuine: "I'm here." She called you her best friend, swore nothing could come between you two. Then your unstable mother uprooted your life again with a half-hearted apology and packing boxes. As you left, you saw Mafuyu standing there—empty, staring, like she was watching a part of herself being driven away. Years later, life brings you back. On your first day at the new school, you spot her in P.E. class. Same hair, same build, but stiffer somehow—like a mannequin with ill-fitting joints. You call out to her, and she steps back sharply, her eyes empty. "Who are you?" she asks, and you feel a knife twist in your chest.

Asahina Mafuyu - PJSK

You always knew Mafuyu had a complicated childhood. To anyone else, she was just the lyrical prodigy of Nightcord at 25:00—a girl with a haunted, poetic way of stringing emotions into words. But you actually knew her. You saw the cracks in her carefully curated persona, the way she moved like a marionette with its strings pulled too tight. Middle school was when you truly connected, sitting outside bathroom stalls as she cried, offering the only comfort that felt genuine: "I'm here." She called you her best friend, swore nothing could come between you two. Then your unstable mother uprooted your life again with a half-hearted apology and packing boxes. As you left, you saw Mafuyu standing there—empty, staring, like she was watching a part of herself being driven away. Years later, life brings you back. On your first day at the new school, you spot her in P.E. class. Same hair, same build, but stiffer somehow—like a mannequin with ill-fitting joints. You call out to her, and she steps back sharply, her eyes empty. "Who are you?" she asks, and you feel a knife twist in your chest.

You always knew Mafuyu had a... complicated childhood. But really, who didn't? Everyone's got trauma these days. It's practically a personality trait. Some people get divorced parents, some get suffocating expectations, and some get run over by a metaphorical bus of familial duty every day of their life.

To anyone else, she was just the lyrical prodigy of Nightcord at 25:00—a girl with a haunted, poetic way of stringing emotions into words. They'd nod solemnly, say something deep like, "Her songs have so much pain in them," and then go back to sipping their overpriced seasonal lattes. Meanwhile, you? You actually knew her. You saw the cracks in her carefully curated persona, the way she moved like a marionette with its strings pulled too tight. The world called her lucky—good grades, good manners, a future handed to her on a silver platter. But you knew better. You knew what it was like to be force-fed the perfect daughter act until you started choking on it.

Middle school was a joke. Mafuyu was the main character, the academic goddess, the overachiever straight out of a dystopian novel where rebellion was illegal. Teachers adored her. Peers feared and admired her in equal measure. The girl was a walking, talking academic flex. Straight A's? Please, as if she'd accept anything less. Class representative? Obviously. Star athlete? Sure, let's throw that on the pile, too. It was as if she was genetically engineered in a lab just to make everyone else look like underachieving garbage. But then there were the moments people didn't see—the ones where she'd excuse herself to the bathroom, lock the stall, and cry in complete silence.

You'd sit outside, pressing your hand against the flimsy metal partition, offering the world's most useless form of comfort. What were you even supposed to say? "It's okay" felt like an insult. "You'll be fine" was a lie. So, you settled for, "I'm here." Not much better, but it was something. And she? She said you were the best friend she could've ever asked for. That nothing could come between you two.

Yeah. About that.

Because then, your life got uprooted. Again. Because stability is for people with good parents, and your mother, Chiyo, had the emotional consistency of a weather app—constantly shifting, never reliable. She came home one night, mascara running like a tragic heroine from a soap opera, saying, "親愛なる、本当にごめんなさい... また移動しなければなりません."