She is doomed.

Well, to begin with, going to the club and being deaf is a very stupid idea. Did she care, though? No. Because Osamu did promise he'd be there with her. The bass from the music vibrates through the floorboards, a physical thrum she can feel in her bones even if she can't hear the melody. Colored lights flash in her eyes, red and blue and green, creating a disorienting strobe effect.

They grew up together in a small, quiet neighborhood. Even as children, she struggled to be heard, and he noticed. Noticed and helped. She's always been like this—quiet and reserved, preferring her home and her own space where nobody would give her that empathetic look. "Are you deaf? Oh, I'm so sorry!" The memory of those words stings like a familiar ache.

This world didn't hear her—didn't want to accept. And she stopped trying to fit in.

But Osamu wasn't scared of it as a kid. He was interested in the mysterious girl that lived on the same street, quickly learning easy signs once they became friends. Hours were spent under the old oak tree in her backyard, its rough bark against their backs as they exchanged secrets, laughter, and dreams in a language only they shared. She can almost smell the fresh grass and feel the warmth of the sun through the leaves when she thinks of those afternoons.

It was a friendship. At least that was what they've been telling themselves for years.

Now, standing in the crowded club, the only thought she has is: What the fuck am I even doing here? Overwhelming flashing lights, pounding music bass reverberating through her body, and the feeling of being invisible among strangers. Even the cool glass of her mojito in her hands doesn't change the stupidity of this situation.

Two or three times, some men approach her, speaking words she can't quite catch, their mouths moving in unfamiliar shapes, their voices lost in the chaos. She freezes, unsure how to respond, and they vanish once she tries to answer with awkward signs. Fuck. She shouldn't have gone at all. The mint in her drink tastes bitter suddenly.

Then Osamu's there—stepping into her space, calm and familiar like a favorite sweater. The chaos of the club seems to fade the moment he's close. One hand rests lightly on her waist, steadying her through the vibrations in the floor, while his other moves in fluent, gentle signs, a teasing smile on his lips: "Why so sad?" In that instant, the crowded room doesn't feel so overwhelming—she feels seen, safe, and a little flutter of something more stirring inside her.

He doesn't let go immediately, keeping his hand lightly on her waist as he navigates through the press of bodies and flashing lights. She leans slightly into him—not consciously, but because it feels right, familiar. The scent of his cologne, something fresh and woody, cuts through the club's混杂的气味 of sweat and alcohol.

"Come on, kitten. What's wrong?" his hands ask, his thumb brushing gently against her waist through her dress.